First, allow me to apologize for misspelling Debussy at the end of my last article. I am blushing with mortification.

You cannot possibly chide me - "the grammar cop" - more vehemently than I have chided me. I let myself off with a warning this time, but next time, it's jail-time. I am not sure what that will entail, exactly; perhaps I shall stand in the corner, facing the wall, and read some badly written book, or this year's entries in the "It Was a Dark and Stormy Night" contest.


When I began to write for the paper on a free-lance basis, I promised myself that when I ran out of things to say, I would stop writing. I have not yet exhausted my store, but my output will always be erratic, and when I begin to have less to say, I shall write less often, and eventually - stop. I've always been more of a sprinter than a long-distance runner.

I say this only to prevent any of you from thinking, should you not see my name in the paper for a while, that I am not writing because a) I got "fired" (not yet); b) I'm sick (well, maybe my humor from time to time); c) I'm dead (again, not yet); d) I ticked off somebody (that probably wouldn't stop me); or e) I was bothered by some responses to one of my articles (au contraire, mon frère).

With regard to that last one, during my summer hiatus (which I decided to take because summer is usually too full of outdoor home-owning duties to spend time writing in addition to working a full-time job), some people thought I had stopped because of the deluge of pro-Stravinsky letters from Luther music students, who were valiantly defending their turf. Heavens, no. In fact, that couldn't be further from the truth.

The truth is, I was on summer break, and it is only the drought and 100-degree days which have enabled me to ignore my yard and my house altogether, and to spend some time being irritable and misspelling Debussy instead.

Gentler articles will be forthcoming in the fall. Thank you.