Posthuman Blues

Apparently it's not annoying enough that most of the population can't venture five feet from their ugly suburban homes without whipping out their cellphones; we have to have constant music in all public places as well, lest someone actually has an uninterrupted thought. I'm pretty good at tuning ambient music out, but tuning it out takes a certain learned skill -- and sometimes, for whatever reason, I'm just not up to it.

I can't read in the coffeeshop because they're blaring 80s retro on satellite radio.

The bookstore? Don't even think of it; they're piping the music section's entire stock through a thousand unseen speakers.

Maybe a restaurant? Wrong! Because they've got satellite radio, too, and they want you to know it; some of the places where I live even play music outside, ostensibly for the entertainment of potential patrons.

And chances are, if you listen carefully, you'll hear the insipid susurration of "adult contemporary" at your place of work. No escape!

What's wrong with turning the music off once in a while? Is there some federal mandate in effect that requires everyone to stumble along in a prerecorded daze day after day?

A side-effect of this deluge of songs is that, occasionally, you'll hear one you actually like -- and it loses some of its subjective value. I love R.E.M., but I don't want to hear "Losing My Religion" when I'm shopping for cat litter. And with the 80s retro trend in full-swing, it's near-impossible to navigate the already-unnerving consumer landscape without having a backlog of classics thrust down your ears. Only "thrust" isn't the right word; the hidden speakers of stores and restaurants don't broadcast music so much as ooze it, leaching it of resonance, craftily stripping it of the very nuance that makes a good song something to be treasured.

I don't want an iPod for Christmas. I want a pair of industrial-grade earplugs.