I brought a soda to work with me, yet never put it in the refridgerator. It's still in my bag. And it was never cold to begin with. So I had to buy one anyway. I also had the weirdest dream last night that involved getting engaged, Kurtwood Smith (the father on That 70s Show) and The Hobbit, but I'll get to that another time.

I can't believe that Nick Hornby: Songbook isn't more well-known. Casey got it for me for Christmas after stumbling upon it, and I brought it to work today and read the first chapter while uploading the accompanying CD to iTunes. It's brilliant, really � the book is Hornby's essays about certain songs he can't get enough of. The CD includes 11 of them:

1. "Born For Me," Paul Westerberg
2. "Your Love Is the Place Where I Come From," Teenage Fanclub
3. "Glorybound," The Bible
4. "I've Had It," Aimee Mann
5. "One Man Guy," Rufus Wainright
6. "Mama You Been On My Mind," Rod Stewart
7. "A Minor Incident," Badly Drawn Boy
8. "Ain't That Enough," Teenage Fanclub
9. "Smoke," Ben Folds Five
10. "Hey Self Defeater," Mark Mulcahy
11. "You Had Time," Ani Difranco

While it would've been nice to have a double CD of all 31 songs (as one review pointed out, there were probably licensing hangups involved), I really don't need "Thunder Road" on another CD. But one thing I love about this book � that is, about the first chapter, since that's all I've read so far ��is that I can relate to it.

And initially, when I decided that I wanted to write a little book of essays about songs I loved ... I presumed that the essays might be full of straightforward time-and-place connections ... but they're not, not really. In fact, "Your Love Is the Place That I Come From" is just about the only one. And when I thought about why this should be so, why so few of the songs that are important to me come burdened with associative feelings or sensations, it occurred to me that the answer was obvious: if you love a song, love it enough for it to accompany you throughout the different stages of your life, then any specific memory is rubbed away by use. If I'd heard "Thunder Road" in some girl's bedroom in1975, decided that it was okay, and had never seen the girl or listened to the song much again, then hearing it now would probably bring back the smell of her underarm deodorant. But that isn't what happened; what happened was that I heard "Thunder Road" and loved it, and I've listened to it at (alarmingly) frequent intervals ever since. "Thunder Road" only really reminds me of itself, and, I suppose, of my life since I was eighteen � that is to say, of nothing much and too much.

I know that feeling, and I know it with "Thunder Road." That song, to me, isn't about a trip or a party or a night out the way, say, "Oh What A Night" is about closing time at the 'Backer in South Bend. "Thunder Road" is generic images of late evenings in the summer, of screen doors and porches, of black-and-white images of times I was too young to know and have made up in my head. It's just a song that, when I hear it � particularly those first familiar notes, the whine of the harmonica, the twinkling of the piano keys ��I smile, if not on the outside, then inside.

It's intersting, too, how Hornby goes on in the essay about "Thunder Road," to point out flaws in the song, rather than lifting it up as an undeniable great song and one that everyone has to like: "It's not as if I can see the flaws: 'Thunder Road' is overwrought, both lyrically ... and musically. ... It's also po-faced, in a way that Springsteen himself isn't, and if the doomed romanticism wasn't corny in 1975, then it certainly is now." Bruce isn't for everyone, I know that. But in my mind, he's far-reaching and transcendent. I can respect people who dislike Springsteen's music ��if they've listened to it. That's their opinion, and that's fine. But I can't stand those who dismiss him offhand because they don't like his image, or they're doing so because of what others say about him and his music. The same reason they cast off Springsteen is probably the same reason I shun Nirvana � the music, the lyrics, do not speak to them. That's fine. While Kurt Cobain had nothing to say to me (or rather, his music had nothing to say to me), I've learned to tone down my expression of my opinion out of respect for those friends who were touched by him. In fact, I am intrigued by Cobain. First off, why anyone, particularly someone as popular and successful as he, would go and off himself at the height of his fame is shocking to me. I also think I might find his journals interesting, because in my life, the songs that have jumped out the most to me are those with powerful lyrics. In much the same way I can say "eh" to the music of The Doors in general, I do like certain songs, and I love reading Jim Morrisson's lyrics as words, as poetry. I'd probably think the same of Cobain.

Hornby's acknowledgement of flaws in "Thunder Road" is also noteworthy considering his placement of the song atop his top ten tracks list. And, unlike myself, he ends that little writeup by saying about The Boss, "And I hate people who hate him!"

Hornby obviously loves music. Anybody who couldn't understand that after watching High Fidelity, or reading it for that matter, should realize it now, with this book. While I don't believe in telling someone how to listen to music, how to read a book, how to deal with their own personal decisions (as long as it's affecting nobody but yourself, others have no business trying to regulate how you go about it), I would argue that you really only truly love certain songs if you have these thoughts regarding them. But even that is up to discussion, because you may reflect upon the music you love without making note of it.

As I type this at work, I'm shuffling through the 2225 tracks I've uploaded and downloaded into iTunes, and as certain songs come on, I immediately can name them (to myself) and reflect upon them. Others ��including "The Long Goodbye," on Springsteen's overlooked Human Touch ��it's as if I'm hearing them for the first time. They have no lasting value, no redeeming effect. I'm also skipping over the Christmas tunes that keep popping up. Once I'm sure I'm through with them for the season ��and I don't listen to Christmas music after the holiday, but I may burn another CD or two ��I'll delete them from the computer. No need filling up hard drive space with holiday tunes I won't need for 11 months. I can take the time then to upload the CDs again then.

Hornby's Songbook is one of those books that I'm itching to dive into, a tome with which I could easily settle into the couch on a Saturday afternoon and emerge five hours later having meandered through it, and I'm not that kind of reader. I devoured the Harry Potter books because when I got into them, I became enthralled; but I could never go to a park bench or a table in a coffee shop and plow through the 734-page Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire in one sitting. Even Songbook, at 146 short pages, would take me longer than most to read through. Maybe I digest and envision the words more ��exceedingly more ��than others do; I don't know.

And yet, I am trying to discipline myself, trying to do more reading and less Nintendoing, less idle TV watching. So I'm not allowing myself to focus solely on books until I've caught up with all my magazine backlog. I've got the January issue of Outside to get through, a Conde Nast Traveler, plus last year's Best American Travel Writing before I get to this year's. And the Best American Nonrequired Reading 2002.

I need a reading vacation.