August 10, 2020

Tuesday. Sorry, journal, neglected you the last few days. Busy with Mouse King shit. Oscar kidnapped another mouse, and Mouse King was beside himself. I told him to chill. First, of all, I said, I will deal with Oscar. Secondly, what are you going to do, go to war with the cats? So shut the fuck up and let me deal with this.

For compensation, we let the mice run wild in Mr. Blivet’s house yesterday. Kill two birds with one stone, if you get my drift -- got the Mouse King off my back, and dealt out some payback to that perv.

Oscar, I dealt with through six-toed persuasion.

Mr. Bassett Horne visited today and gave Roderick another lesson. Overall it went well. They went over everything: scales, long tones, etudes, orchestral excerpts, and the Crusell. Roderick’s been practicing a lot lately, and it shows.

Roderick complained about the Crusell. He’s bored with it already and wanted to know if he could play a clarinet concerto by a more notable composer like, say, Louis Spohr.

Mr. Horne laughed and told him to stick with the plan. If he wants to ace the audition, he needs total command of the piece -- otherwise, nerves will kick in and he will make a mess out of it. He also let Roderick in on a secret -- Lake City has lots of Finnish-Americans, and those Finns really support the Philharmonic. So playing a piece by Uusikaupunki’s most notable composer will be points in Roderick’s favor.

I mean, you can only play Finlandia so many times.

Besides, nobody wants to hear anything written by Louis Spohr. Ever. Mr. Horne is full of useful advice like that.

Downstairs, Cora Anglaise chatted at length about making reeds and complained about Richard Strauss’s inability to write for the heckelphone. She bored the Smiths to tears.

Just five more days to Surströmming Day! I can hardly wait.

All for now.

August 6, 2020

Friday. The Smiths met the Blooms for dinner at the Red Trolley this evening, as they do every Friday. I didn’t tag along.

Instead, I met Pia in the hedge. No, we didn’t copulate, she’s not in heat. Mostly we chatted about Surströmming Day a week from Sunday. The Smiths accepted, and so did the Blooms. Megan Cupcake will be there -- her parents aren’t very sociable. The Witherspoons are coming, and so are the Clappers.

I shared the latest gossip with Pia. Ruffles, the gray Persian who lives with the Blivets told me that Mr. Blivet is banging the au pair. Pia laughed. 

She said that she keeps seeing Natasha hanging out with the Kulturpunkz, and what’s that all about? I explained: the Kulturpunkz dress nicely, eschew drugs and premarital sex and drive around town in their low riders playing the music of Felix and Fanny Mendelssohn. Drives their Boomer parents crazy. The parents think their teens should be snorting coke and sodomizing one another in the Beauneville Latin staircase while listening to Fuck tha Police.

I told Pia how Bibi slept over last month and in the morning walked into the kitchen stark bucko naked. We laughed and laughed.

“At least we know she’s a natural blonde,” I quipped.

Pia nearly wet herself. “The carpet matches the drapes!”

All for now.

August 5, 2010

Thursday. Molly came over today to practice the Crusell with Roderick. That went well. When they finished she did a little impromptu recital of Bach’s Toccata in F-Sharp Minor (BWV 910). It sounds so much better on a modern piano than on a harpsichord. Purists insist on using clunky old harpsichords that sound like shit because Bach didn’t have a modern piano. You know -- “muh authenticity.” Well, nobody cares about your authenticity. Just play the damn music and make it sound good.

She played the Fugue really fast. It was mesmerizing, really, watching her long fingers fly. She didn’t miss a note. When she finished I jumped in her lap. That was fun. Molly thinks cats are icky, and she acts really awkward when I do that. Like, she has to stifle the impulse to shriek because Roderick will laugh and call her a wuss.

All for now.