So here’s what happened. This morning I’m all jubilant over last night’s blog entry and I throw caution to the wind and I decide to keep the party rolling. I get in the car and I’m driving to work and I put “Chicago IX - Chicago's Greatest Hits” in the CD player.
LOUD!!!
And what do I discover, completely unbeknownst to me?
That’s right. You guessed it.
With absolutely no musical training whatsoever, I can do every trumpet part from “25 or 6 to 4” all the way to “Saturday in the Park.” And when I say “do” I mean do perfectly, with an over-the-top, strident, blaring vocal falsetto that resonates with the door panels and rattles the moon roof!
I am so impressed with myself that I crank it to 11 and roll down all the windows. People at red lights are looking in their rear view mirrors for an ambulance. Dogs are barking at me. Several parked cars had their burglar alarms go off by accident.
What a buzz! I am a horn section GOD!1!!!!!!!!
Even if I’m really supposed to be playing flugelhorn, it makes no difference.
I am a middle-aged, completely ordinary guy overwhelmed by indifference and the promise of an early bed.
And I ROCK!!1!!!!!!1!!!!!!
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6 comments:
There was this guy who was the drummer in a band. The band had a great local following and was known for its horn section. The drummer went to medical school and is now a doctor. The band was Chicago.
Just so we're clear:
Everybody
- and I do mean everybody -
needs a little time away.
Far away.
From each other.
Even lovers?
Wow, I wouldn't expect dirty laundry to be aired out here! Glad I checked in.
Dear Bissage, I confess. I'm disappointed in you.
I thought you were going to say you were able to FART the entire horn section from "25 or 6 to 4".
Not at all, Cut It, not at all.
You see, there are reasons for this and I shall set forth three herewith: (1) I am a gentleman of high stature, breeding and discernment; (2) I am all about split tones but three parts is, I am somewhat ashamed to say, more than I can be reasonably expected to comfortably handle; and (3) recent scatological events have counseled well my decision to call a tactical retreat from the industrial grade oatmeal that stout yeomen employ to remove barnacles from fishing vessels and to, instead, fall back to the Apple-Cinnamon Cheerios that I have, lo these many years, referred to fondly as “home base.”
Musically Yours,
Bissage
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