At the gym.
Here’s the backstory:
I work out at a big chain-name gym. Ok, it’s a Gold’s Gym. I go there every Sunday morning, early – specifically, to avoid the oleaginous squealing and doggerel “poetry” (read: unintelligible mumbling) of Top 40 and cRap “music” – which of course neither is, since music involves musicians . . . people playing musical instruments . . . and… well, anyhow.
I go at the crack of dawn because it’s the one time that pretty much everyone else working out – just a handful of us – is a guy in his 30s or 40s or 50s. The demographic, in other words, that probably does not sway to the ooooooo Ah luuuuuvs you………ooooooooo! stylings of Rihana, Katy Perry or whatever “dog” is barking its cRap today. And yet, that’s just what’s being played – at top volume. And so, I ask the dude at the counter to please change the station. Classic rock, country – anything that qualifies as music.
He agrees – but only after telling me people “complain” when such other-than-cRap “music” is played. Well, I told him, now I’m complaining. Not just me, either. I pointed out the other seven middle-aged white guys on the gym floor. He changes the station – reluctantly, it seemed to me.
In the past, loathsome cultural trends – disco, for example – passed after awhile. You almost never see someone wearing Levi bell bottom cords anymore. So when, pray, will we be delivered from the soul-killing, consciousness-numbing dreck that is “Top 40” – and cRap – “music”? How much longer can it possibly last?
I think it will last just as long as this latter-day Hapsburg Empire lasts.
Which won’t be long now.
Which may be just what the doctor ordered.