Avast, Wasteland

There's only one thing I dislike about the gym I go to, two if you count old guys who don't put their pants on before they stand around in everyone's way talking about sports.  

The other thing I don't like is the public ubiquity of the baloney-blasting mind-froth noise machine known as "television."

Mine is not to judge.  I just regret seeing people I once knew as interesting human beings in 3D real-world settings reduced to little squares on the screen all quacking "Breaking Bad! Breaking Bad! Breaking Bad!" (or whatever) like tourettic versions of that insurance duck.

But that's okay.  It's really okay.

What bothers me is when, as seems to be increasingly the case, television intrudes upon a public space the essential function of which has nothing to do with the hyperbolic fatuity or cretinous poppycock I associate with this demonic box of the lower world.

Recently, I took Spark to a used bookstore at a senior center.  Even though no one was watching it, the TV was blaring some horrible story about a serial killer and police finding bodies in his crawl space, etc.  Yeah, I'm calling you out, old people, 'cause you know you sit around and mainline that shit all day long, you sickos.