Why I hope the Orange Line never automates announcements

"Next stop, Forest Hills...what am I talking about, 'Forest Hills'. Next stop, Back Bay station."

Close enough for jazz...wait

Me (pointing to treble clef): What's this called?
12-year-old student: A clef.
Me: Right, what kind of clef?
Student: Um...the big fancy clef?

I'd so much rather have students come up with this kind of answer than stare blankly for what seems like hours.

Why is it that...

...every time I see one of my colleagues/families/someone who can get me gigs, I'm invariably a) playing something I'm not entirely secure with, b) having mechanical difficulties, c) attacked by a sudden onset of nerves, or d) all of the above?

C'est la guerre, I suppose.

Quotable

From a fourth-grade student, whom I am forever hassling to play louder: I'm gonna play it so loud, my butt will go crazy!

(No, I don't know exactly what she meant, nor do I want to.)

Same student, different lesson, re: Gossec Gavotte: They should call it the Gothic Gavotte and I could wear all black except then I'd have to go out and buy black nail polish and black lipstick.