The Maestro s Whereabouts

		The Maestro's Whereabouts

		I am fully aware that many of you have purchased the present tome you are holding in your hand with the express purpose of finding out something about the music of the 20th century. I hasten to assure you that indeed that is my intention and I shall boldly tackle that very subject forthwith.

		However, if you have read my previous opus, you also know that, following the Maestro's stellar  nay, saintly  example, I do not back down from facing hard, cold facts and those unsettling truths that most authors shy away from, through fear, false modesty or guilty consciences.* I will not tolerate that kind of weak-willed shilly-shallying, so I forge ahead where few follow behind.

		Let me get to the point:

		MAESTRO COLLI ALBANI DID NOT GO TO THE BETTY FORD!

		Now, I hope that simple straightforward statement from such a trust-worthy source as myself will quell the plethora of queries, albeit mostly local in nature (although a few international eyebrows have been raised in a quizzzical-slash-accusatory manner). So let me put all, near and far, straight vis vis the Maestro's whereabouts.

		Due to an infection that set in after the unfortunate butane torch incident behind the barn-slash-garage that occurred whilst writing the ultimate chapter of my last book, the Maestro, for reasons known only to that unparalleled mind (although many feel his Desoto death knell to poor Lucy was a significant factor), nevertheless decided to eschew the modern world of medical science and seek succour from Zephaniah, an enigmatic hag who practices Druidic cures and remedies up north of Stipples Corners in a ramshackle shed at the end of a long-since-cared-for crabapple orchard. Zephaniah's potions are mysteriously, yet powerfully effective for body, mind and spirit and Colli indeed has recovered completely from just about everything that has ever ailed him in his entire life.

		Now, as to the various reported sightings of our esteemed magister of the musicological realm from way up the peninsula and as far south as the Motel Dip'n Doze in Brampton, I can only attribute them to the jealous ragings of envious lesser minds wanting, in whatever way they can, to detract

		*To whit, the chapter on Brahms and Gas in my first book created such a stir within several ecclesiastical presbyteries that only the broad-minded Anglican rector and one old German Lutheran would speak to me for months. All I did was speak the truth about problems we all have (and have heard), but there is a price to pay for honesty and I do miss singing the hymns.