Last night I sat at an age-appropriate bar drinking belgian stye triples until finally Paul Westerberg came on the stereo.
When you’ve been drinking and Paul Westerberg comes on this is really the only interpretation of reality that remains open. As your maudlin id gets bolder, the grandiose yearnings become more tangible, and you remember that you were once meant to be fantastic.
And that is when “We May Well be the Ones” starts playing.
Never mind the foolish, swollen hangovers that you know are sure to follow. In a small moment, pop works on you as an anaesthetic. You can commune with yourself the way the booze helps you talk to others, pulling away all topics of conversation and points of interest and narrowing the scope of discussion to a point, an algebraically symbolic point, at that. You have your little self-constructed buddhist trip, just you, your false ego, and Paul Westerberg, and you entertain yourself with the idea that you yearn to rise as the lotus, free of shit from the swamp.
Because you do still yearn to rise as the lotus, free of shit from the swamp.