A Good Friend

Fun Fact: I’ve got a good friend whom I’ve never spoken to and whose name is completely unknown to me.

Now, after reading the above statement, I’m going to guess at your initial response, based entirely on your gender:

Guy: “Lucky.”

Girl: “What??”

Yeah, guys often tend to value efficiency and simplicity in matters such as these, opting to instead save their brains for other things, such as determining the mathematical chances of their favorite team making the playoffs or trying to figure out how to talk to girls.

Anyway, the point I’m trying to make here is that simplicity is generally good for guys, which goes a long way in explaining my good friend whom I’ve never spoken to and whose name is completely unknown to me.

Let me elaborate:

Not far from my house is a paved, thee-mile loop, perfect for jogging, walking, and evading the local authorities. I’ve taken to using it quite often, which means that over time I’ve had to develop a specialized technique for encountering others going in the opposite direction. The point of this is to minimize the chances of social interaction, since—at least in my experience—social interaction inevitably leads to social awkwardness.

Now, after reading that last statement, I’m going to guess at your initial response, based entirely on if you know me personally or not:

You Know Me Personally: “I can see that.”

You Don’t Know Me Personally: “What??”

Yeah, sometimes I tend to overthink things, but it’s all in an attempt to keep things simple in the big picture. Anyway, my technique works as follows:

When I encounter somebody on the trail, I initially hope they’re so engrossed in some activity—such as looking at their phone, wondering why they brought their 800-pound, high-velocity dog along with them, or evading the local authorities—that they won’t even notice me pass. If, however, they’re paying attention to their surroundings, I glance in their direction for the briefest of moments, just to be polite. With any luck, we won’t make eye contact, leaving me to conclude that this person is either too snobby to waste time on me or too busy calculating playoff probabilities in their brain. Either way, I can then happily avert my gaze and keep on trucking, satisfied that I tried to be polite. If, however, we end up making eye contact, I will reluctantly nod. (A downward head nod, mind you, not an upward one, as those should be reserved for spouses, other loved ones, and Cy Young Award winners.) Bear in mind, now, that eye contact and a nod is an absolute worst-case scenario, as it can lead to return nods and perhaps even {shudder} waves. (There’s no coming back from a wave. After you exchange one of those, you’re obligated to repeat the process every time you encounter that person until the end of time. In fact, if you ever find yourself in such a predicament, moving to a different state may be the only way to extricate yourself.*)

This brings us to my friend, whom I met on the trail years ago and still see quite often. When we first crossed paths, I did the ol’ polite glance over in his direction, but he was having absolutely nothing to do with it. His eyes were fixated intently on the ground right in front of his shoes, making it obvious that he wanted no part in meeting new people. However, what made this different from other encounters I’d had was that I sensed there was nothing rude or snobby about it. Instead, it was just coldly-efficient and businesslike. I then felt something wash over me, like he was reaching out to me telepathically with the following message: “Look, I’m here, you’re here, and it’s going to keep on happening, so let’s not make a big deal out of it, okay?”

And so, right off the bat, I liked the guy. I mean, who wouldn’t? From the get-go he’d put us in a position where we’d never have to speak to each other—or even attempt eye contact— no matter how many times we met! That in itself deserved maximum respect!

Since then I’ve bumped into him many times, and it's always been the same thing: Head down, eyes to the ground, no attempt to even acknowledge my existence. He’s amazingly consistent, to the point where I’m pretty sure I could walk past him wearing a giant chicken costume and he still wouldn’t bat an eye. Regardless, due to his blunt simplicity and consistency, at some point I decided we were good friends, and as a good friend I’ve found that I enjoy not sending him Christmas cards, not asking him about his personal life, and, in general, not knowing a single thing about him besides having a vague recollection of his facial features. That, in my opinion, is the basis for a solid, long-lasting relationship. In fact, I’d like to think that if we were to randomly meet in a grocery store, we’d both smoothly turn in opposite directions and inherently know to shop in alternating aisles until one of us was able to make a successful escape.

And you just can’t put a price on a friendship like that.

* I miss you, Wisconsin!

The Good Stuff

I’d been trying to ration what I had left, spread it out a little, even though it was an admittedly-foolish strategy. You can’t beat physics, and if you keep consuming without replenishing, eventually you’re going to be left with nothing; it’s just basic math. Plus, eventually it’s not even worth using anymore. Watered down, spread thin, it just doesn’t give the same kick. You’re better off not even teasing yourself with it, and I was now at that point. I was barely even using it once a day.

