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I have been thinking about our "Products of the Year" feature. The winners are smiling at me now. Smiling like sunshine peeking around the corner of a cloud. There are photo finishes, landslides, upsets and surprises. I wish I could tell you who the winners are, but that would spoil some of the fun. I can tell you this: I think you'll be happy.
"Do you want a new intro, too?" I…
Ah well, we chattering classes really do need fodder for our chatter, do we not?
All this and Roy Blount's cranky un-appreciation of Bob Dylan, not to mention editor Marc Smirnoff's paean to used record stores. Well worth the $9.95 cover price, if not the annual subscription (and I reckon it's worth the whole pop).
Why do they call this a mistake? The one time I severely burned my hand, it sure smelled like roast pork! (I had about a nanosecond to identify the smell before my trusty pain receptors clicked into overdrive.)
First, I hoped to be finished by Friday evening. How nice it would have been to leave the office without an audio-related care in the world. When that proved impossible, I thought I might be able to knock it out over the weekend. But you know how that goes. (A guy's gotta do laundry. As I watched the clothes spin, my mind filled with images of silk-dome tweeters.) Of course, it would have felt good to insert the final period and click "save" before this morning came, but: no such luck. (There were dishes to wash. Drinking glasses morphed into power tubes, dinner…