I'm mad at the weather. It's cold. Colder, in fact, than it should be. This is why I'm mad. If things were just as they should be, I wouldn't complain.
I was standing in our magazine room — the room where we keep our supply of magazines — pulling out a couple of boxes of our beautiful February issue, when group publisher Angela Speziale walked in. It's nice to see Angela. She's smart, she's real, she's no nonsense, she means business. This is how things should be.
"Hello," I said. "How are you?"
"I'm well," she said. "And how are you?"
"I'm feeling kind of ill."
"Is it the weather?"
"I think it's primarily the weather."
Primarily the weather? I don't know what's wrong with me, but I can't seem to avoid being vague. Later, after Angela had walked away, I realized that I wanted to tell her absolutely everything — purge, expel, confess. Pete used to sing, "I'm obsessed with confessin', I gotta tell ya, hon'." I imagined telling her all sorts of things, letting loose all sorts of thoughts and worries.
"Well, try to eat some soup, and be sure to get some rest," she said.
"Thank you."
So, yeah: I think it's primarily the weather that's getting me down. That and maybe all the dust in the magazine room, where I've been spending some time. Trying to clear space in our storage room — the room where we store review gear — I've been moving boxes of old Stereophile CD booklets and traycards from the storage room into the magazine room, from the storage room into the magazine room. A couple of nights ago, I spent some hours doing this. Using a flatbed trolley I'd borrowed from our mailroom (here I'm using the word "mailroom" to represent the actual men who work in the mailroom), I transferred several dusty boxes of booklets and traycards from the storage room down a short hall, around a corner, and into the magazine room. As I did this, the night watchman watched me. I felt myself becoming angry at him for not helping. We might have a good time together, I thought, hauling dusty old boxes back and forth, chatting about our families, our homes, the weather. But, I rationalized: This is how things should be. What am I complaining about? He watches. He did a very fine job of this, stopping from time to time only to reach into his bag of McDonald's French fries, which smelled very good, in a bad sort of way.
He eats French fries out of a bag every night. I wonder about him. I wonder about his health. Does he have someone who loves him? I miss French fries. Kelli says I don't need to stop eating French fries altogether, but that, when I do eat them, I should practice restraint. I know, however, that if I eat French fries, I will need to eat many, many, many, without stopping. Anyway, I nearly asked the night watchman if I could reach into his bag and grab a few. But I didn't.
Instead, I walked down another hall to our kitchen, where we have a vending machine. I inserted one dollar and pressed A0, which rewarded me with fifty cents and a small bag of honey mustard and onion pretzels. Honey mustard and onion pretzels may sound disgusting, but I like them very much, and they have no cholesterol. As I popped one into my mouth, I noticed that my fingertips were very dusty. I wondered if this mingling of dust with honey mustard and onion flavoring would result in some awful disease. Two days later, I'm sick. I'm mad at the dust.
If I'd confessed everything to Angela, this isn't what I would have told her. This morning, on my way to work, I braved the cold while carrying the Onkyo D-TK10 speakers. Luckily, they're small and light. They're sitting in my office now, on top of some Hyperion amps, quietly watching me. All of these boxes are in my office because there still isn't enough space in our storage room. I should be cleaning it out now, instead of writing this. First, I will take the Onkyo speakers downstairs to the FedEx office, and send them on their way home. The speakers were nothing if not fun. I think that anyone who listens to them will feel compelled to dig through their record collections. But I'd also think that, after they did, they'd find that the speakers call too much attention to themselves. (However, I could be wrong about this. Others might love the Onkyos, unconditionally. I can't possibly know what others would truly think. Maybe I call too much attention to myself.) On their own, the Onkyos are very attractive, exciting, fun speakers. Upon comparing them with other speakers, however, my own love for them diminished. The experience actually made me a little sad — (as much as sadness makes sense when talking about speakers) — realizing that comparisons were even necessary, wishing that they weren't.
Luckily, there's a door from our building's lobby that leads directly into the FedEx office, so that I won't have to go out into the cold. Otherwise, I'd be mad. And tonight, John DeVore will be stopping by my place to retrieve his little gibbon 3s. I've had them for a very long and good time. I will miss them, but I'm happy to let them go on to some other home where they will be equally loved. Where, at least, I hope they will be equally loved, because: who knows?
