I don’t understand.
I’m sitting in my car, relaxing and bucking up for the work day ahead. I am surrounded by Eucalyptus trees. It is warm and the sun is shining.
A kid parks his car next to mine. His music is so loud that it vibrates my windows. I understand loud music. Love it. Indeed, I was listening to “Ace of Spades” (by Motorhead) quite loudly just a few minutes earlier.
The music he likes is not my music, though. It is formulaic, soulless, angst-pop which passes for rock n’ roll on safe radio today. But I also understand soulless music. Love it. Indeed, I was listening to “Let the Music Play” (by Shannon) just yesterday, and having a great time, too.
But why, why does he leave his car, walk all the way across the parking lot (with his windows rolled down) without turning down the radio which remains at full volume? Why? No one is waiting for him in his car. He can’t even hear it. Why?!
If I have to listen to loud, soulless pop music, can it please be music I like?
Young man, if you’re going to leave your car, perhaps you should take a look around, see who else might be listening, and ask what they want to hear. I mean, since you’re not even going to be here?!
Too bad I don’t have balls. If I had balls, I would have said something when he returned. If I had bigger balls, I would have reached into his window and turned the volume down myself. And if I had gigantic balls, I would have yanked out his CD, cracked it over my skull, and handed him a copy of the Didjits. Now that would have made me feel better.
But, sadly, my undescended testicles are tightly cradled in the arms of my gelly-like spine. (No, it’s just a metaphor folks.)
So I waited (and waited) for him to return, full of my own brand of authentic angst, hoping he’d turn the damn thing off soon so I could get back to my peaceful, tranquil morning. He did. I said nothing. All is well. Right?
Now... where did I put my peaceful, tranquil morning?
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I’m sitting in my car, relaxing and bucking up for the work day ahead. I am surrounded by Eucalyptus trees. It is warm and the sun is shining.
A kid parks his car next to mine. His music is so loud that it vibrates my windows. I understand loud music. Love it. Indeed, I was listening to “Ace of Spades” (by Motorhead) quite loudly just a few minutes earlier.
The music he likes is not my music, though. It is formulaic, soulless, angst-pop which passes for rock n’ roll on safe radio today. But I also understand soulless music. Love it. Indeed, I was listening to “Let the Music Play” (by Shannon) just yesterday, and having a great time, too.
But why, why does he leave his car, walk all the way across the parking lot (with his windows rolled down) without turning down the radio which remains at full volume? Why? No one is waiting for him in his car. He can’t even hear it. Why?!
If I have to listen to loud, soulless pop music, can it please be music I like?
Young man, if you’re going to leave your car, perhaps you should take a look around, see who else might be listening, and ask what they want to hear. I mean, since you’re not even going to be here?!
Too bad I don’t have balls. If I had balls, I would have said something when he returned. If I had bigger balls, I would have reached into his window and turned the volume down myself. And if I had gigantic balls, I would have yanked out his CD, cracked it over my skull, and handed him a copy of the Didjits. Now that would have made me feel better.
But, sadly, my undescended testicles are tightly cradled in the arms of my gelly-like spine. (No, it’s just a metaphor folks.)
So I waited (and waited) for him to return, full of my own brand of authentic angst, hoping he’d turn the damn thing off soon so I could get back to my peaceful, tranquil morning. He did. I said nothing. All is well. Right?
Now... where did I put my peaceful, tranquil morning?
Previous Comments
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