Pinchas Zuckerman and the Nudie Cyclists

I heard a strange thing on the radio, today. During a live interview for the CBC, Walter Prystawski, concertmaster of the National Arts Centre Orchestra, had some moderately unkind words for conductor Pinchas Zuckerman*. Mr. Zuckerman, he said, no longer has his heart in the job. He doesn't put enough passion into his conducting--or, perhaps, into the business of being a conductor. (I wasn't listening too closely, at first. I was working up a description of the smell of human beings, and only became interested in the goings-on at the National Arts Centre when the tone of the interview changed.)

Mr. Prystawski seemed dignified, to begin with--pleasant, humble, all that sort of thing. That was what made it surprising, when he started to bag on a colleague. It was quite astonishing, really. One minute, he was discussing the function of a concertmaster; the next, he was comparing Mr. Zuckerman (unfavourably, I might add) to a young conductor whose name escapes me.

What's the etiquette for criticising one's co-workers in public, I wonder? I'd have thought it wasn't done, myself--or if it was, you'd do it obliquely. Instead of "Mr. Zuckerman has lost his dedication to his art," for instance, you might say "Even the greatest of artists feels the ebb and flow of inspiration," or "Recently, the orchestra soared under the direction of Mr. [wossname--wee Canadian conductor whose name I've forgotten]."

At any rate, I do hope Mr. Zuckerman isn't the vengeful sort. One could have a nasty "accident" with a baton.

Now that I think of it, I attended a concert at the National Arts Centre, once. I don't think Zuckerman was conducting, but Mr. Prystawski was there. It was a long time ago. I can't remember what they played. It's driving me bonkers, now. I remember where I sat, what I wore, and what I drank at the intermission**, but not the concert. Maybe they played Má vlast, and a selection of Polish folk dances. No--it was The Lark Ascending, and some minuets by Telemann. (What? No way!) Oh, it was the overture from Die Meistersinger, and various Christmas tunes. That's right. It was a holiday concert. Later that evening, I went skating on the Rideau Canal. I ate something called a "beaver tail," and poked myself in the leg with a skate. I bought an ugly poncho, which I now use as an oven glove. (Was that all on the same day?)

Well, enough of that. On Saturday, I dropped a panful of gyoza. I had just cleaned the floor, and the double-slickness of Lysol and cooking oil sent gyoza sliding everywhere. I spent the next twenty minutes poking around under the dishwasher with a coathanger. In addition to the gyoza, I found two bottlecaps, an onion, and the mother of all hairballs. (Queer, that. I haven't got a cat.)

On Sunday, I listened to a lot of Bach. I didn't do much else, but there was something--what the hell was it? Something exciting happened, and I can't for the life of me--

--OH!

No, it must've been Saturday. It was the same day as the gyoza, anyway. There I was, feet up, book on my chest, when didn't a great hooting and hollering arise from outside? I looked out the window, and the street was full of cyclists. Naked cyclists. Can you imagine? I just about broke my face, I was grinning so hard.

Nothing much else happened. I was very tired. I went to bed early, and slept late. I ate microwave dinners, not wanting a repeat of the gyoza disaster. All in all, an ordinary weekend, chez Rat.

* Is it Zuckerman or Zukerman? I found both spellings online.
** Near the front; black and white; ginger ale.