RIGHT IN THE BED NEXT TO MINE

So there I was, minding my own business. The Clash had stripped the paint from the walls, the Velvets had refurnished the room, the Dolls brought a beanbag chair for the corner, X came with some warm beer, R.E.M. fashioned an abstract paper sculpture for the desk, the Pogues brought some cool books they had stolen from the library...

Then the Stones showed up out of nowhere, bearing candles, of all things. The dark and weary charms of Sticky Fingers and Exile on Main St suddenly made a whole lot of sense to me.

Yes, Brown Sugar is a strained (but invigorating) effort to offend, Wild Horses is a dull maudlin gray thing that seems like it will never end, and Sister Morphine is a terrible bore, but the rest of Sticky Fingers is drugged out, desperate, and wonderful. Songs like Sway and Moonlight Mile exist so you can have something appropriate to listen to when you're driving to 7-11 at 2 am to buy cigarettes.

Exile let in some light, but just a little, because it was sprawled out on the couch with a hangover to end all fuck.

I had grown up enough not to forgive the Stones their numerous trangressions, but rather to allow the aspects of which I will be eternally critical to coexist peaceably with the aspects for which I will be eternally grateful.

How's that for a notion of circular time?