Rain of Sound

On my hour long commute to my part time job, I listen to NPR. I don't enjoy it. 

I don't enjoy the music the radio has to offer either. I'll flip through, maybe catch the last couple bars of a Rolling Stones tune, if I'm lucky. A Meatloaf song if I'm really, really unlucky. Golly, I dislike Meatloaf more than, well, probably as much as I dislike The Who.

"Oldies" - late fifties to mid to late sixties rock (late sixties is pushing it) the songs that taught me how to sing in tune, as I sang along on lonely car rides, are hardly played. Oldies are now the 1970s, 80s and 90s, the radio announcer or the robot on "Ben FM" tells me. 

"Tellin' me more and more..."

Ben is wrong. Radio-ready disco and funk are not oldies, nor do I enjoy listening to it. Disco makes me feel uncomfortable. Could it be that I'm Catholic? Back to NPR.

"About some useless information..."

Remember car radios that had difficult to depress buttons that would send an orange bar shooting across the dial?

Right now, I'd rather listen to the rain, but instead I hear my overtired child whining. He tells my husband, "I'm not tired." I hear his footfalls on the steps. A half hour later, he's asleep.

But on the way I home, the Middle East is in the news. Heaven knows what happened to 200 African girls. Haven't heard about them. Slaves, prostitutes, and unwilling wives, I'll guess. Ukraine? Who knows, but I do know that peacocks are being killed in a suburbs neighborhood somewhere in the USA, so says NPR. Ocean acidification. Medical cannabis. 

Maybe I should tune back to disco hits and learn a new way of singing. "Young and sweet...only seventeen..."

Nah. I'd rather listen to the sound of biting my own nails. I should do that next week.