grinchiness

The first thing my speakers blasted out at me as I backed out of the driveway this morning was the punk cover of Sweet Caroline by Me First and the Gimme Gimmes, a reminder of my efforts to entertain and impress the 14-to-16-year-old scouts I had driven home from our bowling trip the night before. I must have been about that same age when I first heard Doug Bosted playing the band's punk versions of familiar Broadway songs in the church parking lot. Fitting as it had felt last night, I only tolerated the raucousness a few minutes before reaching down and switching my stereo from CD to my more mature radio selection, specifically NPR.
If I hadn't left later than usual for work, this would have held me, but it was after 9 and Diane Rehm only had a few seconds of airplay before I decided I wasn't going to put up with her. On the freeway on-ramp I switched stations again. Number 2 was an independent radio station characterized by their commitment to local and independent musicians. Their selections were often hit or miss for me and this morning was a real miss.
The next station promised a bland contemporary hit that I couldn't stomach; the station after that apparently had changed its programming from oldies to heavy metal in the year since I had resorted to tuning to it for a feel-good fix. I hit the final station preset on my radio, an FM newsradio show just breaking for commercial. After catching myself involuntarily singing along to the Nate Wade Subaru commercial, I broke off mid-jingle and exclaimed "NOISE!", simultaneously powering the radio off a mile and a half from work.
The first exclamation of "noise" immediately triggered memories of Mt Crumpet's irascible inhabitant, and, in his honor, I carried through the remainder of his grumble, "Noise, noise, NOISE!" Though he's not the good guy, I felt a kinship to that character in that moment. Driving generally puts me on the side of Ebeneezer Scrooge, that musical misanthropist that sang "I hate people" in one of my favorite film adaptations of Dickens' Christmas Carol. But this morning's irritation had less to do with the other drivers as with the entire Who village inhabiting my car's stereo radio and broadcasting uninterrupted clamor up through the speakers at me.
The Grinch's aggravation apparently arose from a single day's disturbance, but it is year round on this mountaintop. I have access to a stream of noise so incessant that it would drive the Grinch out of his skull in seconds. Worse still, there's no heart-enlarging epiphany awaiting one willing to endure the drivel; it's much more likely to achieve the opposite.
Lucky for me, there's also a power button.