SassyBlonde

As The Muse said upon moving back to Birmingham, I'm now experiencing Deja Vulcan. Today I flew back home to visit everybody and do all the things I love to do and see when I'm in the South for a week, and had the pleasure of getting picked up at the airport by The Muse herself and being whisked off to Tuscaloosa for a little stroll down memory lane.

We drove directly to one of the favorite lunchtime haunts of my college days, the City Cafe, and it struck me as to exactly how much parts of the South function like time capsules. When you walk in the door at the City Cafe, you turn immediately to the left and look for a table in one of the two rooms. If there's no table immediately available, then you wait there in the doorway until some group gets up from one and sit down at the dirty table, whereupon one of the waitresses immediately shows up and cleans it and takes your drink and/or food order. Now, most places this would be odd, but if you take a look at the menu you'll start to understand why this is: you can get an enormous plate of food for under five dollars, including your sweet tea. Almost every time I've been there, there's been a line out the door and down the sidewalk, because this is Southern food at it's finest-- inexpensive, homemade, and served with a sweet, willing, and efficient attitude that a lot of people who aren't from here tend to miss in their "need for speed".

City Cafe is a great illustration of Southern culture in a nutshell. Sitting down at a dirty table is no big deal because it doesn't inconvenience you and you know your waitress will be around in under a minute to take care of you-- this is the sort of general faith in your fellow man that I took for granted growing up. It's part of the Southern attitude to assume the best of someone in front of you until you're presented with another option. This is not so much taught as simply absorbed from watching everyone around you as a kid, and this is not to say that it's a bone-deep assumption-- much of behavior in the South is about appearances, and this is no exception. You'd never want that other person to think of you as rude, because that's the kiss of death, so you're courteous and respectful, and try to give them the benefit of the doubt.

Not only that, but it's a generally accepted fact that you're not too good to sit down and wait for your table to be cleaned. You're just folks like everybody else there, whether you're a first-string football player or a a janitor. That's something I definitely don't miss about living in D.C. when I'm down here-- everybody in D.C. is the emotional equivalent of a fifteen-year-old boy trying to prove his importance and the size of his Johnson by sheer rudeness and inflated ego.Here? Sure, it's everywhere I guess, but at least the manners are a little better and the egos are a lot more manageable.


Once your table's clean and you're ready to order, your food is brought to you in good time-- as soon as it can be put together. One thing The Muse and I marveled at is the waitresses' ability to differentiate between sweet and unsweet tea on the tables: there's no markers, and they look the same, yet I've almost never had a waitress there get it wrong, no matter how many tables she's juggling and how many quick-changes those tables are making. I think a lot of people who aren't from the Deep South mistake our casual manner for slowness, which is a mistake in a lot of cases. Most of the time it has a more zen-like reason: people down here know that it takes time to get things done and there's no use freaking out about the time it takes when you can't do anything about it. I think that attitude has a lot to do with what people see as Southern hospitality-- the general level of stress is just a lot lower because people don't sweat the small stuff.

When you're done with your meal, you don't sit around socializing, you get up and out and let somebody else sit down. It's the Golden Rule at play-- the people there did the same for you, and you want to do the same for everybody else. One crazy thing I noticed yesterday is that no matter how many people are waiting to sit, you never get that feeling of "restaurant rage" you get other places. There are no glares or frowns from waiting parties, they just socialize with their friends or people waiting around until it's their turn and wait good-naturedly for their table. Quite a different feel from DC restaurants where you have to wade through the miasma of stress to get to the hostess and claim your table while removing imaginary knives from your back brought on by glares from the other people waiting.

Anyway, fun was had by all and we left feeling completely stuffed and happy and promptly scurried over to the Krispy Kreme on MacFarland hoping for a Hot Now doughnut, which we were denied, so we got our otherwise fresh but cool confections and drove on to other venues for pictures and fun, which I'll share shortly. Wishing you all in DC tolerable temperatures, and I'll send some of this Southern hospitality your way until I can bring it home myself in a week.

Have you ever met a person who, you're certain from the moment you meet them, shapes the world as you know it? I don't mean like Bill Gates or Bono, "changing the world for the better". I mean someone who radiates such energy that you can almost see the world shifting around them in real time. Well, today I met one.

We went down to Morgan Creek Vineyards to pick some blueberries and taste their lovely (unfortunately only available in Alabama at the moment) muscadine and blueberry wines. We hopped out, bought our blueberry buckets, and picked until they were full. When we were done, we went in for the wine tasting and tour, and by the time we had tasted everything, my mom was deep in conversation with Ms. Margaret Roundtree, who had come down from South Carolina to prune the muscadines. She had the most beautiful Southern accent I've heard in a long time-- the clean and soft and unpretentious lilt of Old Carolina, and she had the most lively and engaging blue eyes I think I've ever seen. She was easily my grandparents; age, but while we were there I'm pretty sure she mowed the entire vineyard in her work shorts and boots. Spry doesn't even begin to describe her.

