Well, I can now kiss a chapter of my life goodbye.

I used to claim that I disliked Baroque music. However, having heard some of Bach's more expansive pieces, I've revised my opinion on the issue. It's not Baroque music that I dislike, but rather one component of the Baroque style. In fact, it's not even so much part of the style (though I've yet to hear it outside of music from that era), it's one musical instrument in particular: The harpsichord.

For those of you who don't know, the harpsichord is a keyboard instrument that almost predates the piano. They look like lanky, angular ripoffs of a grand piano. But whereas a piano strikes the strings with a padded hammer, the harpsichord, in a sad mockery of harpists, plucks them mechanistically when a key is pressed.

The result is the sissy, twinkly beng that characterizes the nauseatingly prim sound of the harpsichord. This irritating timbre is then typecast in innumerable uninteresting, heavily trilly chamber pieces.

Pianos are capable of great extremes of emotion, ranging from the most delicate love themes to the heights of furor and rage. By contrast, the dynamic and expressional capabilities of the harpsichord are singularly monotonous. It always produces the same tinny, disinterested twang no matter the application.

The harpsichord is the ill-tempered miniature poodle of musical instruments. It doesn't matter whether it's the featured voice or a part of the musical backdrop, it's irritating sound sneaks through the crowd and nips at the heels, turning an otherwise enjoyable composition into a chafing test of patience and an unwanted look into the stuffy, ceremonious world of 17th and 18th century European aristocracy. It's no wonder that only rich white people still suffer to listen to it.

Nonsensationalist Ramifications

These words are tasty:

What I thought was, wasn't,
and what is, has a turnip.
Tried and true, the battleground speaks:
Legends of a former day
when staplers were the norm.
I thought I'd find more here,
but now it's just rotten potatos.

Stand firm, good sailor, you'll see port yet.
You can simply walk to the left.
Wiles the storm may show,
Amid the crashing foam,
Yet the cargo lies safe below.

I spoke with a cube the other day.
He told me I was too square.
His insight gave me new perspective.

I've a time to speak of.
It's noon on a Thursday.

Temptations the traitor tested
Made change seem irresponsible.
Advancing his cause with reckless abandon
Made more sense than these
But in the end were only a distraction.

Telissa and the whole sales team got fired

Ahoy! minute six-leggèd friend,
Who on tiny gossamer wings doth fly,
Backdropped against his firmament,
My stature must seem infinitely high,

What cruel hand delivers fate!
The coiled periodical doth fall,
And thy truncated life is remembered here,
As a tiny stain upon my wall.

-BMW 7/1/05