The Grocery Store DJ… Or… The Invisible Hand That Controls Your Produce Selection
As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld
There is a person.
Somewhere.
In a room you will never see.
Behind a door marked “Employees Only” or perhaps “Electrical” or—most ominously—“Manager.”
And this person…
*controls everything.*
Not through force.
Not through policy.
But through something far more insidious:
The playlist.
Yes, my friends.
The Grocery Store DJ.
The unseen maestro of the mundane.
The puppet master pulling strings made of… soft rock from 1987.
-----
I became aware of their existence gradually.
At first, I thought it was random.
Background noise.
Sonic wallpaper designed to keep you from focusing on the fact that bananas somehow cost more than gasoline.
But then…
I started noticing patterns.
On Tuesdays, there was always yacht rock.
Not some yacht rock.
Not occasionally.
Always.
Every single Tuesday.
Smooth. Breezy. Relentlessly coastal.
As if the store itself had decided:
“Today, we sail.”
I’d be standing there, comparing Greek yogurt options—
trying to determine if “triple-strained” was worth an extra dollar—
and suddenly I’d hear that unmistakable opening synthesizer.
You know the one.
The one that says: *“Put down your responsibilities and imagine you’re on a boat you don’t own.”
And I would.
I’d drift.
Forget why I came.
End up buying three kinds of hummus I didn’t need and a pineapple I would never cut.
-----
But Tuesdays were just the beginning.
Wednesdays?
Power ballads.
Every. Single. One.
The kind that make you believe in second chances.
In love.
In the structural integrity of denim jackets.
I once stood in the cereal aisle for eleven minutes—
not because I was choosing—
but because I was *feeling.*
A song came on.
One of those songs.
The ones that crescendo like emotional avalanches.
And I just… stood there.
Holding a box of Honey Nut Cheerios.
Tears in my eyes.
Thinking about choices I’d made.
Friendships I’d lost.
That one time in eighth grade when I didn’t speak up and Jennifer Kowalski moved to Michigan without knowing I existed.
All because the Grocery Store DJ decided—
on that particular Wednesday—
that I needed to feel something.
-----
Thursdays were aggressive.
Upbeat pop from the early 2000s.
The kind designed to make you move faster.
Buy more.
Consume with enthusiasm.
I’m convinced this was strategic.
Because Thursdays are when people prep for the weekend.
They’re stocking up.
Filling carts.
And the DJ knows—
oh, the DJ knows.
that if you hear the right tempo at the right moment,
you will absolutely buy that $14 cheese.
You will grab the fancy crackers.
You will convince yourself that *tonight is the night you finally use that fondue pot.*
It’s psychological warfare.
Sonic manipulation.
And I… I am defenseless.
-----
I started tracking it.
Keeping notes.
Because I am not a passive participant in my own grocery experience.
I am Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld.
And if there is a system, I will *decode* it.
Here’s what I discovered:
Mondays: Melancholy indie folk. Songs about roads. About leaving. About coffee shops that no longer exist. It’s designed to make you feel reflective. Vulnerable. You’ll buy soup. You’ll buy bread. Comfort food for an aching soul.
Tuesdays: As established—yacht rock. Maximum escapism. You’re buying things you don’t need because you’re mentally in Cabo.
Wednesdays: Power ballads. Emotional purchases. Premium ice cream. Wine you can’t pronounce. Flowers for no reason.
Thursdays: High-energy pop. Fast shopping. Impulse buys. Suddenly you own three types of salsa and a magazine about outdoor grilling.
Fridays: Classic rock. Celebratory. You’re preparing for the weekend. The DJ wants you to feel *accomplished.* You buy steak. You buy beer. You buy charcoal even though you don’t have a grill.
Saturdays: Family-friendly hits. Nostalgic. Songs your parents liked. You’re shopping with kids or shopping like you *have* kids. You buy everything in bulk. Goldfish crackers. Juice boxes. A future you’re not sure you want but the music insists is inevitable.
Sundays: Gospel. Soft jazz. Reflective. You’re recovering. Repenting for Saturday. You buy kale. Sparkling water. Ingredients you’ll never use but make you feel virtuous.
-----
But here’s the thing.
The part that keeps me up at night.
I don’t know who the DJ is.
I’ve asked.
I’ve inquired—casually, of course—at the checkout.
“So… who picks the music?”
The cashier blinked at me.
“Corporate, I think?”
Corporate.
Corporate.
Do you understand the implications?
This isn’t one person.
This is a *system.*
A vast, unseen network of playlist architects.
Analysts studying shopping behavior.
Algorithms determining which song makes you buy more frozen pizza.
Focus groups debating whether instrumental jazz increases organic vegetable sales.
*(It does, apparently.)*
-----
I have never seen the Grocery Store DJ.
But I have felt their presence.
In every carefully timed fadeout.
In every strategic silence before the chorus.
They are there.
Watching.
Waiting.
Queuing up the next track.
And we—
we humble shoppers—
are merely dancers in their grand design.
-----
The other day, I was in the store.
Late afternoon.
The golden hour of grocery shopping when the store is nearly empty and the lighting feels almost kind.
And a song came on.
A quiet one.
Something I hadn’t heard in years.
It was soft.
Gentle.
Almost… apologetic.
And I realized:
The DJ was tired too.
We were both just trying to get through the day.
Them, behind their mysterious console.
Me, with my cart and my list and my perpetually optimistic belief that *this time* I wouldn’t forget the milk.
And in that moment—
I forgave them.
For the yacht rock.
For the emotional manipulation.
For making me cry in the cereal aisle.
Because the Grocery Store DJ isn’t a villain.
They’re an artist.
Working in a medium most people don’t even notice.
Crafting soundtracks for the most mundane moments of our lives.
And if they make us feel something—
even accidentally—
even while we’re just buying eggs—
well…
isn’t that the point?
-----
So here’s to you, Grocery Store DJ.
Wherever you are.
In your secret room.
With your mysterious playlist.
Thank you for the yacht rock.
Thank you for the tears.
Thank you for making me believe—
if only for four minutes and twenty-three seconds—
that my life has a soundtrack.
And it’s glorious.