The Word Show

Without too much hassle, I could switch from commuting to work by car to doing so via public transit, and it would tack on maybe 15 extra minutes to my journey. For sure,  it would be the virtuous and environmentally responsible thing to do: ditch the car, decrease my Shaq-sized carbon footprint; be more ‘green.’

But every extra minute in  the morning is, for me, a precious commodity – and the 15 extra minutes that driving to work affords me is like winning the lottery – albeit a very lame lottery. Still, it’s nice to be a winner.

Actually, the main reason I like driving into work is I get to catch a few minutes of  National Public Radio. I don’t know anyone else my age who listens to NPR, the typical listener being a 50+ year-old Liberal Vermonter, who grows his own vegetables, has an equal distrust of Big Government and Big Business, and is more interested in L.L. Bean  than L.L. Cool J.

But I like NPR a lot. I like that their news reporting is intelligent and relatively objective, and that commentator Garrison Keillor has the most soothing voice this side of Barry White – but instead of a disco crooner’s sexy-talk, Keillor waxes about quaint topics like basket weaving and Minnesota winters. So he’s not Barry White, then, although rumour has it Mr. Keillor actually pulls a lot of tail in his day.

The NPR radio signal floats in from Burlington, Vermont, and by the time it gets to Montreal, it‘s pretty weak, but my trusty Subaru’s radio does an admirable job of picking up it up. This would normally be an opportunity to write something about the superiority of Japanese radios, but I don’t want to sound racist – it wouldn’t be becoming of an NPR listener.

But at least once a day, as I slowly progress through the morning gridlock, often right in the middle of Garrison The Lady-Killer Keillor’s random musing about the beauty of ice fishing or Flemish poetry, my zen state is violently thrown out of whack by a passing car’s intercepting radio. That’s right, I get iPoached.

It’s a term I’ve coined for the phenomenon that occurs when a nearby car, with an iPod playing via an FM transmitter, poaches – nay – HIJACKS the radio signal in my car, and it normally sounds like this:

Cue Garrison Keillor‘s velvet delivery: “Today in poetry history, T.S. Eliot, author of notable works such as The Wasteland, was born in Oshkosh, WisconPSHSHSHH #@$#@%$#@$%$#@“WITH THA GANGSTA SHIT THAT KEEPS YA HANGIN  – HOW MANY HO’S IN ‘94 WILL I BE BANGIN?!!!”

Yup, Garrison’s butter-smooth voice gets cut out by hip-hop’s Original Gangsta, Snoop Dog, playing on a passing car‘s iPod. It only lasts a few seconds, but it’s enough to destroy my meditative session. Indeed, the solitary morning car commute, once viewed as the sole remaining fortress of solitude for the urban worker bee, has been compromised.

That said, the interruption gives me some food for thought, as I’ve wondered how many “ho’s” Garrison Keillor, with his ability to quote random poetry and recount enchanting stories about small-town America,  has managed to “bang.” What’s more, how long before Snoop D-O-to-the-Gizzle makes it over to NPR? Don’t laugh. He’s already got a smooth, public radio-friendly voice of his own, he’s got serious charisma, and, perhaps most importantly, like most NPR listeners, he’s an avid horticulturalist. I say we get that thug headset, a mug, and a comfy wool sweater.