Throughout the day, the staff kitchen at work is cursed by so-called classic rock radio. The relentless sound of sledgehammered, unsubtle chord changes and melodious yelling pervade the air like the bad smell of somebody's stale tuna fish sandwich. Frankly, I would prefer to listen to just the buzz of the fluorescent lighting but apparently silence, although reportedly golden, isn't an option. God forbid we should find ourselves alone with our thoughts. There is enough existential angst to be found at our desks, enough silence to be heard on the other end of the telephone when calling our clients. 'We'll be right back after these messages,' the disc jockey says as if anyone might fear he and his horrible music were gone for good. Then the jingle-happy radio advertising begins, an insult added to injury in the canteen of a company that can barely afford classified ads in the Yellow Pages.
This morning, While My Guitar Gently Weeps was playing as the coffee pot was percolating. 'This one goes out to the calculator belonging to Bob in accounts,' I announced for my own amusement. 'Which is also in deep distress.' In fact, all the utilities and appliances in this office are more upset than George Harrison's instrument, many of them even wailing with despair and perhaps suicidal. This coffee pot, for instance, will surely soon shatter from the slave-driven misery of brewing bitter-tasting sludge each day. The microwave will explode with frustration after reheating one too many breakfast burritos. Only the radio will remain, obliviously broadcasting Queen and Led Zeppelin into the tear-stained ruins. But for the time being our business blows its nose and wipes its eyes, somehow manages a smile and staggers forward into another sales pitch.
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