The problem was that my supplier was hundreds of miles away, and this was the stuff I never had sent to me via the mail. I always brought it back personally, in a bag in the passenger seat of my car. That way I never had to worry about some government stooge accidentally shipping it to the wrong state.

Of course, I could always get some locally. It wouldn’t even be that hard. Take a quick drive into town, find the right people, fork over a little cash, and the deal would be done. However, the local stuff was of inferior quality, and at this point I wasn’t even sure I’d consider it as a last resort. I’d probably rather take a long road trip, regardless of the howling wind and the sheets of snow sweeping across the horizon.

Then I remembered the old cabinet.

Hoping I wasn’t fooling myself—making up memories in exchange for short term hope—I stepped into the small room, swung open the door, and begun to scan the contents of the dusty shelves.

Nothing.

Ignoring the initial wave of despair, I swept some odds and ends over to one side, exposing a back corner, and suddenly my heart skipped a beat. There it was. A brown paper bag, just like I used to bring my lunch to school in.  With fumbling hands, I pulled it out of the shadows. It had a pretty good heft to it, and that was a good sign. The crinkling of the brown paper was loud in the room as I reached in, and a moment later I extracted a brick of the stuff. To say it was a beautiful sight was an understatement, as expressed by the wide smile that blossomed on my face.

Once the initial rush of excitement had passed, I realized I needed to keep track of my stash more closely, so as to avoid this ever happening again. I needed to chart my usage, measure my supply, and replenish early. Never again would I have to rely on finding an overlooked bag in a dark corner of an old cabinet.

I had to fight hard to keep from using it right then and there, and as the hours passed, my anticipation mounted. Finally, I could take it no more. I grabbed one of the bricks and admired it in my hand for a long moment, then stepped into the shower.

Yes, my mom’s homemade soap really was the good stuff.

The Gauntlet of Terror

I feel sweat beading up on my forehead as I slowly peek out from behind my hiding spot, surveying the maze of danger lain out before me. My heart is pounding loudly in my chest, and I find myself continually having to wipe the cold sweat from my hands onto my jeans. Not exactly the way I pictured this day going.

Although everything looks clear now, I know I can’t allow myself to be lulled into a false sense of security. They’re most certainly out there, skittering around looking for victims, able to appear from seemingly out of nowhere in an instant, always ready to pounce.

I take a deep breath. Staying where I am is just as bad as moving around out in the open, and so I have to go for it. I have to at least give myself a chance! Selfishly, I hope they’re busy with others, allowing me the opportunity to slip through their perimeter and gain my freedom. I shake my head at the darkness that’s crept into my thoughts.

I wipe my hands dry again and slide out from behind cover. With my eyes darting about relentlessly, I move ahead ten yards or so before ducking behind another obstruction. Slow and steady, I say to myself. Calm and controlled. You can do this.

I slowly peak out again, and as I do, I see one of them on patrol, winding its way through the chaos, its eyes searching for another victim. I gasp audibly and duck back down, wondering how something so small can be so scary. I also wonder how it can’t hear my heart banging in my chest, for to me it sounds as loud as thunder. I squeeze my eyes shut, as if pretending it's not there will somehow make it go away.

A long minute passes, and miraculously I’m not discovered. Knowing I have to keep moving, I make sure my cargo is still secure and then peak out again. The coast is clear. For now.

The next few minutes are tense, with every nearby sound causing me to shudder in fear. My movements are sporadic and harried as I make my way towards the exit, using every bit of cover I can find along the way. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, I can see it looming ahead, gleaming brightly in the late afternoon sun: the door to the outside world!

However, just as I step out into the open, ready to make a final run, I suddenly see one of them heading my way. I freeze in terror, knowing I’ve been spotted, and also that trying to hide would be useless. Now what? Is this it? Is this how it ends? I look around helplessly, but there’s nowhere to go, no escape to be had.

Then, just when I think I’m done for, my pursuer turns off abruptly, shifting its attention to a party of two off to my right. Those poor people! However, knowing there’s nothing I can do to help them, I decide to make a break for it, and a moment later my arms are pumping as I sprint for the door. I dodge various obstacles, weaving left and right, and soon a feeling of elation is welling up inside of me. Maybe, just maybe, I can make it!!

