I'm sitting in my car crying to the end of the first act of Nutcracker. And I come in the door spinning like some kind of freak. If I didn't like girls so much I'd question my own sexuality. No wonder all the kids at my middle school were so darn certain I was gay.
On the other hand . . . Tchaikovsky did write some very good music. Maybe if I were gay I'd also be rich and famous. (And somewhat more talented than I presently am.)
Yeah, it's been an emotional and goofy year. But I' do like Pyotr Illyitch. And all those folks that insist that Brahms is salvation and Tchaikovsky (or Wagner) an untalented hack can go suck it. Don't get me wrong, I like Brahms too, but I'll tell you what, I'd much rather play (or listen to) Tchaikovsky. Which means half my professors will now officially hate me.
And oh yes, there is a point to Christmas. It's not Christmas without mice and little girls having whacked out acid trips. And I officially like cultures where fairy tales are for grown ups. (For the curious, Russian opera is also replete with fairy tales. Fairy tales with big hairy men that sing really low and gardens full of lithe exotic princesses . . . And dwarves who keep their magic in their beards. It's just that kinky.)
But then Russia always did fairy tales better than Disney. Better music, better stories. Just . . . better.
Ladies and gentlemen, it's the holidays, so go out and crack some nuts. And dance!
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