Ms. Roundtree is the aunt of the winery owners, who have had a really tough year this year: a death in the family and other health problems, and she's hung around to help out until things settle down a little. She told us the story of the death of her niece this spring from cancer, through which radiated her unshakable faith and wonder at life. Her obvious love for her family was a tangible thing, as was her powerful life force, and I left feeling a sense of awe at the magnitude of the soul I'd just encountered.

In the few minutes of conversation with this wonderful lady, I experienced a hopefulness and enthusiasm I haven't felt for a long time. The Christian tradition calls them angels in disguise, Diane Duane calls them the Powers That Be in human form, and whatever she was she was a person that I can honestly say I hope to meet again and will never forget.

I picked about 10 pounds of okra this morning, I swear to you.

We got up this morning and picked the rest of the veggies in my grandparents' garden that were ready to go: corn, tomatoes, peppers, eggplants, zucchini, squash, beans. I swear, there's nothing like going out to pick vegetables in the sunshine, even okra. Let me give you guys an education in okra-picking: okra is the seed pod of a tall plant with hairy, fuzz all over it. This fuzz will give you a rash on any skin it touches, so to pick okra you have to wear long sleeves and gloves, and the stems are so hard that you have to cut them with a really sharp knife. So I was out in the 95-degree sun in long sleeves and gloves searching under those big hairy leaves for the pods and clipping them into my picking smock for a good 45 minutes. Whew. Sweaty work.

After we'd picked and sorted and eaten lunch, we headed home to Birmingham and I picked up my rental car: a bona fide road trip chariot. They goofed up my rental and I ended up with a white 2007 Crown Vic, tricked out to the nines. Everything on thing this is automatic-- seats, mirrors, headlights, you name it. I'll be honest-- I really like this car. Not only is it like riding on a soft leather couch, but everyone gets out of my way when they see me coming because they think I'm a cop. Nice.

Back home tomorrow after 14 hours on the road. Comin' for to carry me home...

Today was a perfect little gem of summer in a lot of ways, from the moment I got up. I woke to the stretching paws of kitties tap-tap-tapping on me in their quest for food and entertainment and popped up to feed and scratch them as their little fuzzy faces demanded. Then I went back to sleep. Sometimes I think that's the best part of getting up early in the morning, really. The going back to sleep in a cozy bed thing.

I returned my marvelous chariot to the rental car place and then juked out to my in-laws' house, windows and sunroof open, with a large sack of Granddaddy's vegetables in tow. I sat and chatted with my mother-in-law for hours about lots of things, then we stuffed ourselves silly on the simple summer joy of fresh boiled corn and ham and tomato sandwiches.

To cap it off, I swung by Damascus's well-kept and fabulous secret, Jimmie Cone, for a summer favorite-- a chocolate-vanilla twist cone with rainbow jimmies. (Yes, I Lactaid-ed myself. I'm not that masochistic.) Now I'm putting together my rocking chairs and watching Grease, and I'm sure I'll crash here momentarily and crawl back in bed with the cats. Yes-sirree Bob, it's been a great day.

I don't know if I've ever mentioned it before, but D is totally an "ass" man. You know the type-- this boy would totally wreck the car if a girl with a bodacious booty crossed the street in front of him.

As I mentioned yesterday, we made the incredibly intelligent decision to go to the beach on an August day during a heat advisory, which turned out to be a heat-stroke-tastic experience. We survived an afternoon at Fenwick Island by periodically jumping into the near-frigid surf to cool off, then hit the Ocean City boardwalk for some Fisher's caramel corn and headed to P.G.N. for some crabs and one of the best crab cakes in history.

By the time we got back in the car we were completely exhausted, hot as hell, and giddy from all of the crazy things that we had done, seen, and heard. Then surprisingly, the most fun we had all day came when we crossed the Highway 90 bridge on the way out: as you drive onto the bridge, you can see one of those green identification signs the highway department uses to I.D. waterways and overpasses, marking the name of the bay you cross over to get back to the mainland from the barrier island on which Ocean City resides. I happened to read the name out loud, as I often do in the car, and D literally went ape-shit. The name of the bay?

Assawoman Bay.*

As soon as I spoke the word, D started laughing and hopping around in his seat to see the sign, and shouted "God damn, we're moving here!" He then informed me that if we did live here, the first thing he'd do is go out and get a boat and paint "Mmmm-hmmm, That's Right." on the side, next to a graphic of a fabulous bubble butt. "Ass-A-Woman. Mmm-Hmm, That's Right."

See why I love this man? Never a dull moment.

