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Published Letters: 2
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Although the mental picture he painted of Pat Buchanan wearing peek-a-boo underpants from Fredericks of Hollywood has haunted me for two decades now. I still wake up in a cold sweat sometimes.
I don't know about other gyms, but at my gym crappy techno would be a mercy. At least it provides a baseline of minimally acceptable noise at an acceptable volume.
The mornings at my gym usually play out something like this:
0600: The grown ups all show up, and whoever gets to the stereo first puts on either NPR or classic rock at a reasonable volume.
0700: The second shift shows up, and this includes a large number of male wannabe corporate ninjas in their mid-20s who just walk over to the stereo in reception without so much as a by-your-leave and switch it to some station that plays what purports to be rock music these days, at TOP FREAKING VOLUME.
0701: Someone who is fully past puberty will turn the volume back down.
0702: The lunkheads turn the volume back up and holler obscenities because "woo, dude, I am pumped" or something. I'm not sure they actually have a reason.
0704: Nancy, a college librarian and grandmother of six who is one of the early shift regulars, rips the power cord out of the stereo and threatens to strangle the junior partners with it if they assault her eardrums one more time.
0706: Violence ensues, the frightened staff baricade themselves in the trainer's office.
0710: Total breakdown of society. Cats and dogs living together.
0720: Shower.
The crappy techno would be nice. It'd save on hurt feelings, sore eardrums and broken bones.
