Now with Labels! for Nablaeroiueajhflgjf.

I am jumping right on in to Nablaofdhtag, with a pithy, amuse-bouche of a post. Tomorrow. Maybe.

Today, however, I'm heading back to my beloved Podunk, Oregon to play a rehearsal and concert with their esteemed orchestra. Famous heart-throb violinist (betcha didn't expect to see that phrase outside the early 19th century, but just read his press packet! He puts the sexy in the string section.) Josh Bell is playing with them.



I like his playing, he's always fun to watch. He once sort of sprayed sweat on my music accidentally. When conductors do this it's annoying, but Mr. Indiana was somehow not so bad. This one time, at band camp Aspen, he played so sexy he broke his chinrest. It's made of hard wood and metal carpenter clamps, but he snapped it like a cockroach under his manly, musical chin.

He's rumored to be nice enough, and he's certainly had brief but memorable relationships with all sorts of my friends. He used to provide a big party for whatever festival he played, which is pretty much the smartest way ever to ensure a loyal following in the classical community. Forget the blue-haired ladies, buy yourself some patrons with a bottle of rum and a case of Coke.

Time for me to pile into our mileage car and head out. You may be the last people I say more than a polite sentence to for the next ten hours, so wish me well my friends. I don't even have a stand partner to play games with. Hmph.