*By the way, I totally love the fact that there's not only a Little Assawoman Bay, but a Big Assawoman Bay too. Mmm-hmm. That's right.

People, it's like the fourth plague has descended on my mom's house.

This week I'm down in Alabama visiting family again, and it's absolutely amazing how much of an effect the Stage 4 drought has had on the flora and fauna here. Alabama is usually hot this time of year, but it's looking like it'll be over 100 degrees all week with no relief in sight. There are old-growth trees in the middle of hillside forests dying for lack of water, and the undergrowth of hydrangeas and sassafras and everything else is so dry that it looks like it's sporting limp rags instead of leaves. The watering restrictions have been vexing my mom-- her beautiful garden is dry and the plants on her deck are surviving only because she waters them with her twice weekly allotment and bails out her bathwater on other days to keep them going. Y'all. nobody better try to tell her there's no such thing as global warming. You might get a whoopin'.

One of the surprising things that has resulted from the lack of water is an explosion of ants leaving their earthy homes and foraging wherever they can, including you car, your house, and anywhere else they can find food or water. My mom has been waging war against the little invaders all summer in her kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, and especially her cars., and today they mounted an assault on my little black Honda. I came out this morning to find the seats, dashboard, floor mats, and any surface you could see covered with shimmering sprinklings or trails of tiny ants, diligently combing the car for any source of food or water. They probably weren't having much luck since D detailed my car before we left D.C., but they were sure trying.

My mom brought out her weapons of choice-- bottles of Windex, Clorox, and insecticide, and went to town. Soon all those little marauders were either DOA or scooting away hastily. Hooray Windex, and by the way, happy birthday Mom!

At present, the death toll stands at way over 400. The action was swift, decisive, and brutal in its intensity, and all that remains is to execute the remaining prisoners.

That's right, folks, the ants are back. We came down this morning to load the car (at 5:30 in the morning, natch) and found the little invaders had returned to scout the premises. D sprayed down the car and we loaded in the stuff after about twenty minutes , and we started off for home. That was when the boogers mounted the second wave and came pouring out of the arm rest, under the mats, and through the foot rests. It was like a nightmare-- D was killing any moving thing he could see while I tried to keep the car on the road between swatting at the ones trying to bite my feet. We managed to make our way to the next exit, which fortunately featured a 24-hour Wal-Mart, and re-upped on insecticide and Windex, and had at those nasty little bugs.

If you ever have an ant invasion in your car, here are my tips for a counter-assault:

• Spray the bugs on inner surfaces with Windex to kill the existing ants. It's not toxic for you to handle but will kill the little buggers outright and not damage your cloth upholstery (obviously don't use colored Windex for light upholstery or you'll be living with a blue sheen on those seats)
• Wipe doorjambs and seals with a bleach or cleaner-soaked cloth to remove trails so they don't come back. I can't stress this enough, people... learn from my mistake.
• Spray door wells and seals with some form of indoor/outdoor insecticide to kill the little boogers and prevent them from re-entering. Spray anywhere where they might re-enter, like the openings for parking brakes, hood latches, or pedals. Do NOT spray anywhere where you might put your hands. (On-the-road hamburgers and ant poison don't mix)
• Keep a small bottle of Windex in the car with you so that if you hit a bump and they pour out of some crevice you can strike first.

Frankenberry on making rum and cokes:

"There wasn't that much Diet Coke left in the can, but the glass needed to be full."

Frankenberry on making rum and cokes:

"There wasn't that much Diet Coke left in the can, but the glass needed to be full."

So one of the most of the most hilarious things to do when you're vacationing in a rented beach house is to peruse the contents of the video cabinet. I've found things in beach houses where I've stayed that would honestly make you lose your mind. Or laugh your ass off. Or scare you senseless.

Therefore, I have a contest for you: of the following list of videos, which is the one that was NOT found in our video cabinet? First one to answer correctly wins a jar of my fig preserves.

• Blank video tape (opened) ("Anybody wanna see what the owners look like?" --Boo Berry)
• Star Trek III ("Seriously, guys? I mean, it's the Search for Spock." I'll leave it to you to determine how Frankenberry meant that.)
• Star Trek IV ("Double damn." Or, whales and a big cigar.)
• Nefertiti Resurrected (D says "Heh heh-- titties,"
• The Great Raid (remake with Benjamin Bratt) ("It's Benjamin Bratt. It's gonna be crappy." --Boo Berry)
• American Chopper: Jet Bike/Biketober (There is nothing I can say on this one.)
• Arthur II ("*When you get caught between the moon and New York Ciiiii-ty,*" sings Frankenberry. "What... It's Christopher Cross...")

