But it also has the power to stir up some serious problems at work if you work with a complete mouth breather.
Back in the day I used to have to share a sort of big, open office with RMB. I had a little Emerson radio which I listened to my local NPR station with, at a volume so low that I could barely hear it. This incensed my stupid office-mate enough that she once told me that my music "made her queasy."
Fortunately she finally queasyed her stupid ass out of here and out of my life.
In the new office things are interesting, again because of music. To picture the new office, simply envision an oval racetrack (I can just hear you NASCAR fans already panting.) So anyway, an oval, with offices on both sides of the track. At the front of the oval, the short bit, is me, sitting smack inbetween Turn One and Turn Two. I face out the front doors, and I have my little desktop stereo tuned to, as always, NPR and my classical music.
Now, to continue the NASCAR thing, Detroit Rock City's office is on the outside of Turn One, off my right shoulder, behind an open door. From there all day I can catch snatches of Top 40/Bubblegum Pop music. Not unbearable, she keeps it low, and whenever I hear something I like (that'd be two songs, tops) I can tune in to it for a few minutes, then back to Bach and Rossini. On the outside of Turn Two is Vulgar Wizard's office, again, behind an open door. From her office I get all sorts of bits and pieces, depending on if she's playing a CD, the 'oldies' station which plays the sort of 70's/80's hard rock that I grew up listening to, or sometimes even the Pop station, which is when I get this sort of distorted stereo image from each office.
And here I sit, a bastion of long dead men, violins and oboes and French horns wafting to and fro, caught in a sort of musical riptide. I guess it's a good thing I can multi-task, otherwise the conflicting music might drive me straight into a wall.
And while all this was going on I managed to slip one by VW. You see, she promised me that when we move from this small, inelegant office into one of those big 12 story tall glass and chrome towers with the garden atrium in the lobby I can have a duck.
You see, I asked her if I could have one of those big neo-modern glass desks that looks like it was birthed from some sort of constipated Danish designer's bunghole, the kind that requires a full-time maid just to stand around with Windex and a case of paper towels to clean the fingerprints off it every half hour, and I requested a duck. She denied the first two (the desk and the maid) but okayed the duck.
The clever part of all this is that I knew I wanted neither the glass desk nor the maid but I did want the duck, and I knew she'd deny my request for the desk and maid, so I asked for those first so she'd get the two negatives out of her system, and she'd feel bad for turning me down three times in a row so she'd be more inclined to say "yes" to the third option, so I put the duck there, certain and secure in my logic.
So now I have an open avenue to my own duck. Cool. All we need now is a giant chrome and glass tower and I am hooked up! My own duck...imagine it...a Wood Duck, or perhaps a Mallard drake, or maybe, dare I dream it, my very own Teal?
The mind boggles.