fini

It's a quarter past eight ante meridiem and I am done packing. Only I know what it took to reach this point.

"Three moves are equivalent to a fire," Andrew's father quipped. I've jettisoned several reams of paper over the past week, but only now that most of my apartment is in boxes am I throwing out the 30% DEET roll-on I purchased in Belgium. My unwillingness to part with it is less pack rat instinct, I suspect, than mortal terror. I'm keeping the rest of my arsenal stuff around to arm myself against the Groningen mosquitoes.

AGO Fight Song

We're AGO, we're AGO
We guard Cecilian flanks;
Through music's fray
We gravely go forth
Undivided, united
And armed with pipes in ranks
We know with Diapasons Great and Swell
And with just two feet and hands
Our sound
Can astound
And confound
All philharmonic bands

With registration, Gen'rals set,
Our armed Aeolian squad
With loud Cornet, Posaune, Trompette
At the ready, all steady and mounted en chamade,
To shake the walls we'll couple our Bombarde
And with Tuba daunt the foe.
We say
It's OK Hip Hoo-ray
For we're the AGO.