It has been a damnably long time since I posted something real on this site. Of course, like so many other bloggers out there, I'm torn as to what this means for the future of this blog in the age of Twitter, Facebook, and other social media outlets, but you will not find here some long and sappy passage lamenting the demise of my one and only place to express my innermost drivel and ramblings: we all know that I'll always continue to do that in one form or another, and I don't need a dedicated webspace to do it. Christ, I'm a musician: I can always just go play some opera and weep into my bourbon.

No, instead I bring you news. News of the greatest import to my little toy tugboat of a world-- in a week's time I will once again be winging my way to the other side of the planet on yet another orchestra tour, back to China and cheese and insanity. And as always, I will be bringing you lovely readers (all two of you who still give a rat's ass) along for the ride. There will be thrills, chills, and plenty of lurid tour stories, and maybe, just maybe, if I ask very very nicely, there might be a guest blog, or even just a blurb, from the famous Frankenberry, who will be winging along with me on this particular jaunt.

But first I have a question for you: if you were going on a whirlwind tour of the Orient (yes, I know, it's not P.C., but it sounds quite nice), how would you pack? I took an enormous suitcase last time, but I'm a little leery of all that drama right now. The pertinent facts are these: we'll be gone for 13 days, be flying in and out of six cities, and I'll need clothes for sightseeing, performing, and sleeping. My clarinets will take up space as one carry-on and all of my insulin paraphernalia has to come on board with me at all times, but the other can be small or large, and I can check up to 44 pounds of luggage. So what say you? Is it possible to consolidate and still travel in style, or should I go all out? If you have any suggestions, leave a comment with tips, tricks, and ideas: I need all the help I can get.

Well folks, the verdict is in: my bags are packed and I'm off tomorrow morning for yet another crazy trip with my touring gig.

As for how I made out with my packing, y'all will probably be surprised to know that I'm toting only one carry-on plus the clarinets and my bitty backpack purse onto the plane. For how that's going to work out, stay tuned: I'll have a verdict for you in about fourteen days. It's actually pretty amazing what you can cram into a standard carry-on bag: in my case, clothes for seven days, wash supplies, a pair of shoes, performance clothes, meds and supplies, chargers, makeup, toiletries, you name it-- I got it, and the requisite weight only comes out to a measly 25 pounds, which is less than I myself gained between the last trip there and this one. It sort of begs the question of what in the hell I took on the last trip in that E-NOR-MOUS suitcase: I was smaller, and I still did laundry every seven days or so, so what in the hell did I think I needed all that crap for?? I can remember having space in the suitcase when I came back, but I can also remember just about driving myself nuts with all of those plane flights and two wheeled bags to schlepp. This time I'm take it easy and save my exertion for those steps at the Wall.

At any rate, the itinerary includes five or six cities in fourteen days from Orlando to Beijing to Shanghai and others, and everything from basketball games to playing concerts to hiking. Planes, trains, and automobiles, and food of every shape, color and size. Knitting socks and listening to audiobooks, and getting up to shenanigans with people I hardly ever get to see except on a tour bus. More than covered by what I packed to bring with me.

And now, I'm tired and ready to hit the hay for tomorrow's beginning so I can write more coherently than I have so far (as Blue Line Mike rightly just commented on my Facebook, I need to go to bed): when next you hear from me I'll be in the land of orange juice, Mickey Mouse, and NBA playoffs: Orlando.

Ahhh, the arrival day of an ensemble tour.

I think it's safe to say that I didn't get nearly the sleep I should have last night-- I went to bed at around 3 am and popped up out of bed at 7:15 or so, ready to go and with only the thought of finishing my to-do list and getting the hell on that plane.

While we're on the subject of planes, let me make one thing clear: Southwest Airlines rocks my socks. Not only do they have the most egalitarian seating policy around, their check-in procedure is friggin' brilliant and they really know how to take care of their passengers, including leather club chairs in the waiting area and power stations for those of us who can't stand to be without our electronics for any length of time right next to those same buttery leathery lovelies. I could do without the singing at the end of the flight, but why not-- they did a damn good job otherwise.

Also, the TSA was humming along today with insane efficiency-- I was in and through security in a record three and a half minutes today, which made my life amazingly brighter and lovelier.The flight was good, had lunch with the stage manager, who picked me up at the airport, and then the first major tour walkabout around downtown Orlando. Found a Planet Smoothie for a pick-me-up after almost three miles of walking up and down city blocks, and then rode around on the free Lymmo shuttle to get the lay of the land and headed back for a good nap and some knitting time.

By the time Frankenberry showed up, I was damn good and ready for a burger and a beer ($5 Hump Day Special at Watiki in DT Orlando) so we headed out and ended up meeting three of our favorite people at the bar: Mel, our cellist friend, and the percussionist. Since Frankenberry our cellist friend wasn't here for the reading of The Rules, we decided to revisit them via my Crackberry and I think we sufficiently scared the passersby with our insane laughter. In case you haven't read them, you should refresh so you'll be up on the latest news and notes.

