Friday, July 27, 2018

Minute By Minute

Yester-month The Audiophile and I went to a local coffee shop to enjoy hot beverages, tasty pastries, and one another’s lively conversation. We were almost ready to go on our merry way when he said, “Let me make a quick call to a guy.”

If I were not a paragon of patience, I would have thrown my head back and laughed mightily toward the heavenly realms where God himself was raising a furry eyebrow over the reckless use of the term “quick” to describe an audio call. Instead, I smiled politely, found a quiet corner, and curled up with a book.

I could use this as an opportunity to report exactly how much time that quick call took, but that would probably ignite a heated debate in my house about the fourth dimension. Let’s just say that I had enough time to finish the book I was reading, enough time to ponder the longterm effects of emotional abandonment, and enough time to compose another essay laced with audio half-truths and lies.


Friday, July 20, 2018

Slow Ride

There's a small problem in our house right now. How small? Definitely smaller than a bread box assuming you have one of those for scale. If not, just think about a problem that would easily fit in the overhead bin of a paper airplane.

Here's the deal: It is Tour de France season, and that means The Audiophile is riding 50 miles during the day and watching The Tour during the night. That leads to a situation where no music is being played, no tweaking is being done, and no cursing is happening at anything other than the idiotic mountain-stage crowds that threaten to knock those polka-dotted contenders right out of their saddles.  

In summary, since this blog is not titled The Cyclophile's Wife, I have nothing to report this week unless you care to hear about sweaty cycling shorts and head panties being peeled off and flung directly into the washing machine.


Friday, July 13, 2018

Careless Whisper

Tuesday evening The Audiophile took me to an establishment commonly known as a hole-in-the-wall to hear a lineup of songwriters. It was open-mic night, so I wasn't expecting a lot, but when you live within parasailing distance of Music City, you never know.

I settled in to meditate on the acoustic goodness of a decently talented Millennial with a darling little man bun, when The Audiophile caught my wandering eye. He smiled knowingly, leaned in my direction, brought his lips to my ear, and whispered, "Those are original Bose 901's suspended from the ceiling."

He had not Googled this. He had not consulted an audiophile field guide. He does not have crib notes written on the palm of his hand. He simply had this morsel of knowledge stored in one of his brain folds where most people slot information about where they put the keys to their car or the nature of the items that are allowed in the recycling bin.

The last thing I have to say about this, and I think I speak for all the audio wives out there, is I was under the impression "Bose" was on The Audiophile Banned-Word list. Apparently. Not.


Friday, July 6, 2018

Head Games

Last weekend I happened upon The Audiophile enjoying a song by a female vocalist. That, of course, is not noteworthy.

But get this, he was listening to it on his iPad. I'll give you a moment to process that, catch your breath, and decide whether you can continue to view this blog as a reliable source of high-fidelity intel.

I crimped my eyelids into slits and took a good look at him. He appeared to still be the person I walked down the aisle with and said, "I do" to, but how was I to know for sure? I thought about casually plucking 10 to 20 pieces of his hair to run a DNA test, but he and Fuzzy Wuzzy have no hair, which is a sensitive subject for both of them.

Then it hit me. He had not turned on his system for a couple of days, which meant he was probably one-click away from queueing up the slasher music from the shower scene in Psycho.

Normal wives would have asked their audiophiles about the circumstances leading to this bone-chilling, irrational behavior, but The Audiophile's wife is not normal. She quietly backs away from the scene of the crime, slinks up the stairs to her iMac and tap, tap, taps her concerns straight into the worldly wide web.