Always On My Fucking Mind

“Naaaapakadaming always on my mind,” Smoketh enthused as she scrolled down my song list in my iPod. Indeed there are seven, starting with the version of the original big mama of them all, Brenda Lee, a version that actually rocks. Brenda Lee’s album photo defines the term “sinauna”, beehive hair and all. Excellent also are the versions, of course, of Elvis and Willie Nelson. Willie Nelson’s version is what I call a Kool-Aid song, particularly, Kool-Aid spiked with hundreds of poisons ala Jim Jones and his cult. A Kool-Aid song, as I have already discussed extensively in an old friendster blog, is a song that makes you want to kill yourself. There is also the meh version of Michael Buble, the histrionic version of Fantasia, and the vomit version of Anoop Desai. The list wouldn’t be complete without the saccharine version of James Marsden, who sang it in Ally Mc Beal. I looked for other versions of the song on the net, and apparently Shakira also sang it once in some live show. I would have downloaded it, except that it sounded like an orgasming transsexual narwhal-warthog hybrid.

There has been a paucity of really good songs lately that I would resort to looking for covers of already established great songs. Satellite by Dave Matthews Band, another Kool-Aid song with high concentrates of organophosphates and super warfarin, has been covered by some person called Mika. Nothing against whiners, I’m a high-grade whiner myself, by Mika’s version is so whiny it traverses the time space continuum, reverberates, and transforms into a one-note shrill. Mike also sounds like a wuss. I quickly deleted it for its unworthiness. I downloaded Glee’s rendition of Somebody to Love, by Queen. Worthy pop ditty, but my favorite version would probably still be the birit version of Elliott. Sometimes the remake is better, such as in the case of Sheryl Crow’s version of The First Cut is the Deepest which is far more sensible and carries much more (pretentious alert!) pathos than the Cat Stevens original.

In between listening to Corinne Bailey Rae’s Put Your Records On and Eminem’s Kill You Smoketh heard a 30-second track that was strangely familiar but definitely annoying. “Is this…” Smoketh checked the iPod display, “It’s Mitral Stenosis!!!!”
I love murmurs. I still don’t know how to differentiate one from the other, they still all sound like the background sound effects as a buxom blonde walks in on a trap of Jason Vorhees, but they help me sleep.



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