There is one artist in The Audiophile’s harem who has taken me a long time to embrace. The reason is because her self-titled debut album included a pop hit that nearly destroyed my last nerve with the frequency of airplay it received in 1979. The Audiophile knows this is a wound that just won’t heal, and he seems to derive sadistic pleasure in playing the song almost as often as KFMQ did back in the day.
To wield a counterattack, I have become very, very fond of a different song on this same album. He doesn’t know this. I’m stealthy like that. Catlike, even. So, when The Audiophile tickles his own fancy by turning up the volume on Chuck E and his amor, I quietly wait. I wait because near the end of the album there is a fabulous song that rewards those who excel in patient endurance.
I’m not sure if every audiophile’s wife has the patience of a saint, but I recently met one from the Memphis area who certainly did. She doesn’t know it yet, but we are going to start a club, and it will include a well-appointed, climate-controlled treehouse with snacks and adult beverages. And as soon as The Audiophile reads this post, there is no doubt he will take it upon himself to search for a Treehouse Sound System with the mistaken impression that he will be invited to climb the ladder, whisper the secret passcode, and take a turn in the “sweet spot” that doesn’t exist because ALL the spots in the treehouse will be sweet.