Tomorrow: the first rehearsal. This should be interesting.

Aaaah, the first day of rehearsal.

This is when the rubber kinda meets the road: you get to see everybody sweat through their first encounter with the group dynamic and watch the newbies try to figure out all of the weird nuances that they've only heard about through myth and legend. You also get to hear the same old hacks do the same old things in the same places, different songs.

For my part, this program is pretty much a cake walk: I just have to play with a good tone and stay relatively in tune (I say relatively, because apparently there are many consensuses on where the pitch should be, and none of them good) and most importantly keep from laughing out loud when Frankenberry leans over and makes jokes during the really cheesy bits. I think I only have one piece where I have to hustle a little, and it's one of the biggest cliches of all time, so it's more a question of not laughing while I'm trying to do it in F# Major.

In all seriousness, the music I'm playing with this group is really one of my favorite things I get to do being a professional musician: there's just such a wonderful feeling when you play music with no agenda except that it's beautiful, beautifully written and orchestrated, and only has the purpose of making people happy. Not to mention that I feel extremely privileged to play this man's music, as all of the performance and distribution rights to his arrangements are still owned by his family and NO ONE gets to use them except us under very special circumstances (AND we're playing off of copies and originals from parts handwritten by him and his arrangers. How COOL is THAT?)

That being said, it was exhausting, and I'm on my way out the door for beer and good food, after a power nap.

Rehearsal done? Check. Music learned? Well, sort of check. Gettin' on a plane in the morning? Double check.

I know it's super boring, but the only thing to report about today is that we rehearsed some more and are getting on a plane in the morning for the three-leg journey to Guangzhou via Shanghai via San Francisco. All I can say is that I really, REALLY hope I don't have to sit next to someone unpleasant, because I'll be really pissed off. The cliques have already sort of formed and so we're going to try and get placed all together somewhere on the China flight so we can chill out in comfort and safety without fear of being mauled or annoyed by one of the many skeeves or loonies with which we find ourselves surrounded.

Today and yesterday were a great education in the difference in international musical terms: our conductor is British and so refers to things like "crotchets" and "minims" and "quavers" instead of quarter, half or eighth notes. It has occurred to me before that it has to be really difficult in and profession to discuss anything of great detail without running into issues of terminology, and that;s exactly the problem we had today: he'd ask us to change a crotchet to a quaver and you could pretty much hear the caveman noises emanating from our brains. It was kind of hilarious, so in order to provide for better communication across the nautical distance, I list for you now some common American terms and their British Equivalents:

• Whole note = Semi-breve
• Half note = Minim
• Quarter note = Crotchet
• Eighth note = Quaver
• Sixteenth note = Semiquaver
• Thirty-second note = Demisemiquaver
• Sixty-fourth note = Hemidemisemiquaver or "quick note"
• Hundred twenty-eighth note = Quasihemidemisemiquaver or Semihemidemisemiquaver
• Fermata = Pause

What is there to say about 34 hours of travel time? Not much except holy CRAP I'm so ready to never see a plane again.

A five-hour flight from Orlando to San Francisco, crammed between a squicky colleague and an old lady going to visit her kid and grandkid, then a twelve-hour flight to Shanghai and another three-hour jaunt to Guangzhou. Holy crap, I'm about as tired as it gets.

I got really lucky for the long flight and scored a seat in the same row as Frankenberry-- that was actually a lot of fun, apart from being stuck in an over-sized meat-rocket for twelve hours. That was thanks to our intrepid percussionist, The Juggler, who figured out we could check in ahead of everyone else via the airport kiosk, so we decided on the best we could get-- a window and middle seat by the galley, which ended up being awesome because the guy on the outside moved up to another empty seat before we took off and we had the row all to ourselves.The Juggler is my hero, and I'm totally buying him beer in the near future, because his quick thinking allowed me to sit and laugh with Frankenberry all the way up and over the Pacific and Alaska and down into China-- a gift that's truly immeasurable by any standard.

I have to admit, one of the things I'm most excited about on this tour is getting to spend some quality time with all of my friends, but especially him-- we're usually so busy in regular life that hanging out usually consists of going to get beers or sitting in rehearsal or at a concert-- not exactly quality talking time necessarily. (Now if I could just figure out how to fit Boo Berry into my suitcase or something for a similar one-on-one stint I'd be perfectly happy. I'll have to ponder that one...) At any rate, that's why I do these tours-- it removes me from the ebb and flow of real life and lets me spend time with some of my most favorite friends (and some of my most unfavorite people as well, but there's the price for the benefit) in a situation so removed from everyday life that it always kind of feels like a dream when it's over. As far as the pay goes, it's a pittance compared to the fact that my bottom line is covered so I can go and have some quality time with these guys.

