Things Canadians Call 'Sweaters'

1. Sweaters
2. Sweatshirts
3. Hockey jerseys

Mike Dukakis rides again

Capella and I took the subway this evening to go to downtown to a concert. After we sat down I looked aimlessly around the car, and noticed that the man whose foot I almost tripped over on the way in looked an awful lot like the mayor. I subtly told Capella, who subtly turned her head and looked. We still couldn't decide if it was him or not, so when we got off, we stood up early and took the door by where he was sitting. He also got off then, and we overheard another passenger ask if he was the mayor, and proceed to give him advice on something.

Very exciting.

You can almost see Lake Ontario across the expressway

It's spring.

Which means that all the nasty snow/ice has melted, and the streets are gross and grey, which matches the sky, and coincidently, my mood today. Not only did I roll up the rim and NOT win today, there's more.

I had an audition today for a summer festival in Germany. I felt great on the way there, I felt great warming up, I felt great when I walked into the room. One measure in, I felt terrible. After three lines, I wanted to leave the room and walk back in and start again. Why? Kind of a long story. But let me try to explain.

Because this being a German festival, they had supplied a pianist (that's not an obscure musician joke, just how they roll.) I'm not sure why they have that custom, because I think it sucks.

Also in the "this being a German festival" catagory, they required the Stamitz concerto, one of the cruelest jokes ever played on violists (and there's been plenty). Violinists play their first Mozart concerto when they're 10, and you know what? They sound good, because Mozart was a genius. Stamitz, more of a "quietly competant" kind of guy. So when Euro festival time comes around, violinists get asked to play the same Mozart concerto they've been playing for 15 years, and violists have to drag out Stamitz, where the best you can hope for is not to sound too awful.

All this to say that the pianist started out too slow, and I was too underprepared to cope adequately (like, insist on a faster tempo at the first entrance) and fished and flubbed my way through the exposition. Didn't get to play my Bach (of two solo pieces, one was Stamitz, and one auditionee's choice. So the Bach I could actually play, and beautifully, at that), was embarrassed enough at myself to not play the excerpts at my best, and am now going to watch season 2 of 24, thanks to my friend whose cat, B, I'm feeding this week.

It's been hard to concentrate enough to write this, as I've got the stereo cranked next to me. It's necessary because ever since I left the audition room, my brain's been playing the Stamitz concerto on a never-ending loop. And it plays it way better than I did. Apparently it has no qualms about rubbing salt in wounds.

The title, if you're wondering, has nothing to do with the story. Just one more thing putting me in a foul mood today. (the expressway, not Lake Ontario.)