TromboneChat

https://getpocket.com/explore/item/do-c ... ket-newtab

That seems to be a link to your pocket app not the article?

Routes to the article for me.

Oh weird works on my phone.

Yeah this was one of the motivations for finding remote work. Even with noise cancelling headphones and foam earplugs in, some stuff gives me a phisiological reaction. Apples are the absolute worst. Chips and the plastic chip bags are pretty bad too.

Or to be graphic about it ...

I worked from home. Neighbors would have their granddaughters over and the young ladies liked to scream when playing in the back yard. I mean loud and high pitched! I could her them from 100 yards away with my window closed and a set of hearing protectors on. That, and leaf blowers drove me nuts!

Yeah, In our neighborhood there is a little girl we call "Screamer". She rides around on her bike and lets out the highest pitched, loudest wails you've ever heard. For no reason.

Sounds that enrage me:

1. "upspeak"
2. dogs continuously barking, or even barking for not very long
3. "duckspeak" (see George Orwell)
4. vocal fry
5. the distant sound of a Reggaeton rhythm
6. shrieking

Generally people being inconsiderate or trying super hard to fit into a social group so that they modify their general behavior enrages me. I'm working on it...we're just people.

I cannot stand the sound of someone cracking his knuckles, and I don't know why it bothers me; it just does. It's not only the sound, though; it's also the fidgety behavior of someone obsessively pushing on each finger over and over to try to find the one that will make that popping sound.

One for me is the sound of liquid being poured into a tall narrow glass...Don't know why.

Stems from a champagne ad from a couple of years ago that repeated the sound as nauseum!!!!

Smoke detector beeping. That sound is just torture for me.

Where I was working before, there were probably two dozens of those in the office so I was on a hunt at least once a week to find the culprit and shut it down.

The amazing thing for me was to realize some people didn't even hear it....

People who have a cold and a stuffy nose but rather than blow their nose continually just sniff. Drives me crazy.

The sound of people coughing a lot. I think it's 'cause I rarely get coughs from respiratory illnesses, so the idea that someone can't stop coughing makes me think it's something they're doing wrong and it bothers me that they don't seem to want to stop it

Listening to people talk who obviously don't know how to do something (I'm in IT, so usually something technical) but keep insisting that they do. I don't know if it's a Western thing or just an American one, but the refusal of some people to just say "I haven't done this before, can you explain it to me?" or "I haven't done this before, but I'll mess around tonight and figure it it out" annoys me.

Vocal fry... I didn't realize until I read that, but yeah, that enrages me too

One of my roommates in law school was a very fine classical guitar player. One year one of the guys in the house next door kept practicing the lick from Tom Petty’s “Breakdown.” Over and over. Badly. And loud. It drove my roommate nuts. He kept threatening to go over and show the guy how to play it, but never did.

The sound of high revving motorcycles really grates me. And chainsaws.

Bagpipes
Whining women
Politicians
Extra loud TV commercials
Fingernails on a blackboard
Atonal and pentatonic music
The siren on a cop car pulling me over.
My own trombone when it refuses to due my bidding.

screaming trumpets

If it please your neighbor to break the sacred calm of night with the snorting of an unholy trombone, it is your duty to put up with his wretched music and your privilege to pity him for the unhappy instinct that moves him to delight in such discordant sounds. I did not always think thus: this consideration for musical amateurs was born of certain disagreeable personal experiences that once followed the development of a like instinct in myself. Now this infidel over the way, who is learning to play on the trombone, and the slowness of whose progress is almost miraculous, goes on with his harrowing work every night, uncurled by me, but tenderly pitied. Ten years ago, for the same offense, I would have set fire to his house. At that time I was a prey to an amateur violinist for two or three weeks, and the sufferings I endured at his hands are inconceivable. He played "Old Dan Tucker," and he never played any thing else; but he performed that so badly that he could throw me into fits with it if I were awake, or into a nightmare if I were asleep. As long as he confined himself to "Dan Tucker," though, I bore with him and abstained from violence; but when he projected a fresh outrage, and tried to do "Sweet Home," I went over and burnt him out. My next assailant was a wretch who felt a call to play the clarionet. He only played the scale, however, with his distressing instrument, and I let him run the length of his tether, also; but finally, when he branched out into a ghastly tune, I felt my reason deserting me under the exquisite torture, and I sallied forth and burnt him out likewise. During the next two years I burned out an amateur cornet player, a bugler, a bassoon-sophomore, and a barbarian whose talents ran in the base-drum line.