The people on the tour have shifted again as usual-- a new wind section, same brass players, some new violins and cellos and lots of folks who are new to the China circuit. Groovemaster D is back on cello, as is The Mullet. Rock Star Roomie is rockin' the assistant concertmaster chair and the Troll is back in the first violins, and The Source is back in the seconds. Of course, Bossman is heading up the brass section, Muppet's in the horn chair, and the PTB is back on the low end. Same tour, different line-up, same problems, same bitching, same daily effort to be zen about it all and try to enjoy the experience for what it's worth, including getting to play that music-- all of this while endeavoring to have some quality time with the people you've come to love and escape from the ones you hate, inasmuch as it's possible on a plane or bus.

At any rate, mischief managed, we made it through the flight after a lunch at Gordon Biersch (oh, the tasty, tasty beer) and moved on through customs to our Guangzhou flight, which was delayed, and delayed again, and which had to taxi out to the farthest spot on the tarmac on landing. The ride back in to the terminal on the shuttle took us about 10 km and probably longer than it took us to get to the hotel, and we exited into a really surreal darkened and mostly empty and closed terminal in Guangzhou. Our promoter was waiting for us and soon we were on the bus one the way to the hotel, past restaurants and bars and places still open and hopping at 2 am.

The digs for tonight are a really odd nouveau-Scandinavian business hotel, where I now sit in the cool and bright room (YAY for air conditioning) Now I'm for sleep, because the first concert's tomorrow and there's stuff to see tomorrow morning after breakfast.

Well, our first concert didn't go exactly as planned, at least not for me. And on my birthday, too.

When I got up this morning and headed down to breakfast, I expected just to have a bite to eat and then a walk to check out the area around where we're staying, but then I met up with Frankenberry downstairs on his way to the Baiyun Mountain park to walk around, and so I joined up with them and headed out for an even better walk.

Now don't get me wrong, Baiyun Mountain was awesome, but my Indian name should seriously be Pansy because I was ready to pass out after about ten minutes. All joking aside, at least Frankenberry and Juggler and the lead trombonist were willing to wait around for my sorry ass to climb up behind them as I snapped pictures of plants and birds and views and huffed and puffed my way up stair after stair.

When we got back, it was off to get money changed and get ready for the concert, which ended up being at a totally different hall than the one where I thought we'd be playing-- this one was a beautiful new and modern concert hall downtown rather than the historic hall where we performed last time, and I was a little disappointed that Frankenberry didn't get to see the last one: he would have flipped over the detailing and the architecture and the gardens surrounding it. We had a sound check, a little pre-dinner snack, and then got ready to play, and that's where things went downhill in a flash.

Everything was running, if not smoothly, then acceptably until about 75% through the first half of the program, when I started to feel really, really strange: my heart was pounding, my limbs felt heavy, and I felt incredibly hot and dizzy, all right before and during one of the pieces where I'm fairly essential, so I tried to keep going the best that I could and managed to finish out the piece, even though FB tells me I was listing to one side at some point and he was worried I was going to fall over. I did what any good diabetic is supposed to do and checked my sugar (though I had to do it THREE TIMES because I kept screwing up the process because I was so out of it), which was sky-high, so I corrected and tried to breathe deep and power through the last piece on the half.

Over intermission I felt better, so I trotted back on stage to make it through the rest of the program, water bottle in hand, and sat down to give it a shot. My body had other ideas though, and once I started playing, my heart rate started up, I saw black spots, and I was having trouble breathing: I knew I had to get off the stage or risk becoming a news item for passing out and falling off my chair, so I told FB I was going off and headed for the door after the piece was over.

From that point it was all downhill: I was so dizzy and nauseous I couldn't stand up without help, and though I'm not sure how bad it was, I know I had a fever high enough to give me chills for a good hour or so. Luckily for me, the promoter's assistant was backstage and was an absolute dream: she made sure I had water, help walking to and fro, and a cold cloth for my head-- she even massaged my scalp and my hands to try and help me out, but whatever it was was having none of it so I just tried to lie there and not pass out or hurl on my shoes.

At this point I really have to state my thanks for having Frankenberry there: he zoomed out after the second encore to make sure I was getting some help and made sure I had a quiet place to lie down, kept people away from me (which is no small thing in a nosey group like this one) and even arranged for an alternate way for me to get back to the hotel in the car of the hotel manager and his wife, all while basically holding me up every time I had to walk anywhere. He was so good that the Boss Man just let him handle everything and stayed back out of it. He's an amazing friend, and I cannot possibly express how thankful I am that he was there to help me-- it would have been pretty terrifying and horrible to go through that without a good friend there to look out for me. He got me out of the theater and into the car, made sure I was all right on the ride back by cramming himself into the backseat of a tiny car next to me and alternately telling me to keep my eyes open (to help with the nausea) and holding a cold towel to my head, and then made sure I got to my room all right and had everything I needed (thank goodness the convenience store next door had Gatorade) to get through until my roommate came back.

