[MUSIC] Abbey Road

I met my wife for a quick dinner. We caught up on the events of the day, one that followed an entire pitch-black morning of Maggie tantrums, met in turn with escalating disciplinary methods that began to scare their own designer, namely me, the head of the wolfpack.

What most caught my ear about today's recap was that my wife dug up one of my Beatles albums and popped it into the CD player, giving the kids their first exposure to this genius band, the white Earth, Wind and Fire. It was Abbey Road. I had always pictured that children derived their initial impression of the Beatles through the hold-your-hand early period. But if they are going to learn Beatles, they might as well start with the best.

Well, I guess it is a very close call between Abbey Road and Sgt. Pepper's. But I've always suspected myself of attributing too much credit to the reprised theme in Sgt. Pepper's as an unacknowledged progenitor of hip-hop. Abbey Road, by contrast, is fascinating in the number of its pure instances of genius. Both by the collective band and by each of its individual contributors. Walter/Wendy Carlos one moment, amazing sweetness thirty seconds later, unexpected blues a minute after that. Perhaps it is the variety of ideas that is so arresting that it almost never occurs to one how disjointed the menu is.

Let's not forget about Revolver or Rubber Soul though. Maybe that's for another time.

[MUSIC] Strange Days

I snuck in some semi-serious practice time at the piano, probably for the first time in months. Needless to say, the twins' desire to hammer away at the keys took precedence, so I propped them up on my knees for 10 minutes, give or take. I switched them on my knees about halfway through to make sure that neither of them got too attached to the bass or treble register.

I still can't play with evenness in my hands. So I played through a couple of Chopin's nocturnes. Second up was my personal favorite, the D-Flat Major, Op. 27. I actually nailed the flourish that appears about a quarter from the end. I was astounded. Not bad for my months of zero practice, I thought. But I made a lot of other silly little flubs, marring the experience.

Feeling satisfied, I finally started drinking. Two cans of beer and then I opened up a very mediocre Barolo. A few hours later, I sat with my back propped against the bed, listening to "Sketches of Spain" on the new Denon stereo in our bedroom. Somehow, I spilled four drops of that wine on our white carpet. This would be the first time I've ever dropped any amount of red wine on anyone's carpet, white or not. I wasn't even drunk. Something is seriously wrong here.