Before there was Eels, there was E's solo project, steeped in reverb, flowery strings, (I realize now that this song actually doesn't have strings on it, one of the few on the album that doesn't. -Ed) and lyrics surprisingly less dark than what was to come. I guess as Los Angeles got into Mark Everett's blood (and as other things worsened in his life), his lyrics got less silly. Not that there is anything wrong with silly, nor with reverb nor with strings, because this song is still fun to listen to, especially when you're in your late teens and you're lonely, driving down the street, missing a girl whose face you can't quite picture just yet, but you're sure that you'll bump into her one day.

(And then you bump into her a few years later, have a sordid affair, fall in love, wind up with an STD when she cheats on you, live the rest of your life sad and broken, always wondering what went wrong, drinking PBR, sitting on the front porch, shouting racial epithets at everyone who walks by, staying up late at night watching My So Called Life marathons, masturbating while crying over pubescent Claire Danes but convincing yourself it's OK because she's not actually that age anymore. You sad bastard.)