there is a radio somewhere. a small clock radio. i think it is in a cube about five yards from me. the owner probably believes that i cannot hear her radio. she thinks that she is keeping it at a low enough volume as to not disturb the world around her, not realizing that the open design of our floor allows anyone to hear the conversations of a mouse clear on the other side of the building. and so the audio aroma of this little clock radio is drifting over to my usually quiet desk. clock radios are especially heinous because they are probably the last remaining devices that have a monophonic speaker by default. the advent of stereo has yet to reach the research and development ministers in the world of wake-up and snooze. mono has it’s place. beatles records sound best in mono, like that cool way you can isolate the percussion on the reprise of “sgt pepper’s lonely hearts club band” — but modern music sounds horrible when squeezed through one speaker. one cheap, lowly clock radio speaker. the kind that sound like a broadcast from the bottom of a 50-gallon oil drum.
so there is this radio somewhere. i can just make out the keening keyboard riff from madonna’s “live to tell” — which is better than the keening vocals i heard just a few minutes ago. i think it was that song about heroes having the right to bleed and it’s not easy to be me or something. earlier it was faith hill singing about breathing and elton john sacrificing. must be star 94 or peach 98.5. all i know is, if i don’t go to lunch soon, i will be tracking down the source of this grating pop overflow and taking measures too desperate for acceptable office behavior.
oh, listen… sting is singing about fields of barley…
