Wait a little longer and things will inevitably start to look up.

Starting fall, I'll be a student at Juilliard. I'm moving to the city. Creating another chapter in my life and hopefully this time, ending it with a cap n' gown instead of a yellow expulsion letter.

Dismissal is a thing of the past. Rekhanize.

The Judges.

Paul Pollei (chair): Without a doubt, the most idiotic bonehead to ever be allowed to touch a keyboard - it is my sneaking premonition that this absolute joke of a musician received his music degree by sending in a free voucher from the bottom of a Frosted Flakes box. Picture him: overweight Mormon from Utah wearing 5-dollar K-mart cologne, perpetually wet-dreaming about molesting unsuspecting contestants who will buy his crock of shit.

Alan Walker (writer): To my surprise, the most musical and educated on the entire jury. True, you always have to be wary about a man who spends 25 years researching the life of another man, albeit combined with his heavy Northern English accent and direct demeanor for both praise and criticism, he surprises me with his intellect.

Nelita True (pianist): Points for studying with my idol, Claude Frank. Needs a bit of work on wardrobe choice, since the mono-color full body outfit was in style only to worshipers of Jackie Kennedy and the artist formerly known as Prince. She, however, is truly a pianist's pianist, and her ideas seem to reflect this in style.

Pavlina Dukovska (pianist): Overly analytical Bulgarian woman - I suspect she probably douses Ritalin, Prozac, just-add-water scrambled eggs, and 2-day-old pizza into a blender every morning to achieve her overbearing energy. Great musician, if not a bit melodramatic; we spent 35 minutes together trying to make four measures more "special". Heh.

Kemal Gekic (pianist): Haha. This guy cracks me up. Maybe I'm not too keen on the cultural boundaries of style and professionalism in Croatia. This guy strikes me as a man who stylistically emulates (or attempts to) Fabio (in the I-can't-believe-it's-not-butter phase), Don Corleone from The Godfather, and some mild mannered stereotypical professor that walks around with a coat around his body without putting his arms through the armholes - purely for the distinguished 'look' of it.

Logan Skelton (musicological pianist): Sigh. Depressing. The quintessential failure; the man we all try NOT to end up like. Overly impressed with inconsequential musical ideas he "discovers", this a man who yearns to be heard. Living life through his students, this is the guy to fear in the same way a corporate employee does about the disgruntled worker next to him ready to go postal with a Tek-9 and AK-47.

Jorge Luis Prats (cuban pianist): Definitely the happiest man on the jury. Good thing? Sure. With the obese look of a mafia boss, endlessly chain smoking Marlboro Reds, and consistently cussing at the grass for making too much noise while it grows, this guy thinks he knows it ALL. Literally. So utterly convinced by every idea he possesses, this man epitomizes the true concert pianist. The anti-renaissance man. Guaranteed to make you laugh.

I've never seen such a funny jury in my life. Sad that the three judges I truly respect as pianists and musicians did not pass me. The three boneheaded idiots and the one non-pianist writer however, seemed to love it - and passed me with no question. What does this say about my playing?

I'm giddy as a school girl. Why?

Congratulations to my faithful homeboy, Ryo, for making it today to the finals of the Hilton Head International Piano Competition. Nobody deserves it more, and you are the single greatest pianist with whom I have ever had the privilige of working.

Classical musicians are mutually blessed and cursed: the latter with low pay, high rent, canned tuna, and cheap wine. The former, however, with the chance to travel the world and schmooze with the filthily wealthy.

I want you all to picture the following scene: Ryo, Orlay, and I sitting in an outdoor hot tub of a 10 million dollar house on the beach, with the sun setting in the backdrop of the Atlantic ocean 100 feet away, drinking 300 dollar champagne and smoking illegally purchased Cuban cigars. This is right after a meal of fresh raw oysters and shrimp.

Does it get any better?

Reactions from Alan Walker's lecture on "Liszt: The Cultural Ambassador":

Spending three years at Yale University breeds a distinctive small town mentality that consistently favors a German musical bias. The entire faculty at Yale, as I've come to realize, is so incredibly vehement against non-German music that after awhile, you almost seem to believe that composers such as Liszt and Rachmaninoff really do cater only to the ignorant and uneducated. Today, I was thankfully sucked back into reality with a lecture that truly proves the contrary.

The ignorant and uneducated, as I've come to learn, are the professors at Yale. Bold statement, I know.

