I am so glad I�m 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 thing�this 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 Conor�s cracked voice climbing his towers of melancholy, soaring in bittersweet longing. He hangs his hat so effortlessly on the saddest sufferings, you�d think he�s actually a real artist coming home to posterity. Remember: it�s 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.