Sippican Cottage

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A Man Who Has Nothing In Particular To Recommend Him Discusses All Sorts of Subjects at Random as Though He Knew Everything

Your Plumbing Doesn’t Work

I played trombone in a local symphony orchestra many long years ago. You’d be hard pressed to believe how little classical music is written for the awful piece of plumbing I was blatting into. Like many “modern” instruments, it got parts written for other instruments transcribed for it, here and there, but in general, you’d open up the sheet music and see the the big bar going across the page to indicate the number of measures you were supposed to count silently without playing before you got to your part, and the number would be something like 242. Then play fourteen notes and get another 242 bars rest. Imagine counting to 4 — 242 times. It was like 100 Bottles of Beer on the Wall, only duller because you were sober. Well, everybody else was sober. I started drinking.

So I like to see the freaks getting some. Here’s Mozart, played on a Flugelhorn. Man, that’s just wrong. But I don’t want to be right; never have.

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