We all should be so much damned smarter than we are. Or, more prudently, we should show that we're at LEAST as smart as we actually are. The fact is that we always play it down. We're always willing to give the moronic sides of ourselves the benefit of the doubt. We're always willing to tune out the little voice in our heads that is actually suggesting that we do the right things. We know that we shouldn't eat that. We know that we shouldn't just sit inside, on our asses, in front of a computer for hours and hours on end when there's a 70-degree day happening outside in early November and who the hell knows when we're going to see the next one. We aren't even willing to catch that freak day by the tale, something as simple as playing hooky for the day or just cutting out for a long lunch, or whatever you want to do. It's not important enough. We forget that all of nearly everything's connected. We are idiots and we don't take care of our earaches and then they turn into sinus infections and then they turn into toothaches and then they turn into headaches and then you're hacking up blood and it all could have been ended long, long ago if you weren't so busy and so out-of-touch with what really matters. We are so quick to forget that we're not supposed to be working all the time, that the day doesn't revolve around how much you can get done in a day to further your career - even if you proudly and protectively declare, over and over, that you have to keep food on the table and heat coming out of the vents. Oh, we always have this reason or that and we tend to sleep well at night, but lo and behold, our blood pressure soars and we're jittery all the time. We think that we're having weird heart palpitations and we're stressed out way more than we ever should be. We just refuse to listen to the brains and yet they were put there for a reason.
South Carolinian Trevor Hall is the cure for all of this. The songwriter can get us to think about bettering ourselves. He can get us to put the phone down and not call in that home-delivered pizza that we probably don't need. Wouldn't a nice salad be better? He could get us to apply sun block - the heavy duty SPF variety - not once or twice or every so often, but every stinkin' time we left the house. You can never be too careful and a life is a precious thing, so don't make it a previous thing with some melanoma that you got just cause you wanted to pound a shitload of beers with your buds on the boat some afternoon, all afternoon, with your shirt off. Hall writes in a way that shares the cool vibe of a surfer bro, but in a less sandy, less big grin, Jack Johnson sort of way. He writes with the thought that there are worries to be had out there. It's not some carefree existence or a permanent vacation in a Caribbean wonderland that he's writing about, but one that has many pitfalls. He gets you taking your vitamins and he gets you believing that it's possible to "put the stars to shame." He makes you think that some loves might never die, but then he's pessimistic too, singing, "All of these numbers, that's what I fear." It can all suffocate. It can all be stemmed. We can be happier if we want, even while serving the fear we respect.