Grammar B.

So here I am, minding my own business sitting in my usual place: in the corner away from everyone – more specifically the murmuring, obnoxious high school girls – in my work office while my boss plays what is actually decent music from his iPhone.  At least I hope they’re high school girls or their parents and public education did them a huge disservice.  I’m feeling pretty content and happy about life with enjoyable music and an empty queue, despite not being able to run wild outside in the celestial daylight.  Or at least just lay in it and hope for my first sunburn of 2011.  Regardless, I am here, doing better than usual.

My boss offers to let me choose a few songs, mentioning that he has my favorite artist within his playlist.  I jump up at the opportunity, while one of the murmuring high school girls with a piercing in her oversized upper lip professes her love for the artist as well.  I mention the main singer/writer of the group’s name, explaining that I actually got a chance to meet him last year.  I wasn’t trying to brag, I just figured she could share my appreciation.

She replies, “Who?”


Clearly, she likes this band a lot.  

The selection of songs was more limited than my own collection, but decent.  I chose one that I figured most people would like or at least tolerate.  Sitting back down, still enjoying zero phone calls, I sing along pretty shamelessly.  I’m over it.  Guess who isn’t singing along.  Yeah, the girl who “loves this band.”  I give her the benefit of the doubt, assuming it’s probably just this song and she’ll know the next.  


In the middle of the ultimate crescendo of what has to be one of my very favorites out of all my favorite songs by this artist, the little murmurer’s murmuring friend pipes in, “um, can you turn off the music?”

There is an awkward moment of silence.  My right eyebrow is up high in annoyance.  The song stops mid-mind-blowing-climax.

She continues, “Or just, like, play something else?” 

My eyes turn to angry slits.

“Something with a beat?” she finishes.

My heart is stopping.  Now beating.  Now exploding.

“What do you want?” my boss asks.

Yeah, my brain exclaims, What do you want, you little tyrant?  

“Um, like, rap or something.”

I’m at a loss.

So there we were, back to the arid, the hollow, the bland, the trite, the juvenile, the entertainment of the sheeple – that never-ending noise you hear so often you don’t even hear it anymore.  But at least the next song was inspired by what originally came from Modest Mouse.  My T.L. has good sense.  


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