“A song that makes you happy,” it says.
“Happy,” as opposed to what?
In philosophy, we call this sort of thing the fallacy of the complex question. I’ll give you my favourite example, taken from a book I bought when I was 17 entitled,
There are two errors in the
the title of this book.
the title of this book.
(This book, by the way, influenced the course of my life more than any I’ve ever read, but that’s a whole other entry. By the way, Ryan Johnson, if you’re reading this, I want my fucking book back. Isn’t there something in that other book you’re fond of about not stealing. You’ve got some repenting to do, my friend. In God’s eyes, borrowing a book and never giving it back is just as bad as abortion, homosexuality and wearing cotton blends.)
But I digress. The complex question goes like this, “Have you stopped robbing banks?”
There’s no right way to answer. It’s a cheat. “What song makes you happy?” presupposes there’s some song that makes you happy.
“If people evolved from monkeys, why are there still monkeys?”* (By the way, if anyone other than your own mother says this to you, he or she is a fuckwit and the only response is to point and laugh hysterically.)
The complex question assumes facts not established. I’ve never robbed a bank; we’re apes, not monkeys; and there isn’t a song that makes me happy.
I listen to a shitload of music. As I’m reading this, I’m listening to “When I Get Home” by the Beatles. It’s just kinda on the ol’ iTunes random shuffle. Never to listened to the lyrics before. Kinda typical, early-Beatles, pop filler, but the delivery is killer. Neat structure. And I like that it’s a bit angry. He’s not talking to the girl, but to someone who’s taking up the time he’d rather spend with her, and he wants them to fuck off so he can go get laid. Great song, now that I really listen to it. Don’t know why I never payed attention to it until now. Maybe because it’s followed by "You Can’t Do That," the closest the Beatles ever got to equaling the Stones in terms of playing loose but not sloppy.
Jesus, where was I?
Hey, I ain’t writing for money anymore, and I don’t have a word limit, so you’ll just have to take a few tangents here and there, baby. The herbal jazz ain’t helping matters either, nor is the vintage Jethro Tull that just came up in my iTunes not-so-random setting.
Stream-of-consciousness writing is dangerous territory. Best take stock of possible tangents and save the ideas for later entries I’ll never get around to writing.
Never gonna get around to writing about the time I got my head too close to a piano and Nicky Hopkins did something to my brain.
Jethro Tull were fucking awesome in the ‘60s.
What the two errors in the title of that that (sic) book were, and how the second one changed my life forever.
How I love having friends who are dying to know what the second error is (time to start commenting, folks).
How I, a devout atheist, got to be best man for and best friends with an evangelical Christian.
How great the Beatles were around ‘64-66.
How there are no random numbers, except for all of them.
But seriously, folks, I listen to a shitload of music. If I’m not playing it, I’m probably listening to it. But honestly, I don’t know if music makes me happy. The question doesn’t really specify what I was before I started listening. Was I pissed off? Music isn’t going to make me happy if I’m seriously pissed off. How pissed off was I? Did I just bang my thumb with a hammer, or am I just experiencing a moment of ennui?
What if I was happy before I heard the song, and the song made me happier? Does that count, ‘cause I think that’s exactly the kind of song I’m about to pick.
So, struggling with precise definitions for a third time (but the second day in a row), I’ll once again go with something more or less arbitrary and say, if this doesn’t make you happier, you probably weren’t happy in the first place.
Enjoy, babies.
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