I would certainly have scorched this trombone man if he had moved into my neighborhood in those days. But as I said before, I leave him to his own destruction now, because I have had experience as an amateur myself, and I feel nothing but compassion for that kind of people. Besides, I have learned that there lies dormant in the souls of all men a penchant for some particular musical instrument, and an unsuspected yearning to learn to play on it, that are bound to wake up and demand attention some day. Therefore, you who rail at such as disturb your slumbers with unsuccessful and demoralizing attempts to subjugate a fiddle, beware! for sooner or later your own time will come. It is customary and popular to curse these amateurs when they wrench you out of a pleasant dream at night with a peculiarly diabolical note; but seeing that we are all made alike, and must all develop a distorted talent for music in the fullness of time, it is not right. I am charitable to my trombone maniac; in a moment of inspiration he fetches a snort, sometimes, that brings me to a sitting posture in bed, broad awake and weltering in a cold perspiration. Perhaps my first thought is, that there has been an earthquake; perhaps I hear the trombone, and my next thought is, that suicide and the silence of the grave would be a happy release from this nightly agony; perhaps the old instinct comes strong upon me to go after my matches; but my first cool, collected thought is, that the trombone man's destiny is upon him, and he is working it out in suffering and tribulation; and I banish from me the unworthy instinct that would prompt me to burn him out.

After a long immunity from the dreadful insanity that moves a man to become a musician in defiance of the will of God that he should confine himself to sawing wood, I finally fell a victim to the instrument they call the accordeon. At this day I hate that contrivance as fervently as any man can, but at the time I speak of I suddenly acquired a disgusting and idolatrous affection for it. I got one of powerful capacity, and learned to play "Auld Lang Syne" on it. It seems to me, now, that I must have been gifted with a sort of inspiration to be enabled, in the state of ignorance in which I then was, to select out of the whole range of musical composition the one solitary tune that sounds vilest and most distressing on the accordeon. I do not suppose there is another tune in the world with which I could have inflicted so much anguish upon my race as I did with that one during my short musical career.

After I had been playing "Lang Syne" about a week, I had the vanity to think I could improve the original melody, and I set about adding some little flourishes and variations to it, but with rather indifferent success, I suppose, as it brought my landlady into my presence with an expression about her of being opposed to such desperate enterprises. Said she, "Do you know any other tune but that, Mr. Twain?" I told her, meekly, that I did not. "Well, then," said she, "stick to it just as it is; don't put any variations to it, because it's rough enough on the boarders the way it is now."

The fact is, it was something more than simply "rough enough" on them; it was altogether too rough; half of them left, and the other half would have followed, but Mrs. Jones saved them by discharging me from the premises.

I only staid one night at my next lodging-house. Mrs. Smith was after me early in the morning. She said, "You can go, sir; I don't want you here; I have had one of your kind before -- a poor lunatic, that played the banjo and danced breakdowns, and jarred the glass all out of the windows. You kept me awake all night, and if you was to do it again, I'd take and mash that thing over your head!" I could see that this woman took no delight in music, and I moved to Mrs. Brown's.

For three nights in succession I gave my new neighbors "Auld Lang Syne," plain and unadulterated, save by a few discords that rather improved the general effect than otherwise. But the very first time I tried the variations the boarders mutinied. I never did find any body that would stand those variations. I was very well satisfied with my efforts in that house, however, and I left it without any regrets; I drove one boarder as mad as a March hare, and another one tried to scalp his mother. I reflected, though, that if I could only have been allowed to give this latter just one more touch of the variations, he would have finished the old woman.

