Why? You may ask.

“You live in a trailer? Really?” No, I’m just saying that to impress you, freak. I actually own a loft in the state of Bardo, just south of the border between Deva and Asura. It’s got a hot tub with a skylight and the best bands ever practice in the warehouse on the other side of the interior courtyard. You can drink the most amazing, dark-roasted, fair-trade blends under shaded colonnades while soaking in their jams. Cats curl in splayed bundles catching flecks of sun spray while lithe groupies cloister like fluttering muses and children giggle in guileless bliss. But the commutes a bitch so while I’m going to school and avoiding hordes of inconsiderate roommates it’s a trailer life for me.

Now, in light of recent comments questioning the coherency of my links and blurbs, it has become incumbent upon me to lay down some ground rules and shore up the agenda for this little blog of mine. Obviously, there will be stuff about trailers, trailer parks, citizens living within them or lurking about the premises and, obviously, occasional operatic dealings to boot. While information will aim toward one side or the other of this natural chasm, the divide also sets up a framework for so much material fated to fall so inevitably between them. In these postmodernist postings, high culture and low will seek to find common ground in whatever whimsical fashion suits me at the moment. I seek inclusivity with the multiplicitous manifestations of chaos and control hurling our remarkable species ever onward through the continuum and, considering how numerically inconsequential the demographic for double-wide dwelling bel canto enthusiasts is from an advertising standpoint, I believe this makes good business sense.



That’s enough blather for the day. Here’s Renee Fleming singing Song to the Moon from Rusalka by Dvorak, the last opera I performed in. Observe a water sprite, fallen for a prince, asking the moon to give him the good news.