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GLINT


I am so glad Iím not going to have to do what I thought I was going to have to do. See, I was about to go down on bended knee and beg for some help, for an intervention. I was about to beg, wheedle, and plea that someone wrest from my self-absorbed, sad little grasp this horrible, beautiful, horrible thingóthis stupid Bright Eyes cd. You see, my weekend was largely teary and beery, the beginning to my week was bumpy and grumpy. Throughout, I developed this sick reliance on hearing Conorís cracked voice climbing his towers of melancholy, soaring in bittersweet longing. He hangs his hat so effortlessly on the saddest sufferings, youíd think heís actually a real artist coming home to posterity. Remember: itís pop music. But then something happened that meant I could cut the noose myself and get some much needed distance from the hardest whining band in show business: I got my damn groove back. For the time being at least.

Oh. And thanks go out to Stevie Wonder for reminding me what real soul sounds like. Mnh-hnm.


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