Word: chirps
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...ANOTHER WARM EVENING ON ST. Kitts, and the customers gather at Fisherman's Wharf to drink Carib beer, eat lobster tails and listen to the pulsing beat of soca music. Outside, crickets chirp and waves murmur on the beach. The air is soft, the breeze sweet. It's hard to imagine a cozier, more peaceful spot to unwind from winter's onslaught, which explains why every year at this time thousands of sun-starved American and European tourists migrate to St. Kitts by plane and cruise ship. Most of them are unaware that the sleepy little isle also accommodates...
Intellectualization, the capacity to turn any belly noise or bird's chirp into sane, ordered paragraphs, flowed like a pretty stream through the meadow of Henry Adams' life. So it may still seem to disenchanted literature students who find their way to graduation blocked by The Education of Henry Adams and Mont-Saint-Michel and Chartres. The problem is not that Adams prattled but that reasonable, melancholy conclusions about 19th century civilization issued forth at an unvarying gush...
...presidential nomination. Huddled with a pair of top aides, Alexander suggested a new introduction: "I've come here today to announce my support for Phil Gramm ... [long pause] ... for re-election to the U.S. Senate." The three men had scarcely stopped laughing when Alexander's cellular phone began to chirp. The caller was Ross Perot, who complimented Alexander on his just announced candidacy: "Keep on going, Lamar. You seem to have a lot of 'em worried." Alexander asked, "Do you have any advice for me?" Responded Perot: "Naw, you keep on just bein' Lamar...
...roar of the Twenties, the swishy Forties, the Fifties buzzing with the waisty WASP look, the disco beat Seventies and now even the Eighties chirp in with a chorus of "Me, me, me!" My Lord, what a ruckus. All this Retro can give a girl a headache. But before you get nostalgic about the future, remember that every morning you have the potential to broadcast something. No matter which decade you pilfer, you are announcing "I am of the now." You are playing a cosmic game of Whack-a-Mole...
There is something so tenebrous, so portentous, so downright antagonistic about Alfred Schnittke's music that it is almost a wonder anybody either performs it or listens to it. In Schnittke's dark, Russo-Germanic artistic universe, strings do not soar, they brood; woodwinds do not chirp, they protest; brass does not shine, it glowers. Created in the caldron of Central Europe, his music speaks of epic battles and terrible defeats; it is Kutuzov and Napoleon at Borodino, Von Paulus at Stalingrad. Why, then, is it suddenly so popular...