Out of Touch

Under a rock, on an island, in the middle of nowhere

By Erik Dolson

I have never knowingly listened to a song by Taylor Swift.

There. I’ve said it. I feel better, now.

I know many readers will be shocked. Others will accuse me of lying. The more generous will say I’m mistaken, that I’ve not only heard but responded emotionally to Taylor Swift music. I can’t deny that, because as said by a famous Swiftie, it’s hard to know what I don’t know.

But it’s reasonable, given that Taylor Swift reigns down on us like fine ash from a volcanic eruption. This morning I saw a headline about how her boyfriend travelled to Australia on a private jet (hers? his?) to be with her and was seen gazing out from her opulent Sydney hotel room.

It feels churlish to say, but I don’t care. Other than to wonder if she’s ever seen her accomplished football star without the beard that in a couple of months might be nearly as long as she is tall, making him another sports guy who looks like an escapee from Lord of the Rings. A fine movie, that.

But back to my confession.

It’s not that I have consciously avoided Taylor Swift songs. They just haven’t hit my playlists here at Middle of Nowhere. Which means they aren’t in the “Prehistoric Rock & Roll” category on Pandora, which features CCR, the Stones, and a few other titles that have not yet been purchased by corporate “The Man” America who regularly buys a new car on the “profit he’s made from your dreams.”

Maybe Taylor Swift got miscategorized in my “living under a rock” world with a few other notables who are famous because … well … because they’re famous. The “K” sisters come to mind, or would if I paid any attention. But I don’t care about them, either. 

Unfortunately, my ignorance about Taylor Swift draws attention to a few quirks I’ve tried to keep hidden over the last few dozen decades. For instance, I don’t listen to music in my car. No, I don’t know why. I get in the car, turn it on (with a key!) and drive, generally feeling somewhat content even over long trips of eight hours or so.

“What do you DO?!” I’ve occasionally been asked. “I drive,” is my response. I don’t have a lot of need for conversation when driving, either, which may explain why I have very few passengers on these marathon stints behind the wheel.

But, back to my confession, and redemption, possibly.

I’m going to turn on my Spotora or Pandify and look for a Taylor Swift station. I’m going to listen to Swift’s music and find out why the world has Swifted ever closer to a fantasy land where I don’t own any real estate. 

I want to find music that will help me belong to that world, that will cause me to examine my wasteland and make changes, that will uplift a spirit crushed beneath potential and actual wars, the burden of fewer able auto mechanics, and looming Artificial Intelligence capable of creating a reality that might be directed by Terry Gilliam.

Wouldn’t it be ironic if I can’t find one, since the algorithms that determine my life may no longer be calibrated to look for anything new? How would I know? Has it already happened?!?

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