A real composer's life being half excess and half picayune score corrections, it's come to my attention that my biography has recently been lacking in the excess side. Perhaps I need a vice? (I mean, in addition to swearing, gambling, jaywalking...) Otherwise, my life be boring, dull, if domestic bliss, neither the stuff of great biographies, like Anatole France's Gesualdo or Stendhal's Rossini nor equipped with the kind of indiscretions a Wagner or Thomson would omit from their autobiographies.
(photo: my only cigarette, taken by Megan Simpson, ca. 1982)