And the band played on...

This evening, I'm walking the pup rather late, because Bubba and I were chowing down and drinking too much wine and talking about our various friends and the never-ending dialogue about spirituality. (Btw, she says my interpretation of her thoughts on straight-queer gal relationships is incorrect: She is *not* suggesting repression. But, in splitting hairs, we find we have different definitions of "attraction." So therein lies the rub.)

So perhaps my intoxication has *something* to do with how I interpreted this situation I'm about to describe, but perhaps ... not.

Fridays, I take my cello lesson, right? And Fridays, me being a single, non-dating (except for the thankfully rare errant and horrifying blind date) cello-learning lesbian, I tend to spend my evenings at home practicing what I've learned.

I usually kick this up sometime between 7 (after I've woken from my *nap* and taken the pup for his evening stroll) and 9 or so, after which I think perhaps I ought not play on accounts the cello is loud when played correctly. Not that it matters one good shit to my neighbors, as this is regarded as "live-work" space and we all seem to have an anything-goes attitude about noise. So sometimes, I do practice as late as 11 or so.

But, generally, it's between 7 and 9 in the evening, except for the nights I'm in school, that the neighborhood is treated to my renditions of such classics as "Mary Had a Little Lamb," "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star," "Ode to Joy" and something to which all listeners have remarked, "That sounds like Frere Jacques, but there's something wrong with it."

So, back to my evening walk with the pup.... I'm walking up to the entrance of my building when I notice a note posted in the window of the Thai restaurant that's immediately beneath my loft. It says: "We are proud to announce that we will be offering live music every Friday betwen 7 and 9 p.m."

I'm a narcissist, right? Diagnosable, even! Because what I think is, Uh-oh, this guy's not piggy-backing on my cello practice, is he? Because I *know* they can hear me playing, especially the people who eat outside.

It's not until considerably later that I think: Hey. Maybe he's actually trying to drown me out. ... Well, fuck him. My D-scales in thirds aren't *that* bad!"

So, henceforth, Friday nights in this little corner of town will be like dueling banjos. Whatever the hell music Chin's got going in his restaurant downstairs (if, in fact, he's not mooching off my cello work) is going to be intermingling with my cello practice. How delightful for those who dine outside....

I'm hoping, of course, that I will still be able to *hear* my cello -- or my TV, for that matter. But whatever. It's all good. At least, I no longer need to set my alarm to ensure I wake up from my nap by 7 p.m. And maybe the music will be good. Maybe, dueling with my cello, it will be like the devil went down to Georgia.