Coffee's Cold

For the past two weeks, at least, I have been without earbuds. While I have an iPod deck at work, I also share my office and hesitate to play much music, as my kind of listening day either consists of 1) listening to the same album over and over and over and over again or 2) constant shuffling, which can bring me from Django Reinhardt to Peaches to Stravinsky to The Weepies. I realize that neither of these extremes is particularly palatable for the average listener. And I am not vindictive in the least, despite my office roomie's predilection for a certain streaming radio station that insists on peppering its broadcast with that 1-877-KARS4KIDS advert, which for my money, is probably the least imaginative ad campaign in the history of ever. To her credit, she hasn't played that station in a while. Probably because of the network.

The problem, aside from a day accompanied only by intermittent chattering and keystrokes, is that I cannot self-motivate to do ANY manner of filing without my music. It is the necessary anodyne for the repetitive evils of ordering, labeling, and paper cutting.

Music is the opiate of my work day, my brain-lube and the come hither in most of my writing (I'd like to think). I think it will be a worthy experiment to transport my dock to the file room and catch up on the piles of reports for which I need to find homes. That sounds like the stuff of mundane sci-fi. Such is life.


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