All About That Bass

As an advocate for free speech, I often encourage people to express themselves when they have something of value to add to our societal discourse.

But on Thursday afternoon, I observed a careless violation of my space.

I was getting gas at a Fairfield filling station. Needed to fill up the pick-up and contribute my share to the state government’s motor fuel tax. Pulling up next to me was a guy in an SUV who had his stereo up full blast for the entire city block to hear.

 Lots of bass…..

It wasn’t tuned to any of our stations. That didn’t offend. But as he got out of his vehicle, he turned up the rap song blaring out of his cab. The song was filled with filthy language. I’m no prude. I can swear. Try not to…but I do.

Let me make this clear. I wouldn’t call this sound art. The singer was not singing…he was yelling and every other word was the f-bomb. I mean he skillfully used the f-word as a noun, verb, pronoun, adjective…..and as the object of the preposition.

If my wife, or my grandkids, had been with me, I would have walked over and asked him to turn it down. There might have been a problem. Have we reached a point where common courtesy is no longer cool? Don’t blow smoke into my face and for God’s sake, if you are going to listen to endless profanity, put on some headphones, man….or just turn it down.  

I didn’t do anything. Just filled my truck. Counted the f-bombs. Marveled at the success of such a song. Wrote this commentary in my head.

I was so grateful to be alone.