Dear Canada, Please plow the @#$% roads.

So, when I woke up on Sunday morning, there was a gorgeous five inches of snow on the ground! Fluffy and white, very picturesque. Perfect for sledding, if you think like a 10 year old (which I often do).

Now, I'm not great at driving on snow. I don't have that much experience at it. But my car handles pretty well, and I know the basics: steer lots, don't slam on the brakes, yada yada. And Calgarians are generally pretty good at driving in snow, presumably because they do it a lot. I haven't seen too many horrendous moves yet, and the snow doesn't really seem to deter people from going out.

But as I was waiting for DS to pick me up to go to SandE's (very rocking) party yesterday, I mentioned that my road hadn't been plowed yet, so he should be careful. His response? "Oh, they won't plow it. They don't plow the sidestreets here." Now, my road isn't what I would call a "sidestreet." I live in a residential neighborhood, across from an indoor skating rink. While the road isn't what I'd call "well travelled," it certainly isn't an alleyway. Now, where I'm from, they start salting the roads the minute there's a hint of a snowflake. The plows are out en masse for even the pitsiest of snowfalls, and generally, there's no problem with the actual condition of the roads.

But in Calgary, they don't seem to have noticed that it snowed. And while it was refreshing to be able to buy bread and milk at the supermarket today, it was frustrating to slide around the unplowed parking lot. Now, we'll see what happens when the accumulation of snow is more than a few inches. Perhaps they will get their act together. Or perhaps not. Perhaps I should just get used to it.

Food for Thoughts

As the Midterm Elections heat up in the States, its sort of fun to watch it from an outside perspective. The Canadians got all pissy about that anti-Howard Ford ad in Tennessee. I mean, that ad was horrible for a variety of reasons, but the fact that some redneck told Canada to take care of North Korea since "they aren't busy" is just hilarious. I mean, with what tanks? And what army? Really, guys.

But this is an incredible commentary on the Michael J. Fox/Rush Limbaugh shenanigans.

It pretty much outlines everything that's wrong with Rush Limbaugh and the uber-conservative agenda as it relates to stem cell research. Well said. Very well said.

Choices.

So, here comes the philosophical posting of the week, Reader(s). Let me set this one up for you.

Ever since MG and I broke up a few weeks ago, I've been pondering whether or not it is possible to sustain a music career AND carry on a successful, functional relationship. I know this is something that plagues a lot of musicians: How can I "make it" in the orchestral music world, where you don't get a whole lot of choice about where you live, while still having all those things that are consistent with the (North) American Dream? If I don't get to choose where I live, and if I go where I have to go to get the "big job" or the "better job," how am I supposed to buy a house, have a family and a dog, and put up a white picket fence? Shit, how am I even supposed to meet someone and date long-term? I might win a job 2500 miles away and take it. What then? It it really worth even trying to have meaningful relationships?;

It seems like right now, I have chosen my career. But even having made that choice, it doesn't mean that I'm immune from wanting those other things. It doesn't mean that I don't want to have a serious, meaningful relationship. It doesn't mean that I don't want to believe that I'll live here (or anywhere) for more than 8 months. It doesn't mean that I don't think about my LIFE versus my CAREER.

I love what I do. Truly, it sounds so cheesy, but I wake up every day and feel grateful and happy to have chosen this path. (And I felt that way even before I was gainfully employed.) But lately I've been wondering what the cost of it all is. Do I really want to put it all on hold? And what does that mean?

My mom (wise woman that she is) once told me that you don't get to choose who you fall in love with. Thoughts, Reader(s)? Do you agree? Do we really get to choose?

I know lots of you have thought about this, and I'd really like to hear your opinions. Fire away.

Music says what words.... can't?

I love my job. Really. I love it. But as I always say, everyone has a right to complain. So here I go.



I sat through two of the MOST BORING REHEARSALS of my ENTIRE LIFE today. Now, I can usually find the good, even in the bad music. For example, I imagine poodles jumping through hoops, or I try to find something that I enjoy musically, like a certain chord progression or some neato orchestration.

And I don't dislike the music we're playing this week. Some Gluck, some Haydn, some Mozart. But sweet Jesus, there needs to be just a LITTLE more leadership from the podium. Our resident conductor, PS, is a really nice guy. I respect his musicianship and I like his funny French-Canadian accent. But his rehearsal technique involves WAAAAAAAAY too much talking. I can't really say that I feel like there was much improvement between the first run-throughs and the second or third playings. He's just not that good at expressing what he wants in the most cohesive, succinct way. Less talk, more playing.

