I mean, I have a long slow fear that starts with the pause button and coagulates to my best impression of a sinking pig. I've been re-tweeting you for months and all I get is this lousy shipping? And Dr. Freud said: "The very thing, then, that she only sought to hint at quietly because she was really supposed to conceal it from him completely, that she is actually all his before the choice is made, and that she loves him, all this the poet allows to emerge into the open with admirable psychological sensitivity in the slip of the tongue, and by so doing he is able to assuage the unbearable uncertainty of the lover as well as the similar excitement of the audience about the outcome of the choice." The thing here then is the proxy certainty of the jeans in question, worn by any number of admirable celebrities, but not yet mine; at least the manufacture of this particular slippage, or smear, is the overburdening of the debt to style that the ode to leg-wear itself omits thanks to its all-too-passionate declaration of true love's material reflex. Recovery.
If you listen to both of these at the same time, something incredible happens. Peter, if you think this is one of those banalities you mentioned, I beg to differ. This is a portal into the very heart of the world. Point it at the sun.
I just can't believe she wore those jeans like me. This is, of course, eminently believable; but in the dream economy of passionate consumer affect, where emphatic utterance is the non qua sine of the perfect object's post-aural effervescence, the emotion merely slides back round the globular surface of the song to impregnate itself with the desire for its own gleaming smudge tool. The fact that the jeans in question aren't named in the lyrics is even better - their archetypal phantom presence flags up the gaping lack at the heart of the tautology. What we end up with is a pop song so brutally naked in both love and barbarism that it was always already the rape of itself. ARK should run for the presidency of the IMF.