The following are excerpts from the private journal of Sonny Rane, which is to be published posthumously or after he’s forgiven by fans of R.E.M., whichever comes first.
I think I’ve made a terrible mistake.
Earlier today, I chose Losing My Religion for this week’s Jukebox. Now I wonder why. I’ve taken to seeing Michael Stipe’s shadow playing on my bedroom walls. Even worse, he’s playing tiddlywinks.
My disdain for the song is growing stronger. Those whiny vocals have become unbearable. I’ve developed a headache and a terrible rash. My brow is damp. I feel a chill. I’ve also noticed that I’m out of dish soap. Will it never stop?
IDEA FOR A NOVEL
A man awakens to find that every song he used to love now sounds exactly like Losing My Religion. Consumed with rage, he heads to Georgia, believing the murder of Michael Stipe will restore his ability to enjoy old favorites like Burning Down The House and Mambo No. 5.
He learns from a hitchhiking Elvis impersonator that Stipe now lives in New York and Berlin. Low on gas and out of patience, he strangles the Elvis impersonator and is delighted to find 50 dollars tucked inside his leisure suit.
He turns on the radio. Another surprise. Every song up and down the dial now sounds like Bon Jovi.
“That’ll do,” he mutters to himself, and guns it for New Jersey.
Question: Why does Losing My Religion hate me so much?
Answer: Losing My Religion doesn’t hate you. Losing My Religion makes you hate yourself. Also, mandolins.
I played Losing My Religion again this morning — surrounded, this time, by objects from my past, hoping to recreate the spring of ’91 and foster some love for the song. Unfortunately, there was a short in the wiring, and my lava lamp exploded all over my Lunchables.
I’m plagued now by thoughts of paraffin wax, and have begun to doubt my memory.
I thought I used to like Losing My Religion. Was that actually the case, however? Or had I been covering for my shameful addiction to Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch?
I bumped into an old friend today. It had been years since we’d spoken.
We went for a beer and talked about our lives. “I’m married with a couple of kids,” he said. “How about you?”
I told him about my troubles with Losing My Religion. “I swear I used to like that song,” I said. “But I’ve listened to it recently and realize I hate it.”
My friend’s face darkened. “What do you mean you ‘hate the song’?”
“I don’t know. Michael Stipe sounds so whiny. I can’t tell if he’s hurt or has hemorrhoids. ‘Consider’ this. ‘Consider’ that. Consider some fucking ointment already.”
My friend bit down on his bottom lip.
“And I’ll tell you this,” I ranted on. “Next time I hear a mandolin, I Am Going To Lose It. I thought that nutjob Bruce Hornsby was bad, but these motherfu-”
I didn’t finish my sentence. That’s because I looked up to find my friend in a state of apoplexy. His face was red and he was sputtering, doing his best not to leap over the table and bludgeon me to death with his Michelob Ultra.
“How dare you,” my friend rasped. “Who are you to besmirch the name of R.E.-fucking-M.? From the opening notes of Murmur to the end of Collapse Into Now, those geniuses from Georgia have revolutionized music. Their songs are iconic. Their lyrics are poetry. How lucky we are to have them serve as the soundtrack to our generation.”
My friend stood up with a huff from the table and shook his head in disgust. “You changed, man,” he said, then stormed out the door.
I remained seated, feeling like a fool. I’d disparaged a highly-regarded band, and offended an old friend in the process. To make matters worse, I’d been stuck with the check.
Today I saw the most beautiful sunset. It reminded me how silly my problems in life are; how insignificant I am in the cosmic scheme of things. Of course, I felt the same way yesterday when a bird shit on my shoulder.
Last night I dreamt I was in a bar. It was dark and smoky and packed with students. The guy to my right was in cargo shorts. The girl on my left was nursing a wine cooler. Blasting through the speakers was Orinoco Flow.
I turned to Cargo Shorts. “Am I in hell?”
Cargo Shorts smiled. “1991 isn’t that bad,” he said. Then he asked me what I thought of Roxette.
Our conversation was interrupted by a thunderous round of applause. Enya faded. A curtain opened. Standing on stage was R.E.M.
Michael Stipe stepped to the mic. “We’d like to dedicate our first song,” he said, “to our biggest fan - Sonny Rane!”
The announcement was met with lukewarm applause.
“Matter of fact,” Stipe continued. “How about you come on up here, Sonny, and help me with the vocals?”
Unseen hands pushed me to the stage. Before I knew it, I was alongside Michael and the rest of the band.
Stipe counted off – 1, 2, 3, 4!
A shudder ran through my body when the mandolin kicked in. I opened my mouth and began to sing. Much to everyone’s dismay, however, it was the words to Joyride.
I woke up screaming, covered in sweat, just before Peter Buck brained me with his Rickenbacker.
IDEA FOR A SHOW
A man is released after spending the previous 30 years in prison for booing at MTV’s R.E.M. Unplugged.
His mission is simple: find the people who were in the audience that night and make up for all the harm he caused.
(See if Jason Lee’s available. Ask if Jaime Pressley’s single.)
Finally, a breakthrough!
I paid a visit to the butcher today. “Good morning, Sonny,” Gino said. “Half a kilo of the usual?”
The usual, in this case, is mortadella. I love it and eat it all the time. Except this time I was gripped by the powerful urge to order something different.
“Think I’ll go with the turkey,” I said.
Gino balked. Then he shrugged. “Why not?” he said. “People’s tastes change.”
The words hit me harder than a date with Bobby Brown.
“That’s it!” I cried. “People’s tastes change!”
Gino and the rest of the shop stared at me in surprise. “Boy,” Gino said. “You must really like turkey.”
I hurried home, rejuvenated. So I hated Losing My Religion. No big whoop. People’s tastes change.
I wondered which song I should write about instead. Maybe some funk. Maybe some hip hop. Maybe a rapper I hadn’t listened to in a while.
I know! I thought, as I reached my apartment. Let’s see how well Puff Daddy’s aged!
I never did "get" the whole R.E.M. thing. There are songs that I liked, and Automatic for the People fit a certain mood for me for a while... but I never understood the wider appeal.
Part of it may be that I went through all of the existential dread and questioning of my reality in middle school, and I was over it by the time Stipe & Co. started getting radio time. Since I am usually two steps behind everybody else, it never occurred to me that my peers hadn't already worked through all of this.
You had me at “Bruce Hornsby”... the only other insertion would be Kenny G. The single biggest attribute of Kenny G is that he doesn’t sing.