Monday, December 20, 2004
The Excitement May Kill Me, If My Parents Don't Do it First
Posting may be a little spotty in the next week, as I am spending the holidays in the wilds of west central Illinois, and my schedule will no doubt be brutal. There are videos that need renting, people, and if my mother doesn't force me to watch Will Smith in I, Robot, who will? Plus I have a social responsibility to run out to attempt to buy toothpaste and become embroiled in awkward, 8-years-of-life-spanning conversations with former health topics instructors and fellow choir members in the middle of the Wal-Mart. Try not to be blinded by the glittering social whirl.
For the most part, however, I will be responsible for the production of our annual gala Christmas Eve Concert for The Grandmother, to be held in our basement on that holy night. And whatever you may have heard about 93-year-olds with limited hearing abilities and attention spans, you had better believe that they are demanding consumers of less-than-proficient performances of Romantic-era viola duets and stumbled-through Rogers & Hammerstein numbers. So I'll be shepherding my sister (and possibly the dogs -- we haven't finalized the program yet) through what will unquestionably be a grueling week of rehearsals. Because Joy to the World for four-hand piano doesn't learn itself, people.
Good times.
Posting may be a little spotty in the next week, as I am spending the holidays in the wilds of west central Illinois, and my schedule will no doubt be brutal. There are videos that need renting, people, and if my mother doesn't force me to watch Will Smith in I, Robot, who will? Plus I have a social responsibility to run out to attempt to buy toothpaste and become embroiled in awkward, 8-years-of-life-spanning conversations with former health topics instructors and fellow choir members in the middle of the Wal-Mart. Try not to be blinded by the glittering social whirl.
For the most part, however, I will be responsible for the production of our annual gala Christmas Eve Concert for The Grandmother, to be held in our basement on that holy night. And whatever you may have heard about 93-year-olds with limited hearing abilities and attention spans, you had better believe that they are demanding consumers of less-than-proficient performances of Romantic-era viola duets and stumbled-through Rogers & Hammerstein numbers. So I'll be shepherding my sister (and possibly the dogs -- we haven't finalized the program yet) through what will unquestionably be a grueling week of rehearsals. Because Joy to the World for four-hand piano doesn't learn itself, people.
Good times.