Needless to say, it wasn't the best birthday I've ever had, and even though whatever it was has mostly passed, it's not something I'll ever put out of my mind while touring ever again: the feeling of having to leave the stage in the middle of a performance is terrifying and awful and not something I hope to repeat. We're now in Beijing and on for another concert tonight, which I hope goes far, far better than this one did for me.

Sometimes the aftermath of an event is as strange and devastating to get through as the event itself, and it's surprising to me that I never remember how hard it can be to deal with.

I must have had a fever of some degree last night, because this morning I felt weak as a kitten dragging my bags downstairs to the bus to fly to Beijing. I knew when I got up that I still wasn't one hundred percent better, and like any good Southern belle, I took that as a sign that it was time for the war paint.

See, as y'all know, I grew up in the South and as any Southerner knows, women down there live by the ideal that no one should ever see you not at your best in terms of appearance, much less see you sweat, even if you're just going to the 7-11, so I got up this morning and put on my nicest outfit-- the one I bring along for business dinners-- and did my hair and makeup and breathed deep while making my way downstairs for our next leg of travel. It's amazing how much a little facade can help you bolster yourself for a less-than-ideal situation.

I skipped on breakfast as such per the advice of my doc, who I called via Skype for a little consult (her response: "Oh fuck, you're calling me from China. This can't be good." Love her, srsly) and stuck with white toast and the Gatorade which Frankenberry was kind enough to score for me the night before when I got back to the hotel. And then the plane flight: let me tell you, never underestimate the power of pressure points: it was the only way I white-knuckled it through the flight to Beijing and I've never been so glad to be off a plane (P6 and LI4). I don't think I've ever been so glad to see a familiar hotel-- the Howard Johnson Plaza Royale-- I dropped off my stuff, popped downstairs for lunch, and then scored an epic power nap and got ready for the concert.

Though I felt all right when I started the performance, as I started to play through to the point where I got sick the night before I began to freak out: Would it happen again? Could I do this? Was my BG normal? Did I have my water bottle? It never occurred to me to prepare myself for this being rough, but it really blew me away how like PTSD it felt-- I could feel all of the things that had happened the night before again, though without the bite of the actual sickness. All I could do was breathe deeply and work my water bottle like a job, but I managed to make it through all right with my game face on, war paint and all. Back onto the bus, where I dozed until we got back to the hotel and dinner, which I was too tired to eat, and now I'm for sleep because tomorrow is the Forbidden City and Temple of Heaven!!

[Guess what?!?!?!? I successfully badgered Frankenberry into doing his own post in this tour series, so here you go: introducing today's guest blogger!!!!]

So SB wanted me to to a guest blog entry, something that I really didn't want to do, originally, but she was so insistent and since she's kind of integral to some of the things I do, I figured I'd better keep her happy. A Managing Director scorned is...well, I don't want to think about the possibilities. So I'm blogging. Though I'm not a blogger. I'm not a tweeter, I don't even have a website. This is therefore very alien for me, and I apologize for any un-bloggish behavior. Now to begin:

We're in China. I really thought this would be the most different place on the planet from the U.S., but really it's coming across like a lot like big cities in Europe. It's quite dirty, kinda rude, and crowded. I don't understand them any better than I would Germans or Norwegians, though here there's little hope of finding someone who knows even a few words of English. These cities are dirtier and more crowded than Europe, but the comparisons in my mind are clear.

I must give props (yes, I said props, deal with it) to SB for being such a patient hostess. She has been my guide, advisor, and supporter, and has been kind enough to pretend that I'm not bugging her after a week of constant waking contact. Without her, I think this trip would have been a lot worse. Don't get me wrong, it's great to be here and see a few sights, but this tour is constant flying or busing, interspersed with concerts and a few hours of time in a hotel for sleep or a break. And for those who know me, you know I don't play well with others, so I may have been even more antisocial than I am right now, and sitting alone in my room wishing ill on everyone.

That being said, since this is a Sassy blog, I should say a few words about our orchestral compatriots, right? Right. You'll see the rules of the tour later, which will underscore their interesting behavior, but in reality this is just a case of being in a confined environment with 40 people for a very extended period. Personality quirks come to the fore, and many musicians just don't have the social filters that exist in regular life. Instead, we have folks who feel entitled to say what they feel, and expect other people to jump and react to please them. Goodness, I don't deal well with that. I would say something about suffering fools, but I bet someone will turn that around on me, so I'll avoid it. But gosh, I don't want to hear for the seventeenth time that you don't like your seat on the bus or your luggage got banged around or the woodwinds can't tune, because for one, no one likes their seat, for the second, that's life, and for the third, yes we can, evidenced by our blending on long octave passages between four players. So they can suck it. Yes, I can be as catty as the next musician, I just try not to show it very often. It's hypocritical, and I try to keep that to a minimum. I'm sure Boo Berry will have a response to that...

