I’ve been trying something new lately, wherein I set my alarm for the crisp, early hour of 7 a.m. in the vain hopes of getting up, being productive and an overall decent human being. The kind of person Ben Franklin, the surly statesman himself, would have been proud to call an American if he had seen me up… pretty close to the crack of dawn, excited to be healthy, wealthy and wise. I’m well aware that I need all the help I can get in this endeavor, so my alarm is set to the local Cincinnati rock station, because my reasoning was that if the magic of ROCK can’t get me moving, well then maybe I should just write the whole day off as a loss and forget the whole thing.
So far, all that’s happened is that I typically wake up briefly at 7 a.m., say something along the lines of “Ha ha, NOPE,” and fall back asleep while new rock softly floats across my room, barely loud enough to cover up the sound of Ben rolling over in his opulent, penny-lined grave. I’m assuming that’s what he did with all the pennies he saved, or whatever. That’s not the point.
This morning, my radio was caught between two stations, which happens when the weather starts to change. Usually I get stuck with a country music station out of West Virginia, which aside from making absolutely no sense puts me in a foul mood for most of the day. I blame the country music twang for this phenomenon, as I believe it messes with my inner…. rhythms… or something new age that we all probably don’t really have.
This morning, vaguely, through my sleep-induced stupor I heard a commercial for Giant Eagle, coming out of an unidentified radio station lodged somewhere in the cosmos. What once was an easy way to wake up in the morning has become a demon. A radio of regrets.