Alan Walker, who has quickly come to be regarded as the foremost guru on the life of Franz Liszt (he spent 25 years researching him), yesterday presented one of the most enlightening and inspiring lectures I've ever attended. The lecture presented Liszt as the ultimate humanitarian, the true gentleman, the intellectual, the impresario, the writer, the reader, the transcriber, the performer, the poet, the painter, the radical, the conservative, and of course, the composer.

Perhaps more than any finer point of the lecture was truly the annihilation of the Elvis-esque stereotype that seems to perpetually shadow Liszt's image - yesterday, it was replaced with that of the quintessential moralist and humanitarian. Liszt was Horowitz, Maynard Solomon, Richard Taruskin, Martha Argerich, John Cage, and yes, Elvis Presley, all beautifully rolled into the enigma that clouds history today.

Sad that Yale shall probably forever remain in its cultural bubble, content to live life amongst the snobbery of conservative German Romantics and the serialism of post-war expressionists. There is more to life than Brahms and Schoenberg, and to deny this is to live a truly unhappy life.

Robert and Clara Schumann once hosted a dinner party their residence, to which the likes of Berlioz, Brahms, Liszt, and Wagner were invited. Liszt and Wagner, in classic renaissance charm, arrived two hours late; half-drunk, of course. Liszt proceeded to shpeal on a tirade insulting the music of Mendelssohn as elementary, at which point an angered Robert Schumann approached him and struck him on the chest, just before storming upstairs in a rage.

Franz Liszt, with the charm and a smile, told Clara, "Please inform your huband that he is the only musician whom I respect enough to tolerate such behavior."

Hilton Head. Perhaps I'm going through a late stage of every musician's psychological nightmare: Am I just living in a fairy tale?

As musicians, we're constantly being bombarded with the most depressing dichotomy; the emotional paradox: if the people that I love believe in me, why am I getting rejected over and over and over again? How many rejections will it take to stomp out a dream?

As a man, I am constantly paying for my mistakes. I make a lot of them, in life and in music, but the immediacy of the latter is more psychologically disturbing than the macroscopic duration of the former. This year, I simultaneously pay for both at a price that is pushing me to a human limit I am being tested to endure for the love of my trade. I don't know how much more I can take.....or at least before I resort to the manual labor of lifting boxes for Staples at minimum wage.

The mistakes I made years ago (really....YEARS ago) that follow me today in every endeavor I pursue seem to only be a reflective reminder of the mistakes I make at the piano that follow me to the announcements of results time again and again.

It's common knowledge today that the best political move for a politician in D.C who makes a mistake is to fess up to it, apologize, and pay for it. (Arnie conquered it well when he fessed up to his bullshit sexual harrassment charge) I've fessed up, I've apologized, and I'm paying for it. Now, it's time to just stop making mistakes.

What I am about to say will enrage the in-readers of those who actually dare to pick up those unrewindable piece of medium called books.

I don't think David Sedaris is that great. Yes. I SAID IT. He's not that great. He's ok.

So I just read "Me Talk Pretty One Day". I finished it. It was good. He's funny. But deep down inside, I think he's just a watered down version of Dave Barry, whom I am sure gets lower points already amongst the intellectually homosexual for the sheer fact that he's not gay. Which brings Sedaris to another witty advantage; he's gay. A lot of his humor is "Will and Grace" on a more respectable literary medium, and really nothing else. It's good. Just not great.

I just thought of that after I read this article today by Dave Barry and couldn't stop laughing: http://www.miami.com/mld/miamiherald/living/columnists/dave_barry/5564439.htm

For those too lazy to click the link, I'll paste some here.

[start quote]


It's tax time. I know this because I'm staring at documents that make no sense to me, no matter how many beers I drink.

Take, for example, my Keogh Plan. If you're wondering what a Keogh Plan is, the technical answer is: Beats me. All I know is, I have one, and the people who administer it are always sending me Important Tax Information. Here's the first sentence of their most recent letter, which I swear I am not making up:

``Dear David: The IRS has extended the deadline for the restatement of your plan to comply with GUST and various other amendments until, in most instances, September 30, 2003.''

I understand everything in that sentence, up to ''David.'' After that I am lost. Apparently I have until September 30 (in most instances) to get my plan -- no, sorry, the restatement of my plan -- to comply with something (but what?) called ''GUST.'' And of course various other amendments. But how do I do this? And what if I don't?

The letter doesn't make this clear. It does, however, say this: ''You must adopt EGTRRA prior to the end of the plan year beginning in 2002.'' I am, frankly, reluctant to adopt anything called ''EGTRRA,'' which sounds like the name of a giant radioactive chicken that destroys Tokyo.

