An open letter to “Drops of Jupiter”

After a (thankfully) brief run-in with an old acquaintance, your editor takes a moment to clear the air.

Train frontman Pat Monahan clings to his early 21st century fashion choices. Image courtesy of flickr user asterix611.

Dear “Drops of Jupiter”,

Hey. Hi. It was great seeing you again. Sorry we didn’t get a chance to catch up while you were around. How are you?

Honestly, I wasn’t expecting to run into you, a Train song from 2001, at Trader Joe’s last week.

Actually, I know we hung around a lot back in high school, and I know it’s good to catch up, but I think it’s probably best that I get something off my chest, so that there’s not any more confusion.

I think we should no longer be in contact. The thing is, you’re just not right for our current moment in pop culture. You’re just sort of a nonsensical, quasi-hip, overly-cutesy relic of our pre-9/11 world.

Sorry. I went there.

I mean, think about it. “Party in the USA”? Duh, of course that makes sense. Some pop music engineers in their shiny neon-blue laboratory, where they mathematically generate insanity-inducing hooks probably broke their wrists from high-fiving after that one. George W. probably has it on a continuous loop while clearing brush out in Crawford. Lady Gaga? Obviously. I mean, we’re living in Lady Gaga’s America. You know Sasha and Malia are jamming to that. But “Drops of Jupiter”? Sorry. Your sappy, rambling, delightful rom-com of a song about soy lattés and tae-bo just doesn’t sit well in the age of Tea Parties and Wall Street occupations and dead Steve Jobs and Chicken McBites, whatever the hell those are. It was good while it lasted, kind of like entertaining the idea that Al Gore could have been president.

I shouldn’t have to remind you that you were the number one song in Canada.

But you’re doing well, right? You still get radio airplay on those easy listening stations they pipe into dentists’ offices? The ones with Michael Bublé? So that’s good. Honestly man, really glad to hear it.

Well, not hear it. You know what I mean.

Anyway, I guess the point is good luck. Best wishes, you know, I just think we shouldn’t be around each other. Ever. I figured I’d sign off with some pithy re-appropriation of one of your lyrics, but when I googled them I kind of had a mild brain aneurism, so I guess I’ll just say what someone wrote in my yearbook that dreadful year you debuted.

“See you in Hell*,”

—  Andrew

*(because Heaven is overrated)


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