September 10, 2009
I’ve spent my share of time in waiting rooms. Enough to really enjoy Fugazi’s Waiting Room. I love that song.
But waiting rooms aren’t holding up their end of the bargain. I mean, if I was the type of guy to have a waiting room, like, you know, if you guys had to wait in a waiting room to read this blog, for example, I would totally stock it. Diet Coke. All kinds of Reeses stuff. The latest Powder magazine. iTouches tethered to little locks so you could play games.
Just typing all that makes me mad, because I was recently in the lamest waiting room ever. The tv was locked on a local morning mom show. And this was the only readable magazine on table:
Aaron Ralston chewed his way out of that slot canyon SIX years ago. Why is that magazine still there?
I read his book. I hate Aaron Ralston. After like 4 chapters I wished a flash flood had followed him down the canyon.
But you know what? I was trapped. Like a deer in a slot canyon pothole, I had no way out.
So I read about Mr. Ralston’s bloody arm again. Now I want to paper a gerbil cage with the magazine.
Please, please, please. If you are in charge of waiting rooms, do me two favors. First, never subscribe to Family Circle. Who READS that? And second, stock the room. We’re there to see you, so put us in a good mood for when we finally do.