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
