The penguin and the aging rock star

Although he didn't waddle so much as stride across the stage, I couldn't help but think of a penguin. He was small of stature, tiny really, and wore a tuxedo. And all I could think was how absurd it seemed that this little penguin man exuded such a pompous air - full of confidence and bravado and not quite likeable for some inexplicable reason. And then with a flick of his wrist, the entire orchestra came to attention. He coaxed such a beautiful array of sound and song from them, all with a flick of the wrist, a nod of the head. And between songs he strode off the stage and then back on - milking the applause until it seemed there should be none left. And again after the next song, he left and was beckoned back once more by the applause of the half filled room.

And then a flurry of activity, a grand piano is brought centre stage and from the wings our soloist appears. In a silver and black brocade jacket and pants that fit like the tightest Levis (but still with the silver and black motif), he arrives onstage like one of the Rolling Stones. The crowd seems momentarily puzzled but they applaud ever louder (that's what you do for the soloist after all).

The moment arrives, the song begins, and the room is filled by the sound of the piano. Then, with a pointed look, the penguin brings in the orchestra. What came next felt somehow like a competition, but of the best kind, where one combatant brings out the best in the other. Going back and forth - piano to orchestra and back again - until they finally commingle in the crescendo of the climax of the song. Each time the orchestra raises the stakes is preceded by that same pointed, knowing glance from the penguin.

And at the end of this song, the applause seems genuine. The penguin, in his tuxedo, and the aging rock star, in his skin tight silver brocade, have finally brought the room to their feet.

OR ... maybe it was the Dayquil.