And it never ceases to amaze me, when we have a double rehearsal day, I'm completely wiped out at the end of it. I didn't really DO that much, and yet, I completely crash when I get home. I mean, my nap was glorious, but why was I so tired out from what amounts to not very much work?

Maybe it was just THAT boring.

The Funniest Guy Alive

Ok, screw Borat, Jack Black is The Funniest Guy Alive.

And here's the link to prove it.

Enjoy.

Poodles

DS told me that playing Liszt is like playing Paganini. Its a novelty. Its like Poodles Jumping Through Flaming Hoops.

And now, every time I hear Liszt (which is quite a bit, this week) all I can think of is poodles. And its really hard not to giggle.

(Sorry the resolution on this one isn't so great. Its all I could find, really.)

Ruining Athens

This week, we are playing Hungarian works, with a Hungarian conductor (named Zsolt). This includes works by Bartok, Erkel (whoever the hell that is), Kodaly, and Liszt.

Liszt might have been the greatest pianist to ever grace the planet with his presence, but he can't write orchestra parts for shit. Tonight we performed "Fantasy on Beethoven's 'Ruins of Athens'" for piano and orchestra. It is the Worst Piece Ever Written (TM).

I have some advice for all of my horn playing readers on some protocol about this poorly edited, difficult to read part. Take this to heart, this is probably some of the best unsolicited advice you could ever get about the Worst Piece Ever Written (TM).

When you play it in F and it sounds horribly wrong, you should stop and ask the maestro what the transposition is. And when he says "C Basso," give it another go, this time, transposing down a fourth.

I would recommend, too, that you figure out if he is from Europe. Because he might actually be saying "Si Basso." In which case, he's using the solfeg and actually means "Bb basso." That means you should transpose down a FIFTH. Not a FOURTH.

And then, when you finally make it to the descending F major arpeggio right around the 24th bar or so, yeah the really exposed one that is just you, Horn 1, you should not be confused. It is not in F (anymore), it is not in C (anymore), it is in Bb. Concert pitch. So that's F. And when you flub it up in front of the entire orchestra of your new colleagues, from whom you are trying to earn things like respect and tenure, you should not, probably, burst out laughing. When the conductor stops, looks at you rather bemusedly, and all of your friends are pointing and laughing, here's what you shouldn't say:

"I can play this really well in F, Maestro."

What's so great about Calgary?

I don't know know what's so great about Calgary, but I'm having a good time anyway. And here are the pictures to prove it.

Spelling Wars

America fough the Revolutionary War as a reaction to the tyranny of the Brits. It all had to do with Taxation Without Representation, Religious Freedom, Right to Bear Arms, all that stuff. (I'm reaching back to my elementary social studies classes here, so bear with me if some of the details are a little sparse.) But more important to me right now is the fact that, since the USA kicked Britain's ass some 200+ years ago, I can spell and pronounce the following words exactly as I want. If you Canadians have a problem with it, tough shit. Its not my fault you are somehow still politically affiliated with the Crown.

1) Honor
2) Favor (and Favorite)
3) Theater
4) Center
5) Foyer

I may someday become a Canadian, but this is one thing I won't give up. The random interjection of the letter "u" and the incomprehensible reversal of suffix "er" on the end of words is just not right. And I don't care if "foyer" is a French word. You don't like the French, and last I heard, they wanted to separate from Canada anyway. You should have no allegiance to pronouncing it "foy-yeah". Just call it a foyer.

And its beginning to snow....

So, I have the day off (again). [See Spot's post on the topic of time off for orchestral musicians for more giggles.] And I got out of bed this morning to find that it is snowing. For Real. I don't yet know how I feel about this. I'll probably manufacture an opinion about it as the day goes on. As far as I know, though, there was no rush on bread and milk at the supermarket, and this is probably not The Storm of the Century (TM). That's a refreshing change.

I tried to post a photo of the Octoberfest/Winter Wonderland outside, but Blogger doesn't seem to want to do that right now. Perhaps later. Burning Question of the Day: If there's snow on Halloween, do all the little kiddies have to put a parka on over their cute costumes?

