I Drink Alone

Remember that one or six times when I wrote about The Fine Young Cannibals? Well, yesterday I was making a nice pan of brownies, with extra chunks of mighty fine chocolate added to the batter, when a U-Haul pulled up. Two strapping young men jumped out along with their supervisor whom they referred to as “Dad.”

We said our hellos and Dad informed me he had just “binge-read” this entire blog. I don’t know if that is a healthy choice or not, but I do know our house is now 300lbs lighter thanks to The Audiophile Diet. Obviously, this diet is best followed under a doctor’s supervision, and by “doctor” I mean psychiatrist and by “psychiatrist” I mean psychic because the materialization of speakers in and out of this house is positively supernatural.

Being the full-service guy that he is, The Audiophile oversaw the loading of the FYCs onto the truck and followed it to Dad’s house to provide consultation on the set up of the speakers in their new home.

This left me alone with 1 - 1 = 0 speakers and a full pan of brownies. Let’s just say I somehow ended up eating 1 + 1 + 1 brownies, which I now endorse as the The Audiophile’s Wife’s Diet. Obviously, this diet is best followed when you are under the supervision of no one whatsoever lest you be ridiculed or judged or stopped before you have time to finish off that third brownie.

TAW

 

Should I Stay Or Should I Go

Here’s a public service announcement for audiophiles near and far with particular emphasis on audiophiles near—not far.

Say it’s a Saturday night, and your audio wife is critically listening with you instead of curling up with a book, or a cat, or a Netflix series that is probably going to rot her teeth. Say she’s deferring to your musical selections because you, yes you, can be trusted to choose something appropriate to the occasion.

This hypothetical hypothesis presents an opportunity. The audiophile can play any one of the thousands of musical subgenres available to humankind. Or he can spin an album featuring a screechy jazzed-up sax player pressing into a musical rendition of what it would be like for a man to give birth to triplets during a trainwreck without an epidural.

Part A of this album selection situation is the high frequency “music” that careens from the tweeter to the ear canal where a tiny bone takes the sonic information and repeatedly slams it against the cochlea until the cochlea screams UNCLE or something more profane. Part B is the indistinguishable rhythm that a tiny segment of the population pretends to enjoy just in case it is required to get into a speakeasy or heaven.

In summary, do not let an overzealous woodwind dominate date night, and be sure to brush your teeth after binge watching Virgin River.

TAW