The thing is, this letter isn't from the Internal Revenue Service (``We're Working To Put You in Jail!''). It's from people on MY side, people who sincerely want to tell me something, probably important, about GUST and EGTRRA. But I won't even try to finish their letter. I'll put it, with all the other tax documents that I do not understand, in a folder marked ''Taxes,'' and I'll mail it to a guy I know named Evan. A few weeks later he'll mail me back a tax return that I will sign and send along to the IRS without reading any part of it, except where it says ``SIGN HERE.''

That's right: I have no idea what my tax return says, even though I'm legally responsible for it. I just have to hope that, when Evan prepares it, he's not in a prankish mood:

IRS AUDITOR: Mr. Barry, can you explain why, on page 27 of your return, stapled to Form 4992, ''Depreciation and Amortization,'' is the thymus gland of an otter?
ME: That's not mine!
IRS AUDITOR: Also, on page 23, you claim, as dependents, and I quote: ``The Entire Cast of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.''

[end quote]

It's hard to make coherent sense out of such an enigmatic locale as Hilton Head Island - a haven for the senile octogenarian and the wealthy golf pro; a retired paradise for the republican values of the congenitally elite. Here, the daily decision making revolves around what time to call Bob for the morning golf match and when to make space for naming that demented alligator who keeps trying to climb the fence of our gated community.

It's a nice vacation. Any more than 10 days here would force me to eat decomposing feces from a wrinkled goat for mere pleasure, but for the time being, it serves as a good breather.

To be able to socialize and drink wine with the most conservative of conservatives is a talent I am quickly getting accustomed to. I just have to remember catch phrases like "Yes siree, those tax cuts sure do make life easier!" and "Hunting season starts soon for the live buffalo, wild turkey, and runaway homosexuals!".

Sigh. Send me home.

Midnight conversations with my girlfriend:

car LOCO 69: think about this scenario
car LOCO 69: i get rejected from juilliard (most likely)
car LOCO 69: i get a job at uhaul (if they take me)
car LOCO 69: struggle to make rent (just barely)
car LOCO 69: and i become a complete bum
YuMi43: ok
car LOCO 69: then some new hot incoming pianist comes in
car LOCO 69: and leigh hall opens up
car LOCO 69: and suddenly you're "practicing late" every night
car LOCO 69: while i deliver uhaul trucks to deadbeat alcoholics moving apartments post-divorce
car LOCO 69: i come home to an empty apartment, and you call me saying that "ooops sorry. is it already 3am? i lost track of time playing my strauss concerto"
car LOCO 69: "strauss didn't write a concerto, baby"
car LOCO 69: "oh he didn't?"
car LOCO 69: "i meant, um...sibelius!"
YuMi43: should we just break up now before any of this actually happens?
car LOCO 69: and you'll start seeing some outlaw biker named harley with no social security card just for the excitement of non-musician sex
* * *
YuMi43: i already found someone
car LOCO 69: awww
car LOCO 69: me too
YuMi43: my vagina

More South Carolina conversations:

Host father: You know, I did a lot of business in the Philippines. It used to be a great place under Marcos.

Me: Marcos was a murdering dictator...

Host father: Yes, but he ran the country quite well. Now...it's not so great. You know, I had dinner with Imelda once! Charming lady.

Me: Um...Yeah, but she was kind of a psychopath...

Host father: [obviously not listening] Well, anyway. The Philippines really was beautiful, wasn't it?


It's gonna be a long ten days.

Initial thoughts on South Carolina.

Host mother: If you feel like getting some fresh air or going for a walk, do be careful walking by yourself outside.

Me: But I thought this a gated community.

Host mother: Yes it is, but you'll have to watch out for the alligators!

Me: Alligators??

Host mother: Yes, we just saw a 15 footer today! You can't outrun them. But if you do come across one, try and zig zag if they chase you. Or if you see a tree, try and climb it. Alligators don't climb trees.

Me: I see...

Take notice.

Mr. Frank is playing Schubert B-Flat Sonata on March 29th. If you live around here and you miss this, you will probably die ignorant and otherwise unhappy.

Scandal, scandal. The issue of politics in the classical music world knows no end.

[begin quote]

Ms. Yoheved Kaplinsky, one of the twelve competition jurors, asked to be relieved of her position, citing the fact that seven of her pupils were accepted into the competition. “I regretfully feel I must step down from the jury,” said Ms. Kaplinsky. “I believe it is in the best interests of the competition for me to do so.” Cliburn president Richard Rodzinski added, “having so many of her pianists accepted to the competition is an extraordinary tribute to such a great teacher.”

[end quote]