I think this is one of the better photos taken of me at Banff last summer. I just wanted to try posting photos... I've never really done it before. This is what happens when one has too much time off.

And in heels!

Oh my, she's good. This clip reminds me of that old saying "Ginger Rodgers did everything Fred Astaire did, except she did it backwards, and in heels."

I daresay, you GO girl!

Home Sweet Wherever

I went back to PA this past week, due to a lucky combination of lots of time off and a misplaced holiday. (Canadian Thanksgiving was this past weekend... what the hell is Thanksgiving doing in October? Weird.) And while it had its ups and downs, it was overall a really great vacation. I'm sorry to report that the days of MG and LR are no more. In a nutshell, it just wasn't meant to be. But I think that we understand each other and there really are no hard feelings, at least on my side of it.

Since I had lots of unexpected time off, I decided to rent a car and drive to Boston to see LB. (Renting cars is fun. Its fun to drive a car that isn't yours that you don't have to worry about too much. Sometime I'll pontificate about the stupid rental agent whose Canadian geography is just a little shabby, but that's a story for another time.) Its a gorgeous time of year to drive through New England, and LB and I had a fabulous time with lots of shenanigans. After that, I drove home to visit Mom and B. I also got to see my grandparents, with a side trip to Baltimore to have lunch with K. Home is still one of the best, most relaxing, most magical places on earth, as far as I'm concerned. Every time I've ever needed time to think or unwind, home is my place of choice. Everyone should be so lucky.

To top off the trip, I finally secured my work permit and social insurance number, and D. gave me a ride home from the airport, complete with presents. It was back to work this morning and a kick ass workout at the gym this afternoon. Pretty soon this pesky jet lag will wear off and life will return to the "daily grind" (whatever that is).

More to come, Reader(s). For now, here's the moral: Try not to write the future before it happens.

How many times can you use the word "bucolic"?

The Ren's Nest has recently gotten away from writing about political events, but this one strikes so close to home it is necessary to comment.

I grew up in rural Central Pennsylvania, pretty close to Nickel Mines, PA, where a fatal shooting took place in an Amish schoolhouse yesterday.

The Amish make it into the news but once or twice a year... there is almost always the inevitable accident involving a buggy and a car. And it is always tragic. Usually, its some asshole tourist going entirely too fast on a narrow road who "just didn't see them." Tourism is huge in Lancaster County. I read a statistic a few years ago that most of the Amish make their living from tourism, not from farming. And that's fine with me. It really makes no difference to me where they make their money because they aren't a "nuisance" in any way. Its the tourists who are the nuisance, and the most offensive part is the disrespect.

And here's my point: The Amish largely want to be left alone. Their belief system is certainly outside the realm of contemporary culture. They are pretty conservative, but above all else, they are pacifists. So the fact that some wacko stormed a school building and committed such a heinous crime may seem nearly impossible to forgive. What is incredible is that I am certain that the Amish community will turn the other cheek. Their response to violence will not be a return of violence.

I am also certain that they wish this had never happened. Not only because it is a horrific tragedy, but because they are receiving all sorts of media attention that they don't want. The Amish don't like having their pictures taken. Sure, disrespectful asshole tourists do it all the time, but that doesn't make it ok. I really wish that the media would just stop hounding these people and let them mourn. The nation is shocked, and the fascination with the Amish makes for "great news." Why can't we stop referring to Lancaster County as "bucolic" and the complex anabaptist belief system as "quaint"? The Amish ask for very little. Lets respect that and let them mourn.

This is going to be sappy. (Consider yourself warned!)

Sometimes, we all have bad nights. That means different things to different people. But sparing the details, lets just say that last night was what would qualify in my mind as a "bad night."

I wanted the floor to open during the applause so that no one would even see me walk offstage. I wanted to be home as quickly as possible so that I could wallow in my misery alone. I didn't want to subject anyone else to my sulking. I didn't want to hear "oh it wasn't that bad" or "you sounded great!" Those things were not (and as far as I can tell still are not) true.

But I got a phone call. It was my friends, wanting to know why I had disappeared. When I told them I just wanted to be alone to wallow, they took the tough love approach. My thanks to JW who said, "if you're going to sulk, isn't it better that you sulk into a pint?" (Really, Reader(s), don't we all know the answer to that question?) And to all the rest of them who not only had one beer waiting for me when I walked in, but also made sure that my glass was never empty very long.

Thanks, guys.