Here's the story of how Radiohead saved our lives a while back:
We were fighting in the car.
The car is really the last bastian of that rare beast called American Privacy. Only within it's fabricked walls can you smoke your disgusting cigarettes and blast your godawful music and discuss your rednecked views. More importanly, I find it to be the only place where people can really duke it out. Instead of arguing in public or even in the apartment, why not save your rage for the Grand Am? Here, your dignity is much better preserved behind the glass where only the most assiduous observer can spot the tell-tale signs of Spatting (notably, straining neck cords and hand gestures).
One must be mindful, however, of the element of danger.
So there we were, weaving through traffic and screaming over the dash about who-the-hell-knows-what, hurtling towards certain doom. We knew it. The car knew it. The divider on the 33 was praying for it. And then on the radio we heard "There There" for the first time. And we were plucked from the brink.
It was an ordering of the spheres. It was magic. It was as goddamned near to being Wyld Stallynz as it gets.
And that's how Radiohead saved our lives. So do yourself a favor and go out and buy Hail to the Thief.
1 comment:
Jess, I'm getting the feeling that you and Alex are fans of Radiohead. No, no, hear me out.
I count myself as a pretty astute observer, and I have picked up on some very subtle, almost subconscious hints dropped from posts here and on BA Start over the past few days. You may not even realize it yet. But I think it's time you both understood and accepted your condition.
No, there's no cure. Well, there is The Cure, but trust me, it won't work.
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