At this point in Custer’s Last Stand, dude was crying for his mama, not bugling.
All things worth doing are worth doing well and that takes practice, practice, practice.
That’s how life works. It makes stuff
hard to complete, tough to repeat
and just as soon as we become
very good normal behavior
saunters in and sucks up
every bit we’ve gained
in a single swoopy
swoop swoop.
Thank you, friend.
Barry out.
I practiced trumpet as a kid and after years of playing knew I’d never make the supposed 10,000 hours it takes to become an expert.
Niels Bohr defined an expert as “A person that has made every possible mistake within his or her field.”
Shite starts rat here:
I hated practicing my trumpet as a kid.
I wanted to play guitar but my dad said, “NO, trumpet!” He liked hearing revile and last post after a couple of beers. I never cared for either tune. They wore me out. Did start liking beer though.
No one says “Hey, why don’t you bring your trumpet out to our party? Maybe you could honk out some old war tunes for us!”
Writing though. Writing is different. THAT I can take to uhh… well at least I can drink while I do this. Not with a trumpet you can’t.
(this is like 8 times I’ve mentioned booze in this story. 8 times!)
I played in a little orchestra when I was 14 – 16 yrs old. My band teacher and school vice-principle / scout leader and two other kids formed a swinging group called Christie’s Combo.
Christie forgot to tell us that he had epilepsy and as leader of our little band gave the audience more show than they paid for. It was quite exciting for all of us because I’d never seen anyone choke on their tongue before.
Plus Christie got lost a lot. Christie.