Sorry about that. Kelli and I flew off to Maine. We spent most of our time on Mt. Desert Island. "Desert," in this case, is pronounced "dessert" (with a French accent, if you like). It was good and quiet. We drove along the coast in our pathetic PT Cruiser (Touring Edition), from Portland to Bar Harbor, listening to the new TV on the Radio. It starts off like a Sonic Youth song, but the drums change it all. And then the vocals change it more. Of the words I could make out: Hey hey, my baby / Won't you lay your hands on me / Mirror my malady / Transfer my tragedy. We decided that he really does sound like Peter Gabriel.
What do paleontologists do?
When they're in the field with their crew?
The digger when he's failing?
The geologist when she's glum?
The site carpenter who's wailing?
From nailing
His thumb?
When they're beset and besmirched
The folk most involved in research
However do they manage
To shed their weary lot?
Oh, what do paleontologists do
We do not?
And his mom, of course—and the upcoming movie. The Virginia Quarterly, which is rapidly becoming my favorite periodical, published Ellroy's afterword to the new edition of The Black Dahlia.
You take a 600 Hz tone and adjust the amplitude and phase relationships among three speakers. My buddy Jeff swears he saw this done in Jersey with just two loudspeakers, but I think he was just listening at such high volume that his eyeballs were compressing.