Then, just as I reach the self-checkout aisle, I hear a cute little voice in front of me, materializing from out of thin air: “Hello! Would you like to buy some Girl Scout Cookies?”

AAAAAUUUUUGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!

The Coffee Incident

 So I’m in a bit of a pickle.

Have you ever done something so ridiculously stupid that you instantly wanted it to be purged forever from the annals of both written and oral history? However, at the same time, was this stupid thing also so amusing that you realized it could actually help to make this crazy world a better place, were it to be shared with the masses?

Yeah, so that’s where I’m at right now, and I can tell you it’s not an easy decision to make.

However, since I don’t want to bore while I think through this conundrum, let me tell you a completely unrelated story about this guy I know. Aside from being devilishly handsome and incredibly witty, he’s just your normal, everyday kind of guy. Anyway, not that long ago he dropped by his local Holiday gas station during his lunch break in order to pick up some fresh coffee and to air himself out a bit. (Working from home has its perks, but there are times when you start to wonder just how many days it’s been since you’ve last seen the sun.) 

Now, this guy has been firmly in the 20-ounce-coffee camp for most of his life. However, lately he’d been dabbling a bit with 24-ouncers, which cost only ten cents more. Yeah, I know: living life on the edge, right? Anyway, deciding to stick with his recent trend, our hero grabbed a 24-once cup and placed it into the machine that grinds the beans right then and there. (Hey, when you’re at Holiday, you tend to pamper yourself.) After punching a few buttons and getting things all cranked up, he then did his usual, which was to stand in front of the conveniently-located doughnut display and see just how well his willpower would hold up. Amazingly, he was able to resist the numerous temptations, but when he turned back to his freshly-brewed coffee, he realized his happiness was destined to be short-lived. You see, although he’d placed a 24-ounce cup into the machine, he’d accidentally picked 20 ounces from the digital menu. So, he was now left with a cup filled with four ounces less than its maximum capacity.

Obviously, the easiest solution would have been to top it off with some of the pre-brewed java from another machine, but frankly, that thought never crossed his mind. Instead, he immediately began to wonder if he should just eat the ten cents and pay for the full 24 ounces. (Obviously, he wasn’t going to discuss the situation with the cashier and try to explain what had happened. That would be asinine!) However, he just didn’t feel right about getting overcharged, even if it was only by ten cents. His stubbornness—one of his greatest strengths and also a debilitating weakness—was beginning to rear its at-times-ugly head.

Finally, deciding that he simply wasn’t going to pay for four ounces he wouldn’t be able to consume, he determined that it’d be a trivial matter to just grab a 20-ounce cup and transfer the contents into it. Easy-peasy, right? Granted, the result would be an additional cup in the local landfill, but in his mind it was a worthwhile tradeoff. So, feeling just a bit conspicuous at having to engage in such an atypical exercise, he grabbed a cup and began to dump his 20 ounces of coffee into it.

Except it wasn’t a 20-ounce cup.

Yup, you guessed it: Our hero had accidentally grabbed a 16-ounce cup, and by the time he realized his mistake, he was left with two cups, each containing different volumes of liquid gold. It was at this point that he began to get flustered. I mean, seriously?? Who messes up cup size twice?? Mathematically speaking, it was quite a momentous achievement, but to him it was a sign that he should have just taken a day of PTO and stayed in bed.

Now, if he’d have been smart, our hero would have simply conceded defeat, dumped the 16 ounces back into the 24-ounce cup, paid for the extra four ounces, and called it a day. However, he was now getting annoyed—both at himself and the universe for making a mockery of what should have been such a simple task. So, fueled by his stubbornness, he grabbed a third cup, this time making certain it was 20 ounces. He’d come this far, darn it, and there was no way he wasn’t going to walk out without paying for and consuming exactly the 20 ounces of coffee he'd accidently brewed!!!

It was at this point that another customer entered the store and walked over to get his own fill of caffeine. Looking back over his shoulder—with three different sized cups filled with varying amounts of coffee—our hero had no idea what to say; he figured he must look like some sort of mad scientist, vigorously transferring liquids from one container to another, seemingly at random. Hoping to diffuse the situation with humor—his trademark go-to move—he racked his brain and said, and I’m quoting here, “Um . . . don’t mind me.”

Ugh.

“Don’t mind me?”

