out of my head, party


I swear that the health club I attend plays the worst of the worst music in the world on the PA system. I assume that an evil gnome in a basement spends all day and night listening for the most godawful repetitive crap possible. Then he dumps it in a heap in a dirty burlap sack at the health club front desk.

And they play it! They play it all day and night until the next load of dreck comes in. Why, why, why?  The latest atrocity is an auto-tuned voice that chants “the party’s in my head,” over and over and over again. It’s the audio version of food poisoning. You want to chuck it all up and feel better.

There’s nothing for it but bringing earbuds and an iPod and trying to cover it up before it eats my brain.

It reminds of Samuel Delaney’s 1966 novel, Babel-17. The title comes from the name of an invented human language that, when used, gradually infects the brain and turns the user into a traitor. The novel’s hero is a linguist with the wonderful name of Rydra Wong. Way ahead of its time, that book. It’s day has come. The bad guys are destroying America from within, starting with the health clubs.



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