Happiness is a warm turntable

The religious period of my life ended when I stopped believing in Santa Claus... since then, the closest I come to recapturing that feeling of trust and wonderment in a higher being is when I listen to good music. The Beatles spent six years building the foundation for everything I worship (and on the seventh year they rested, or maybe they were getting high). Maybe I don't get any moral direction from rock'n'roll music, but I'm clever enough to decide if I want to be good or bad all by myself. (I usually decide to be bad, because I don't really mind coming back as a lower life form... an insect, lab rat, or socialite). Sometimes a song will come on at a moment so apt that I know there is some all-knowing musician watching over me. Hence:

This morning, while I was recovering from a horrendous migraine and some breakup and family death-induced depression, I reached into the back of my car to find a new CD. When I moved here, I had only packed a few mix CDs and a few albums stolen from my mother (she only really listens to Paul McCartney so she won't miss them). I pulled out the Beatles' LOVE album and a copy of Yankee Hotel Foxtrot slid out from behind it.

My face looked like like this: WTF!?!?!?!??!?! if you can imagine that as a facial expression. My eyes were Ws and my nose was the T and my mouth was saying FUCK FUCK FUCK! It would look like a face, believe me:

W W
T

FUCK
FUCK
FUCK

YHF is one of my all time favorite albums, and I thought I had lost it years ago when I moved to college. How the fuck it ever got into the sleeve with LOVE is beyond me. I need this fucking album so much right now.

Thanks for looking out for me, incorporeal musical spirit of Jeff Tweedy! I love you. Sorry for saying 'fuck' so much.