Bring Back the Muzak!

This question has been plaguing me for weeks now . . .

Where did all the elevator music go? Did it get stuck on Level B? Or did some NFL player break all the speakers worldwide?


Let me explain, and perhaps this has been trending for a while, but I can’t seem to eat, shop for cereal, order pizza, get a cavity filled, or wait in a doctor’s office without Katy Perry shouting at me that I’m a firework (Duh) or Taylor Swift airing her gag-worthy love life, repetitively singing about how she is going to shake, shake, shake, which sounds like a pre-existing condition. …Or maybe it’s just the bags of money on the way to the bank.

I have no problem with people electing to listen to this drivel on their own time, but I don’t understand why it’s being imposed upon me everywhere, without my consent.

Two weeks ago I sat in my dentist’s chair and received some very bad news: Due to my gum chewing habit, and hoarding Halloween candy, I have 5 cavities. As the doctor proceeded to jackhammer away at my pearly whites, TSwift is singing about pretending to be a hipster while my head is exploding and my brains are being scrambled and all I can thinks is: This is not the soundtrack to be playing as I go down!

“Are you okay?” my doctor asked.

“The Novocain hasn’t taken yet! And shut this crappy music off!”

But of course, with a mouthful of cotton, what comes out is, “Agghrrrrrrr. Ughghhhhh. $%%$$. Yemen.” (Not sure how Yemen got in there.)

Then, as I’m left to wait longer while the numbing takes hold, I’m serenaded about large asses, drug addiction, some chick sleeping around on Ed Sheeran and now all I can think is: What the frick happened to KLite, smooth jazz, and muzak? The whole left side of my face is sliding off into a pile of its own saliva, my right foot is spasming like a dog’s leg during a belly rub, and the last place I want to be is at Club Pain, listening to funky beats. Give me Carly Simon singing she hasn’t got time for the pain, dammit!

I don’t want my dentist to be hip and I don’t want to listen to Bruno Mars tell me he’s going to funk me up at a restaurant while I have spinach in my teeth and I’m trying to listen to a friend tell me she needs a CAT Scan.

I realize I’m starting to sound old here, and I love Bruno just as much as the next gal n’ guy, but Time and Place seem to have gotten away from society. Bruno Mars can funk me up while I’m alone in my kitchen and no one can witness my badass gyrations and 80’s style crotch grab.

Warning: This move should not be attempted in public before or after 1980--1990.
The Crotch Grab:                    RIP 1980–1990.

This is precisely when my mother comes in handy. She’ll tell anybody, anything, at anytime. I generally take her along with me when someone needs a good blast of truth, but she’s a busy woman. I have to share her with others that need her straight talk. She’s my family’s Cosmo Kramer.

So, we’re out to lunch a few days ago at a local sushi dive, which admittedly sounds unappealing. Sushi and dive are words that should never be used together, but this place is stuck in 1979 — all pink plastic and red satin — it looks like Heff himself was the responsible designer. Anyhoo, the only thing that told me it was 2015 was, alas, the music. As we ordered, I noticed the speaker was right over us and I cringed. So while we ordered our yellowtail sushi and admired the baby at the next table, learning to talk, Katy Perry sang about crashing her car and having threesomes during her Friday night. (We can only hope Menage a Trois will not be the baby’s first words. As it is, I caught my 6-year-old brushing her teeth singing she was all about that bass, which spells big treble for me.)

When the sushi chef asked us how we liked everything my mother said, “Everything was great, except for the music. It’s terrible and loud.”

He chuckled nervously, “Ah, well, I got this package service and wanted to use it.”

“You mean you paid for this?!” She said, cracking up the people around us, because apparently we weren’t alone in our dislike. I’m pretty sure the dude with the Harley jacket wasn’t into it or the new mom who’d pay good money for some peace and quiet.

Perhaps this should be an open letter to establishments that life is not a club, and playing shitty pop music, while a cheaper alternative, will not update your place of business or make you appear hip — just hapless.

It’s time to bring back the muzak!


12 thoughts on “Bring Back the Muzak!

  1. Debbie

    Oh, I do feel your pain. My dentist pipes in Christian music, which I suppose is a good thing and negates any curse words patients might think during procedures! But five fillings at one time? Mercy, you’re a brave (and tough!) one, aren’t you??

    As for the music — you’re spot on. I’m making a mental note to borrow your mother (you might consider “renting” her out, ha!)

    1. desertdweller29

      It actually makes me happy my dentist served some other purpose besides pain! I’m still taking Advil after the abuse.

      My mother’s list of people in need of her service grows longer by the minute… She is a rare gem.

    1. desertdweller29

      This is exactly when Kenny G would have been great! Or Angel Romero… The best would be the Professor himself. Instrumental music should be the only thing playing in a dentist’s office. I’ll have to bring my mother along the next time…

      1. desertdweller29

        It’s hard to tell. She’s quite a firecracker. I just never know what’s going to set her off! But I know she would enjoy your guitar playing, so perhaps the top hat would be overlooked.

  2. Jilanne Hoffmann

    Oh, yes! I’ve gotta say that one of the reasons I chose my dentist was for the music. They play blues, jazz, and “classic rock.” 😀 Makes dental work infinitely less painful.

    And yes, I love your mother! Cheers!

    1. desertdweller29

      Blues, jazz, and classic rock?! I’m very jealous! I should have done more research. Before choosing any future doctor, I will inquire about their musical taste.

      Wonderful post of yours today and very timely as I struggle to produce more than 250 words. That said, I’d rather stare at a blank page than attempt El Capitan. Following their journey in the NYTimes was amazing and inspiring.

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