November 3rd, 2002

I Will Not Defame New Orleans.


As I was merrily prattling away in my correspondence this evening, still listening to Saint-Saëns (for once a CD is in the box, it generally stays there for a few days), I had to stop my train of thought to clutch my giblets and make little circles around my nipples for a particularly gorgeous passage of S-S's Piano Concerto #2, G minor, 1st mvt. (Excerpt: Sorry, you're too late to download. Be quicker next time.)

Although I loves me my punk rock, my heavy metal, my Nu-Wav, my glam rock, and pretty much all genres of music except techno, rap or R&B, I am still most easily moved and manipulated by "classical" (by which term I sloppily expand to mean most things written pre-1910).

The above mp3 sound byte contains one of the fairest examples of a good old fashioned, heart-thumping, dick-swelling crescendo. It stopped my email mid-flow and I had to listen to it several times.

Slow to boil, and reticent to give up the ghost. There's a coherent plotline. It's like good sex. Initial wooing and tenderness gives way to a delicious first kiss which gives way to a slackening of restraints which gives way to heavy breathing and petting which gives way to a fantastic fuck complete with butt spankies, swinging from chandeliers and filthy porn lines being barked out. "Who's yer daddy!!!" All this occurs in a mere minute and a half, but it seems to go on forever, like one's life passing before one's eyes.

Of course, it makes more sense in the context of the whole movement, but that would be a 20 meg file, and anyway, I'm just concentrating on the sex right now.