best night ever

Yes, Jeremy navigated his Porsche on his own through ghettos and slums and tornadoes from Oz to make it to this concert, with only his unfathomable wits and unmatchable gaydar to guide him.

(Alessandro and Ferrero Rocher had the night off.)

He parked half a mile away, only to be told by the big black woman in a police uniform that he better not think his ass was parking here, 'cause this was the handicapped parking.

While at above concert, I became engaged in conversation with a woman sitting next to me. She said she studied medicine, and that I shouldn't drive all the way to Chapel Hill without visiting LocoPops. She was right.

note to self:

Drink caffe verona every night before bed. Induces hallucinations within limit of the law.

I had a lovely dream last night. I was holding a piano score to Kapustin's 2nd Piano Sonata in my hands, and marvelling.

I carressed the spine and binding with my index finger, and sighed in ecstasy and wonderment. It wasn't increasingly falling to shreds by the second due to cheap-ass glue and stitching.

I opened the score. I drew each inked note into my vision...

Each error-free, all-accidentals-rhythms-ties-etc.-correctly-notated-because-folks-were-actually-paying-attention-while-transcribing, note.

Then I closed my eyes, and tilted my head back, and smiled, a smile that said,

This is heaven.

(If you didn't know me all that well, you might have misinterpreted this smile as an "I got laid tonight, and you didn't" smile. Yes. It was that full of superior satisfaction.)

But it was someone famous or maybe it was my mother the day she bore me that said "All good things must come to an end." That means dreams, Jeremy, even ones in which your subconscious has built a utopian fantasyland where music publishers actually live for the sole purpose of making life easier for young piano prodigies such as yourself -- in short, they have common sense -- and where all the raindrops are lemondrops and gumdrops.

And world peace.

But alas, it wasn't meant to be, because then Lucifer came and dragged me kicking and screaming to Hell, where there was a hardwood-floored concert hall, and he put me inside and locked the door, and I was made to listen to Mozart violin concerti for all eternity...

Oh wait.

That actually happened. That wasn't a dream at all. Though it was only for two hours, a full recital of ALL the Mozart violin concerti is not a smart idea. It starts to creep into people's dreams and give them nightmares where they have their own private concert hall in Hell.

(Also on this concert, Lalo: Symphonie Espagnole, played with the consistency of the organic soy vanilla yogurt in my fridge.)

(Also, too, on this concert, a wholeheartedly dispassionate "Praeludium and Allegro" by Kreisler. Seriously, yo? Dispassionate Kreisler is like dispassionate sex. Not fun for either of us. Just don't do it.)

Note to young and upcoming violin superstarz: please for the love of God quit playing "Praeludium and Allegro" like you smashed your violin under your pickup truck just prior to the concert, ok thanks.

the day all my dreams came true!

The day CASCADA (yes, of the ludicrously-heavily-eyelinered, -"Every Time We Touch" variety) recorded "What Hurts the Most", formerly by sappy country music band Rascal Flatts.

You can sob over lost love and have a rave at the same time.