Over the past couple weeks, I've been battling bouts of malaise—it could be the return of this ridiculous heat (90 degrees again!? Come on!), it could be that the new fall television season won't include LOST, it could be that all the treadmills with TVs at the downtown YMCA always seem to be taken of late (no Cash Cab for me), it could be the continuing war in Iraq, it could be that my Eagles started 0-2 (Sunday's thumping of Detroit helped with that) or it could be any one of my myriad personal problems (boys, work, meanies on the blog).
Regardless, recently the only thing that seems capable of making me feel any better is mediocre late-'90s alternative rock. I have a problem. Though the reason for its soothing powers remains mysterious—reminders of an earlier, simpler time? A complete lack of irony? Infectious bridges? The fact that it feels weirdly rebellious?—I can trace the genesis of this phenomenon to two specific conversations: Chris Crofton fiddling with my iPod and mentioning that Third Eye Blind's "Semi-Charmed Kind of Life" was actually a pretty good song, or at least catchy as hell (sorry, Chris), and a friend talking openly about how much he still loves that Counting Crows song "Long December." (So do I.) I'm assuming this too shall pass, but for now I'm gonna go put on The Wallflowers and weep quietly in my cubicle.