I went to board at Mrs. Murphy's, an Italian lady of many excellent qualities. The very first time I struck up the variations, a haggard, care-worn, cadaverous old man walked into my room and stood beaming upon me a smile of ineffable happiness. Then he placed his hand upon my head, and looking devoutly aloft, he said with feeling unction, and in a voice trembling with emotion, "God bless you, young man! God bless you! for you have done that for me which is beyond all praise. For years I have suffered from an incurable disease, and knowing my doom was sealed and that I must die, I have striven with all my power to resign myself to my fate, but in vain -- the love of life was too strong within me. But Heaven bless you, my benefactor! for since I heard you play that tune and those variations, I do not want to live any longer -- I am entirely resigned -- I am willing to die -- in fact, I am anxious to die." And then the old man fell upon my neck and wept a flood of happy tears. I was surprised at these things; but I could not help feeling a little proud at what I had done, nor could I help giving the old gentleman a parting blast in the way of some peculiarly lacerating variations as he went out at the door. They doubled him up like a jack-knife, and the next time he left his bed of pain and suffering he was all right, in a metallic coffin.

My passion for the accordeon finally spent itself and died out, and I was glad when I found myself free from its unwholesome influence. While the fever was upon me, I was a living, breathing calamity wherever I went, and desolation and disaster followed in my wake. I bred discord in families, I crushed the spirits of the light-hearted, I drove the melancholy to despair, I hurried invalids to premature dissolution, and I fear me I disturbed the very dead in their graves. I did incalculable harm, and inflicted untold suffering upon my race with my execrable music; and yet to atone for it all, I did but one single blessed act, in making that weary old man willing to go to his long home.

Still, I derived some little benefit from that accordeon; for while I continued to practice on it, I never had to pay any board -- landlords were always willing to compromise, on my leaving before the month was up.

Now, I had two objects in view in writing the foregoing, one of which was to try and reconcile people to those poor unfortunates who feel that they have a genius for music, and who drive their neighbors crazy every night in trying to develop and cultivate it; and the other was to introduce an admirable story about Little George Washington, who could Not Lie, and the Cherry-Tree -- or the Apple-Tree -- I have forgotten now which, although it was told me only yesterday. And writing such a long and elaborate introductory has caused me to forget the story itself; but it was very touching.

timothy42b wrote: ↑Wed Apr 15, 2020 9:27 am If it please your neighbor to break the sacred calm of night with the snorting of an unholy trombone, ...

Sure reads like Mark Twain to me! Source?

It gives itself away in the 4th paragraph. I've never had a chance to read the whole essay.

Posaunus wrote: ↑Wed Apr 15, 2020 11:18 am

timothy42b wrote: ↑Wed Apr 15, 2020 9:27 am If it please your neighbor to break the sacred calm of night with the snorting of an unholy trombone, ...

Sure reads like Mark Twain to me! Source?

Twain of course. The essay is titled "A Touching Story of George Washington's Boyhood."

Sounds that require repair. Dragging brakes, incorrect machine sounds and copiers not picking up paper correctly. (Years of running heavy printing equipment, I hear doubles and dropped sheets.)
Sounds do not bother me as much as they alert me.

Well, being serious for a moment, there is a sound that gets to me. It doesn't enrage me so much as I find it physically painful, and that quickly leads to frustration.

It is the sidebar. I'm in a meeting, talking or paying attention to the speaker, and down the table a couple of people are carrying on their own conversation. It's usually softer of course, but loud enough to be heard.

I'm not complaining about disrespect or being inconsiderate. For whatever reason, the way my brain is wired, it actually hurts. When I've been in charge I've sometimes been irritated enough to kick people out of the meeting.