A Pilgrim’s Digression

Fair warning: I am going to ramble.

Wednesday, I threw away the cigarettes I bought on Sunday, having smoked maybe half the pack. I have not bought any since, and the urge has not been particularly strong. Maybe every couple years or so I need to smoke in order to keep from smoking.

I sound like Tom Waits and Iggy Pop from Coffee and Cigarettes. “We can smoke now that we’ve quit.”

I could have bought a pack last night. I got gas at the Sheetz, where I bought them a week earlier; but instead, I bought a coffee and a small package of Oreos. The perils of not smoking, I guess.

The Oreos were defective, however. They were inside-out. The rough side with the lettering was turned to the inside of the cookie; the smooth side that is supposed to be against the white filling was on the outside. I wonder if that is some kind of evil portent? If I were to have a car accident, could I blame it on my ominous Oreos?

Anyway, most of the time I’d rather eat Oreos than smoke. Oreos don’t make your clothes stink or your semen taste funky; they don’t decrease sperm motility, or increase your chances of catching cold. They are, however, about as expensive as cigarettes. Funny how when I think of the costs of smoking I don’t think of the serious consequences, such as cancer. Cancer seems so remote to a thirty year old, every bit as remote as it seems to a twenty year old. I imagine one takes it more seriously with every decade that passes, however.

I am listening to the Beatles on my iPod this morning. I don’t think I ever realized how many times the Beatles reference smoking in their music. “I’m So Tired” is the song that especially sticks in my mind.

I’m so tired, I’m feeling so upset
Although I’m so tired I’ll have another cigarette
And curse Sir Walter Raleigh
He was such a stupid get.

For the longest time, instead of “And curse Sir Walter Raleigh,” I thought the second line of these verses was “And curse the walls around me.”

What’s the song really about, though? On the one hand, it seems to be about a man trying to get over a girl (”I wonder should I call you but I know what you would do”). On the other hand, everyone seems to think the Beatles music is all about drugs, and I can see how this song could be read as an account of coming off an addiction. There’s the insomnia (”I can’t sleep”), also the mental hyperactivity (”I can’t stop my brain”) and the desire for peace and rest. Of course love can be a lot like an addiction, so the song does not necessarily have to be read with the subtext of drug addiction in mind.

I don’t think there is any band or musician of the 20th century as important as the Beatles. Their music has so permeated our culture, the only equivalent musical force, whose music is used in everything from elevator music to commercial advertisement to television shows, would be Beethoven or Mozart. I’ve read somewhere that one’s choice of “favorite Beatle” says a lot about you as a person. Well, my favorite Beatle is George, and my favorite Beatles song is by George, “While my guitar gently weeps.” John is my second-favorite Beatle, and “Hey Jude” is a close second among my favorite songs. Supposedly “Hey Jude” is about heroin addiction as well, though I’ve also read that McCartney wrote it to comfort Julian Lennon when his parents divorced.

I have to add that in the past year or so, I’ve discovered the Who, and I’ve found that their music also has a kind of ubiquitousness I had not noticed before. Now I hear their music everywhere, too. It seems like the Who supply the entire soundtrack for the C.S.I. series; and they also appeared on the Simpsons not long ago, which is probably the most significant factor in elevating them to iconic status.

Last time I visited my Dad, we went fishing, and on the way to the river the song Squeezebox came on the radio. I burst out laughing. I said, “I can’t believe they’re playing this on the radio.” Dad said, “What? They play it all the time, so much that I’m sick to death of hearing it. It’s like “American Pie,” these oldies stations just play the same few cutsie songs all the time.”

I said, “You realize what this song is about, don’t you?”

Dad thought a minute, then said, “A woman who plays the accordion?”

I said, “Listen a minute.” When the song got to the part, “She goes in and out and in and out,” I said, “Do you get it now?”

Dad said, “No.” So I just told him. He said, “Well, I’ll never listen to that song the same way again.”