No dream. I have been broadening Quandary's horizons. I have started listening to New Wave -- not to be confused with New Age, which is merely elevator music for the upwardly mobile. I frequent Charlotte Russe's only record store, rubbing leather shoulders easily with punks and New Romantics, Gothics and casuals. Dressed in fashions that disappeared five years ago, we pick through albums by bands who broke up before their music ever appeared in Charlotte Russe. It was the names of the bands that first intrigued me. Dead Kennedy's. Primal Scream. The Vaselines. Ten Thousand Maniacs. Wet Wet Wet. The Slits. Butthole Surfers. (Who, in truth, have little apart from their name to distinguish them.) Names have come a long way since Quandary's youth, when Gerry and the Pacemakers or Herman and the Hermits were the dernier cri. Despite the attractive iconoclasm implicit in the names of today's louder bands, I must admit that it is the more lyrical and reflective music that attracts me -- The Blue Nile, Everything But The Girl -- songs of irrevocable harsh words and obsessions with past lovers. The more pain the better. I can suck melancholy from a song as a weasel sucks eggs. At first this lyrical tendency worried me, but it would be a mistake to expect everything in my life to be dark and forceful. Nevertheless, I make it a point to play only the Sex Pistols and the Dead Kennedy's when I am in my office. And loudly.