Upbeat (Parklife)

You know what song is just bouncy and weird enough to maybe help pull you out of this moody nose dive you're in. You scroll through your library until you find the song you want on your blur noS2 playlist, set it to create a station based on that song, and begin making your way down the path to the water. It takes a special kind of horrifically depressed state, for you to be unable to bop to this beat even a little. You're not in that state, not yet anyway, so by the time you get to the bottom you've already almost fallen down twice, on account of you were wiggling too much about your favorite Blur song.

This one you found on your own, when you were maybe thirteen and had plans to walk in the park with Tim Dancy and you were pretty sure handholding was on the table, maybe even a little boob touching if things felt really right. You googled: romantic park song and this gem was what you got. Tim Dancy turned out to be, whatever, a sweaty Model-UNer who couldn't even pick out Pakistan on a map so good luck there everybody. Over the years you have derived considerably more satisfaction from you and Dex occasionally shouting unprovoked at each other, you should cut down on your pork life mate get some exercise! than you ever did from poor, intellectually-fraudulent, Tim Dancy.

The next song isn't exactly robbing you of your sense of enormous well-being or anything, but after hearing here-comes-your-man-here-comes-your-man-here-comes-your-man-here-comes-your-man so many times on end, it does serve as an unpleasant reminder that probably Tim Dancy is no longer a virgin because he's been dating Laura Zarkarian for almost a year. And you are. So maybe you should hold your judgment in check.

You skip the remaining the-name-of-the-band-is-Pixies, as you and Dex always call them, because it's not helpful to have it rubbed in your face that there's no here, or your man, and there certainly isn't any coming.

But a few tracks after, you find what you need. You were sort of waiting to get started drinking, in case they decided to come join you after all, or if either of them showed up. You probably aren't pissed off enough anymore to actually chase anybody away if they wanted to spend some time with you. More sad than pissed. But maybe they're just not going to show up at all. You take two biggish swigs of the rum, that you hope are about shot-equivalent, and flop down onto the boards on your back, then sing along quietly, we know every road... go! go! and lie there thinking about what a beautiful song this is and how it probably deserves to be on a very short list of your all-time favorite songs.

You're a little disappointed when the song ends and neither of the guys has shown up yet. So you take another hopefully-probably-about-a-shot's-worth and listen to it again, not bothering to sing quietly this time since nobody's around to hear how dumb you sound when Joe Strummer isn't exactly in your ordinary vocal range.

We think there is a soul (we don't know!)

That soul is hard to fiiind!