“Bad eggs make bad omelettes”--Pascalrascal
I’ve ranted about bad dates.
I’ve ranted about camp.
Now it’s time for all three, stirred together and fried to create one bad omelette.
Music is an expression of the soul. It would be plausible to think that a place dedicated to the creation of music would be a fairly low-key, soul-expressing experience.
False.
Symphony is communism—no, not socialism—communism. All instruments are equal; some are just more equal than others.
I am a rehabilitated violinist, so I experienced the “more equal” part of symphony. Now, however, I am a violist. I like to equate the viola to the alto of the high school choir. My theory is that every single memorable composer dated either an alto or a violist, and she burned him real bad. Thus, altos and violas are doomed with the same three boring notes of the chord, over and over and over and over…
(Pachelbel had issues with cellos though. I suppose he’s the exception. )
It’s alright though. At least I no longer have to exhibit false passion while being the first chair violinist’s stand bitch (page turner.) Also, all the chill “how the f*** did I get here?” instrumentalists sit in the back.
Thems my peeps.
Well, yesterday an old frenemy of mine was going to set me up with another instrumentalist. As I am not to partial to camp musicians right now (but if you play the uke, call me) or men (see Reg’s very distressed posts about her immature, insensitive, douche-bag boyfriend,) this set up may not be the best idea at this time.
And the violinist and I went on some quasi-friends/acquaintance/wtf? Awkward date-like lunches.
Perhaps I’ll play the theme to Jurassic park during rehearsal tomorrow…
Less than three,
Summer
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