Well, I've been hoist on my own petard once again. I'm sure you, dear readers, know the actual meaning of this phrase, so you realize it is not a good feeling.
I have, since the regrettable Who-caused wall-mounted plate self immolation event, taken steps to prevent future casualties. Especially those my Sainted wife will attempt to pin on me, rather than the music that caused the mayhem.
Well, despite my best efforts (silicon sticky feet on cherished vessels atop my 4-foot speakers), one of the damned "cherished vessels" committed harakiri today.
It leapt the 4' to its death, all my well-intended fixes aside. Am I to blame? Well, I guess one could question why I've got handsome seashell-filled "cherished vessels" atop said speakers...
Nonetheless, this time, I'm leaning towards blaming the Traveling Wilburys. Or CCR's Suzie Q. Or Jimi Hendrix, my go-to guy for music that messes with the entire space-time continuum. They all have bass that can dislodge anything.
I am hoist, nevertheless.
And of course you only know what hoist (and that it is hoist, not hoisted) on your own petard means because of Mom - all source of knowledge of such details. Ahoy the Pequod!
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