Horns

It's a little-known fact that I love horns. The bigger and brassier, the better. And loud. I love me some loud horn. What may surprise you is I play horn. I am my own human instrument. I can when prompted properly imitate the awesome sound of the horn, completely unaided. You'd have to be real special to witness this event but no doubt you'd be changed.

So I happened upon some horns tonight in what they call a jazz ensemble, a quintet to be exact. Not one horn, but two. One big, one small. I was immediately excited at the prospect and imagined I might join in as special guest. You really can't go wrong with horns. Except when you can and you do. Bad horn. Very bad horn.

Not that I lay all the blame on the horns and their masters. Nay. I'm pretty sure it had something to do with the bass player, under whose name -- nay spell -- my horn(ed) brothers played. I wanted to rescue them and one was definitely small enough for me to conceal in my pocket if I happened to have a pocket which I most certainly did not. It was tragedy all around.

There is no turning back from bad horn. I could have jumped in and attempted some sort of musical miracle but in all failure there is some amount of success. Either that was really deep or complete nonsense. I vote deep. Tonight I dream of horns. You should be so lucky.