It was the Blog of times, it was the Blurst of times

Keep an eye out for a weekend preview of some Manhattan concerts...and for an essay (geared towards young people) on "How to listen to Music" - a live concert guide really.
It's also been Fundraising time at WITF, so things have been busy, and playoff hockey time, practicing violin time and well you get teh idea, it's been wild and wacky at ClassicallyHip.
So in a humorous discourse with a friend via email, this old joke came along, and I have to post:
THE MUSICIAN MAKES HIMSELF GLIERE
You can Telemann by where he wants to live. I just Toch a trip Orff into the Beethoven spaces Fauré Weick, and to be Franck, it drove Menotti. Within a few days I was missing the city so Munch that, even though the weather wasn't Clementi, I couldn't resist my Honegger to Galuppi right Bach home early Satie. I know opinion Varese: but Vivaldi noise of the Bizet traffic, de Falla engines, and knowing there are Mennin the streets Callas enough to knock your Bloch off, I Haieff to say I prefer the Mitropolous.
The Boyce were Sor I couldn't stand the Riegger out in the Field, but I don't give a Schütz. I thought I'd lose my Saint-Saëns in the country. Let me Lizst the sounds: the Rorem of the wind, the Lipatti, Patti, Tippett, Glinka, Poulenc of the rain on the roof, the Massenet of the horses, the Menuhin of the cats, the Gluck-Gluck of the woodpeckers Chopin holes in the Bartok, the incessent Tcherpnin of a Byrd in a nearby Grofé, and every morning LeCocq crows. I got poison Ives when a Wolf chased me into a Brio Partch. I'm no Robeson Caruso. I could have died of Borodin talking to the Babbitt. A friend said the country is the best place to live; Abegg his pardon. Another friend said he didn't like it in those Gotterdammerung Hills; I agree, only Morceau. Not for all the Gould and Diamond would I go back.
I don't Cherubini for the Ruggles life. I like a full Mehul three times a day, a dry Martini and Szigeti at Joe's. I like to Locatelli in the evenings. Is that asking for Egk in Meyerbeer? Nono! In fact, I Ravel in the Bliss of urban existence. So many Weber under a Holst of problems they feel they can't Handel. Their answer is too Offenbach to nature - into Haydn I call it. I carry on a d'Indy life in this Berg. Delibes me.