Well, this is a first.
I've been writing this column every week for 17 years now, and I can safely say this is the first one composed on a cellphone. But that's how desperate I am to escape my present situation. As I painfully type this one thumb at a time, I'm getting work done on my car, and I'm currently being tortured by the devil's Muzak while sitting in the waiting area / infinite purgatory of the dealership.
I should be feeling good. This is maturity at work right here. I'm adulting like heck. I have a burned-out tail light, something I've known for weeks and relegated to the lower mid-section of the "to-do" list like an irresponsible idiot. But last week, I drove home to Galesburg and made the mistake of letting my dad notice. If I didn't sort this out post-haste, I guarantee it would be the lead topic of every phone call home. Plus I'd rather not get rear-ended OR a ticket, so it's time for action. Specifically, the action of sitting here indefinitely while time crawls to a halt.
In all honesty, it's a lovely waiting area and a great dealership. Everyone's super nice, it's clean as a whistle, there's unlimited beverages, and their COVID mitigations are top-notch. There's just one big problem.
The overhead radio is presently tuned to one of the many kazillion satellite stations out there. If I had to reckon a guess, I'd say we're listening to the Middle-Aged White People Party Jams channel, or perhaps a channel whose theme is simply Shane's Least Favorite Songs of All Time Ever. If it's insipid, over-played, inescapable, and terrible, it's on this playlist. I've been here for a half hour and I'm ready to pull my ears clean off.
I'm fully self-aware that I'm an elitist music snob. Listening to me prattle on about music is likely ten times more tiresome than this playlist could ever be. If there's a band you love, odds are good that I (a) sincerely hate them, (b) secretly love them but still insist I hate them, or (c) am about to tell you how they're derivative of some far superior Scottish indie band from 1982 that precisely 17 people on Earth have ever heard of. Sometimes it takes great patience to be my friend.
But I don't think you have to be a snobby elitist to hate this channel. We all come from different walks of life. We all have different tastes, passions, and stories. But if there's one thing that unifies us as a people, it's the shared truth that none of us EVER need to hear "Livin' La Vida Loca" ever again. Ricky Martin himself probably doesn't want to hear that song ever again.
That's the kind of schlock this channel's been pushing down my earholes for some forty minutes now without rhyme or reason. Well, I guess there's rhyme, if you count "loca" and "mocha."
But worse than their song selections is the way they're assembled. It makes absolutely no sense. They just played that Cher autotune song -- "Do you beeeLIEEEEEEVE in life after love??" -- followed immediately by Led Zeppelin's "Whole Lotta Love." Is there anyone on Earth who's a hardcore fan of both Cher and Led Zep? If so, you're downright weird. And should probably be my friend.
Fifteen minutes have passed. I can now say with some certainty that I have no idea who let the dogs out and I frankly don't care. Nor do I care that you've been through the desert on a horse with no name. I cannot see paradise by the dashboard lights and I do not want to come sail away. It is quite unnecessary to celebrate good times, come on. These songs already live in the deepest, darkest earworm-riddled corners of our brains for all time, there's absolutely no reason to bring them out for a refresher. If "Mmm Bop" comes on, I swear I'm walking home.
WHOA. I just discovered what this channel is. It's the satellite channel "Road Trip Radio: Music To Drive To." If this was my required road trip soundtrack, I'd be a MUCH bigger homebody.
Now it's Icona Pop's "I Love It," which is actually a bop, but I'm trying to sort out why "Road Trip Radio" would feature a song whose main lyrics repeat, "I crashed my car into the bridge, I watched, I let it burn." This does NOT bode well for your roadtrip safety, people.
Perhaps this is all just a genius sales technique. I'm half-tempted to buy a new car just so I can get out of earshot. "Sure, give me the keys, I'll sign on the X, just don't make me listen to 'Love Shack,' I'm begging you."
We have warped ahead 30 minutes. I'm home. Just as the gentle strains of "Eye of the Tiger" were kicking up, my car was done. All in all, a good experience -- as soon as I remembered I had my noise-cancelling earbuds in my pocket. I can definitely tell you what channel I did NOT listen to on the road trip home. If you were annoyed just now by the car zooming past with two shiny tail lights blaring some Scottish indie band from 1982 that only 17 people on Earth have ever heard of, my deepest apologies. And my work here is done, because you're now #18, congrats.
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