So I didn't have a good opening, and I don't have a good closing. I'm showing myself to be un-blogworthy.

And suddenly I have my close: Sassy is a Nosey Parker-- she just looked over once again to see what I was doing as we sit in this crappy hotel room in Wuhan drinking beer and catching up on our writings. Ha! I'm talking about her in the third person in her own blog! Unless she edits me. Hmm.

[SB: I promise, the only edits I made to this were a little punctuation. This one's all Frankenberry.]

There are always rules when you travel on tour, spoken or unspoken, and the most important one to remember are the ones learned from your colleagues' behavior on the road. After all, context clues make the story, so here are some things we needed to remember this time:

1. You must have long hair to play in the cello section. This is non-negotiable.
2. When talking to yourself in rehearsal, you must speak in a foreign language, preferably one that nobody understands, including yourself. Use of your outside voice is highly encouraged.
3. Don't ask, no one will explain why anyway.
4. Breakfast is better after 9:15. (See rule No. 3)
5. THRS: That's how rumors start. Just keep that in mind.
6. Talking about it always makes it better.
7. Keeping your eyes open usually helps, but not always. For example, when dizzy from food poisoning: yes. When in the men's dressing room: NO. Oh GOD NO.
8. Never practice anything you're going to perform in the concert while warming up or on rehearsal breaks. Play your favorite concerto or aria or quartet instead. Every night. Fortissimo. Or sing it, for even better effect.
9. FUCK ART.
10. When considering the quality of your performance, dinner, accommodations, or anything else that matters, remember "it starts from S." (said in a Russian accent.)
11. If you have the melody, by God, SLOW DOWN. Don't stay at the same tempo, that's not expressive enough.
12. No discussing of the rules on the bus in front of a manager.
13. Remember, there's only one James Bond, and his name is Sean Correry. (Yes, that's the proper Chinese phonetic spelling.)

I don't know what to say here yet-- everything from this trip is still too fresh on my mind. I hate traveling halfway across the world in a day, because though my body is back where I belong, my soul hasn't yet followed. I've made it to the other side of the the long succession of flights home, followed by a marvelous dinner with D and the Frankenberrys, and things may be quiet around here for the next few days while I order my heart and my mind and spend some time mending my soul. For now I sit, memories in mind, and have nothing really to say here, except this:

To all of you who made this trip such a blessing in spite of everything, know that I love you and hold you dear in my heart, second to none. The memories I have with you will be like treasured jewels I take out from time to time to remind me of how lucky I am, always, to know you and to love you and to be blessed enough to spend such intense time with you even for so short a period, even when it inevitably has to come to an end all too soon. Though you may worry, I assure you that I won't forget them, and that you are in my heart always.

So here's the thing:

I've missed you guys.

I've had some pretty heavy things going on in my life this year, things which basically have changed the face of my entire existence in one way or another. And I haven't really felt comfortable talking about that here, in public, for anyone and everyone to read. More importantly, there are very good reasons why I can't and shouldn't.

And frankly, it's killing me.

Because if you're still reading this, then I've probably known you, or had you as a reader, for long enough that you're probably wondering what the hell happened to me.

Because if you're still reading this, you're probably one of the people whose opinions and love I value enough that I'm going to need your help in the next year.

Because frankly, I need an outlet more in-depth than Twitter and less personal than Facebook.

So here's the other thing:

On March 1st, this blog is getting a makeover. I'll be moving it to a new server, shaking up the layout a little, and converting it to a new CMS, though the site address won't change. The ranting and raving and silliness will stay the same, only there will be some things that I don't want to share with everybody, some things that I may need to share and say, but only within certain circles. I'm tired of keeping it all pent up and I've done that for long enough.

If you're still reading this blog, and you're been a loyal reader or friend or even a long-time lurker, email me at (sassy{at}sassyblonde{dot}net) with the title of this post in the subject line or comment on this post and request an access key. I'd love to have you in the circle.

Til then, I'll be cleaning house and doing some renovation, and I'll see you on March 1st.

UPDATE: So, snow and circumstances being what they've been around here, I'm going to have to ask you guys to wait around a little longer, which actually ends up being appropriate for a lot of reasons. I've gotten all your emails and comments, and if you can hang tight for a few more weeks, I'll have the next phase ready on April 1st.