Your First Serving of Word-Mousse

Have you seen Lindsey Stirling? If you answered in the negative, you should. Now.

Or maybe you shouldn’t. I have a strong suspicion she’s not human. She’s probably some kind of changling-pixie that slipped over to our world so we foolish mortals could amuse her. Don’t believe me? Look at her in elf ears.

Case closed.

For those of you who aren’t familiar, she dances around exotic places on YouTube while sawing away on a violin. She works out harder playing music than I do when I’m actually working out.

There’s something wonderful about fiddling and dancing. I felt the same way when I first saw Vanessa Mae. You’d think I’d be inured by now. But I’m not. It’s bizarre because when pop divas dance around, it irritates me. I guess that’s because anyone can run around and yell something—toddlers do it all the time. But run around and play a violin? That takes skill. The only way Stirling could top herself is if she juggled citrus with her feet while playing “Flight of the Bumblebee.” (For those of you that didn’t know, “Flight of the Bumblebee” is capital H, capital C, Hard Core.)

Her violin does more than just impress musically, though. It somehow makes the videos more sensuous. When I watch them I feel like I should keep one eye on the door and my mouse-icon over the Close Window option. Her movies are one of the most sensuous things on the internet, in spite of or perhaps because she keeps her clothes on.

Yes, we’re talking about the same internet.

I know a tiny bit about instruments. I give my saxophone mouth-to-mouth from time to time and I’m even able, on occasion, to revive it. I've always felt there’s something intimate about them. It’s easy to forget this with concert music, but it’s glaringly obvious when you see the blues. Those guys aren’t just sweating because of the stage-lights, my friend.

The reason I said you probably shouldn’t see her is because these fairy-musician incidents never end well. We mortals inevitably come out looking like idiots. I keep expecting to wake up one morning and discover that the pixie-fiddler has absconded with our nation’s children—all forty million of them—à la the Pied Piper. Let’s be honest: if that woman played the Come Hither, could you say no?

I sure as hell wouldn’t. I mean couldn’t. I meant to say couldn’t.

It’s the pixie-glamour talking, I swear.

Jesus, I hope my wife doesn’t read this one.

Next Week: I may go back to musings on dark stuff, which seems to happen anyway. I realize now that my "pixie-child-abduction-conspiracy" piece may not be so light after all.