September 2016

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Beloved of God. My wife telling me to kneel to Facebook. I do so for her. Put the jpg pic up top, she says. Facebook likes that, not videos. And I say, Cadillac of the Skies.

I’d put up with him for months. His wry insults about Mozart’s ninths. His clear preference for this kind of pretentious nonsense.

So When he tossed off his umpteenth insult about Mozart one late autumn day, I totally tore him a new asshole about the relation between music and deserving to live. He resigned the next day. I’ve been told I can be, well, like a saber in your eyes. Thing is, I was way out of line, unless I wasn’t. He had been formally trained in graduate school about how to write classical music nobody could listen to. Why he, and I, were working in the music department at the back of a bookstore. Our tiff meant nothing. Like all of modern classical music.

It takes a Mozart to know one.

I talked to Raebert about Psmith and him and me. Explained how I loved both of them. Then he looked me in the eye and licked my hand. Seven animal behavioralists immediately wrote peer reviewed papers explaining that Raebert is an idiot. Cool. What this has to do with Mozart I leave to you. But it does have to do with Mozart. Figure it out.

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