At 3:56 p.m., I found that Curious George started at 4:20 p.m. at a theater that typically is 20 minutes away from our house. Ben was still in his footy pajamas and I was in my lounging clothes (very similar to pajamas, but I don’t sleep in them). Don’t judge. It was a lazy, relaxing day.
Until I decided we were going to that movie.
Have you ever heard a binaural recording?
If you’ve never heard one, then you are in for a treat. Put on headphones (or earbuds), and go to quiet american’s field recordings page. Highlights include Beach Rain, Children, and Frogs. Remember, do not use speakers. For best effect, close your eyes. You might end up snapping them open to make sure someone or something is not in the room with you.
For another treat, go to this page and click on the dog at the top center. Other links in his page are terribly broken, but this one works and is a great example of binaural’s realism.
One popular way to make these recordings is to wear small microphones that look just like a set of earbuds, because the distance between the omnidirectional mics is the key to a good binaural recording. It must resemble as closely as possible the distance between the ears (about 6-8″).
Okay, I’ve geeked out enough for today. I’ve always been fascinated with audio recordings, but when I was a kid running around with a cassette-corder capturing things like toilet flushes, I didn’t have a blog. Aren’t you glad?
There is no way a muffin should taste like this.
Thursday morning, I didn’t have any cereal ready for my Silk, so I grabbed a little cash from my nightstand cache (gotta love the hodgepodge that is the English language). If I left right then, I would have plenty of time to stop at the donut shop very close to work. All of you commuters know what I mean. You end up with extra time on the other end, or you end up late.
As houses continue sprouting like weeds amongst the cornfields between our house and my work, the morning commute gets more and more like those nightmares where you see where you need to go, but you just can’t move your feet.
Look in the left center of this shot to get an idea how far back the flowers go. If you read my story “Talk With a Killer,” then you know why I posted this pic. My only other pics are on medium format negatives, and I have no idea where the prints are.
The only good wide shot I could find features people I didn’t want to post here, so you get two shots that try to convey the breadth of Wye Mountain’s daffodil field. That is, if you keep reading.
“The moment you left the back yard, I dashed out the back gate and across the easement. It was swampy back there, and the borrowed boots were quite tight, but I reached her. I told her I saw her from across the way and that she was driving me crazy. I removed my shirt to show her I was in the spirit. ‘I love it!’ she said. I led her, in a sort of a dance, to my friend’s back yard.”
“It was about seven years after the hotel incident,” Stivins said.
“That’s quite a long dry spell,” I said.
“Well, I am not some serial killer on a random rampage. To suggest such would be to cheapen me. Besides, a teenager living under his parents’ watchful eye, as I was, has much more difficulty hiding murderous actions.”
“I think you’d be surprised, Mr. Stivins.”
“However it is, I know my situation. There were times I was tempted, but held back.”
Stivins again looked me over without meeting my eyes. I squirmed in my seat.
“I have killed before,” he said.
I looked up from the recorder. Surely I had heard that wrong. A slight, tight-lipped smile was on his face, and as I looked at him his eyebrows raised for a second before settling back down above his wide eyes. The flourescent overhead lighting reflected as highlights in his glistening black pupils.
“They’re hazel,” Stivins said.
“What?” I asked as I broke my stare.
“My eyes. Not green. Not brown. Hazel.”
“Did you just say you’ve killed before?” I asked.
There was nothing groundbreaking about Jeff Stivins. People had killed with knives before.
“Blades came along far before gunpowder,” Jeff Stivins told me. “Guns and bombs get all the attention in the news lately, and in the movies.”
“Why do you think that is?” I asked. I made sure my recorder was working. It was a new one that used a memory chip, and I still was uncomfortable with the inability to see the tape wheels turning.
“Because they’re louder, I suppose.”
One “recent and glorious exception,” said Stivins, was Kill Bill by Quentin Tarantino.
“What I wouldn’t give to have access to all those blades and training,” Stivins said. “Killers who use guns are cowards.”
It’s funny how a post can take you in a totally different direction as you write it. I just can’t write without researching, and sometimes I can’t stand it.
One night a few years ago while my wife and I watched the final second-season episode of “The West Wing,” a young Jed Bartlet (Martin Sheen’s character) appeared in a flashback scene. I said, “I’ve seen that guy somewhere before. He’s been in something.” I never could place the name or where I had seen him, something that drives me absolutely bonkers. My wife said she didn’t recognize him at all.
Things seen out of context can trick your mind.
