You took the idea of the human genome project and applied it to music, right? Songs have a certain genetic code that allows you to group them together in various ways based on their attributes. If I put in “Manic Monday” by The Bangles, your algorithm searches the DNA of all the songs ever recorded, finds others that are annoying enough to fuel a genocidal dictator, and then creates a “station” comprised of just those songs. Then, if I’m playing that station, and you play “Everybody Wang Chung Tonight” by Wang Chung, and I click the thumbs down icon, you’ll adjust your math so it doesn’t play any more songs by bands with fans who drive Fieros and carry nunchucks.
Our family doesn’t normally watch TV together at 7pm on a school night, especially when one of our kids has a friend over. But when our matriarch gets excited about something, there’s no stopping her. This was a special occasion after all. A man was to be “Eaten Alive” by an anaconda on television. There had been a countdown and a Twitter Hashtag #EatenAlive!
She and our seven-year-old son, Silas, had been out to dinner where Lindsay sold him on the idea of watching it when they returned. I imagine she said something like, “You can watch TV because it’s a special thing, like an important tennis match or a Christmas Special.”
“OK,” Lindsay announced, walking in the backdoor with Silas.
Each time I shifted in my seat, I smelled something sour. I tried to dismiss it as a run-of-the-mill other-people-sweat smell but eventually had to admit it was urine.
Was it on my shoes? On the coat of the guy seated in front of me? The woman two seats over? I sniffed my arm, my hands, my knee — I sniffed my knee during an IMAX showing of Interstellar. Getting no closer to identifying the source, I leaned over and whispered to my brother-in-law. “Dude, do you smell periodic waves of piss?” He squinted, shrugged and smiled — he didn’t hear me.