3rd of May, was my 59th Unhappy Hour. I can't believe there have been
that many – we've been on air for more that two years now – and on the
other hand it's hard to believe I ever got by without the Unhappy
Hour. Most of the things I thought would be great as a kid, like being
an adult or stoned, turned out to be rather deeply disappointing.
However, playing my favourite sad songs with friends to whoever wants
to listen (or maybe more accurately: to whoever wants to listen and is
strangely able to pick up Bush Radio) turned out better than I dared
dream. I still feel an undeniable, inexplicable sense of
accomplishment when we've put a great playlist together or a rare
beauty of a tune drifts out into the charged night-air. It feels like
sharing great wealth freely.
Sitting with Clive on Sunday night, drinking a cup of the excellent
Kenian coffee he brewed, while Paul Anka was playing his swing version
of The Cure's "Love Cats", I felt deeply content, happy actually.
Especially when Clive told me that he must've been born in a casino
between the one-armed bandits or in a hotel lobby, because, man, he
loves a good lounge singer. I was reminded of Raymond Carver's poem,
"Happiness", an old favourite:
Happiness
Raymond Carver
So early it's still almost dark out.
I'm near the window with coffee,
and the usual early morning stuff
that passes for thought.
When I see the boy and his friend
walking up the road
to deliver the newspaper.
They wear caps and sweaters,
and one boy has a bag over his shoulder.
They are so happy
they aren't saying anything, these boys.
I think if they could, they would take
each other's arm.
It's early in the morning,
and they are doing this thing together.
They come on, slowly.
The sky is taking on light,
though the moon still hangs pale over the water.
Such beauty that for a minute
death and ambition, even love,
doesn't enter into this.
Happiness. It comes on
unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really,
any early morning talk about it.
Here is your playlist:
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