There’s one universal rule about vehicles, and I broke it like an idiot today. The driver controls the music. Period. I ignored that rule while training a new girl on my Meals on Wheels route and said the dumbest phrase you can say inside a vehicle: “Listen to whatever you want.” That sentence detonated the entire vibe of the day. My usual punk soundtrack got replaced with Three 6 Mafia, Paul Wall, Big Tymers, and a rotating lineup of music that makes my ears want to file a complaint.

My route normally runs on loud, fast punk. That’s the fuel. Short songs, distorted guitars, drums that move the day forward like a caffeine overdose with strings attached. It fits the rhythm of deliveries. You park, grab meals, move fast, repeat. Punk keeps the energy tight and the pace sharp. It’s the audio version of getting things done without wasting time.

Instead, the truck turned into a rolling bass machine full of music I absolutely cannot stand. I’m talking slow, syrupy beats, endless bragging, and bass so heavy it felt like the doors were being interrogated. Three 6 Mafia rattling the speakers while we’re pulling into senior apartment complexes is not a pairing I ever expected in life. Paul Wall rolled in like we were cruising a Houston car show instead of delivering meals to people who just want their lunch and maybe a quick conversation.

Here’s the thing. I tried to tolerate it. I really did. But the whole time my brain was screaming for a guitar riff and a drummer who drinks too much coffee. This style of music just drags. It lumbers along like it forgot it has somewhere to be. Punk kicks the door open and gets to the point. This stuff strolls in wearing sunglasses indoors.

Lesson learned. Training someone doesn’t mean surrendering the dashboard. The AUX cord is not a democracy. It’s a dictatorship.

And the driver runs it.

Eric Foltin

Ordained Pastafarian minister. Spy vs. Spy fiend. Tech-tinkering, people-dodging geocacher with punk roots and hard-earned dev chops.