Ugh, ugh, ugh, ugh, UGH!!

At that point, fleeing was the only viable option left. Luckily, our hero had just finished filling up his 20-ounce cup with the contents of the two others. Throwing the empty containers away so they could spend the rest of their miserable existences clogging up some unlucky landfill, he quickly made his way over to the cashier, happy to be wearing a winter hat so his suddenly-crimson ears couldn’t be seen.

Now, I’m quite certain that some of you are now wondering when our protagonist is going to accidentally drop his 20-ounce cup onto the floor, finishing the story with a dramatic flourish. However, I’m happy to report that didn’t happen. Instead, he managed to escape without incurring further damages to his pride, to the point where the emotional scars he sustained aren’t so bad that he can’t go back out into public on occasion. So, that’s good news.

Still, I sometimes wonder about the other guy—the one who walked up and witnessed the tail end of the incident at the peak of its escalation. I wonder what his thoughts were on the whole thing? Maybe, if we're lucky, he has his own blog and we can eventually get his own unique perspective on the matter.

Oh, and by the way, I’ve decided that I’m not going to tell you my embarrassing story. A man has to have a little self-respect!

Fall Forward

Fall has always been my favorite season. I like the crispness in the air, the ridiculous amount of football at my disposal, the gloriousness of the changing colors, the satisfying crunch of the leaves beneath my feet, and – most importantly – the total absence of the summer cloud of mosquitoes that are constantly trying to gang up on me and carry me away to who-knows-where.

Unfortunately, fall has traditionally not been without its problems for me. You see, after factoring in the time I spend working, the earliness at which it gets dark, and the fact that I live in the suburbs – which isn’t exactly a playground for nature – the enjoyable portion of the fall season – at least in my world – usually lasts for about 3 total days. I’ll be making plans for all of the places I should visit and explore and suddenly it will be November and the Lions will be out of playoff contention yet again.

But no more! This year I’ve decided to be smart about it. Not only am I planning on taking some strategic PTO, but I’ve also made the executive decision to start the fall season early! Yes, you heard that right! As of a few days ago, I officially deemed it to now be fall! (In case you’re wondering, you do this by dramatically stretching out your arms and saying in a deep voice, “I OFFICIALLY DEEM IT TO NOW BE FALL!”) I then celebrated by breaking out one of my fall flannels, which felt incredibly good to put on. Sure, it might have still been 75 degrees outside, and I may have sweat right through it, but darn it, I was still doing fall things!! (And don’t ask about what happened when I put on one of my warm and cozy national park hoodies.)

Since then, I’ve gone on a fall color tour, where I drove around through the countryside, squinting my eyes and imagining how the trees would look if they weren’t still green. It was nothing short of magical. Also, when I walk around outside now, I make crunching noises with my mouth to simulate the sound of shoes on freshly fallen leaves. Not only does this put me in the fall mood, but it’s also quite effective at getting others nearby to give me a wide berth, which is excellent for my anti-social tendencies. (Fun fact: I’m also going to experiment with chewing on Doritoes while I walk, to see if they make a better leaf-crunching sound. I mean, fall should be delicious, too, right?)

In addition, I’m thinking about hitting up a haunted house soon, which means I’m going to have to find some random abandoned structure in the middle of nowhere and check it out at midnight, all while hoping somebody was murdered there years before whose spirit now restlessly lurks on the premises, taking delight in scaring the daylights out of anybody foolish enough to show their face. (If you want to join me in this endeavor, let me know! It’ll be fun! Probably!)

Beyond that, I have a few more ideas bouncing around in my head, but I still have to flesh them out a bit before moving forward. (Like, how easy would it be to steal a tractor so I could put on my own hay rides? And how ridiculous would it look if I potentially ended up in a low speed chase with law enforcement on the freeway while driving it? And what, exactly, is the standard prison time for grand theft tractor?) Anyway, I'll keep you all posted on these, and in the meanwhile, I'm going to do my best to keep enjoying this early fall season to its full extent! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to trying to whip up my own pumpkin spice coffee, which has really been a head-scratcher. I’ve got my coffee, my pumpkin pie filling, and my pepper, but I really don’t know what to do next. Something with a blender, I’d imagine.

Kurt Minutes (I.E. Cosmic Hiccups)

One interesting thing that I’ve noticed about growing older is that you become acutely aware of the existence of various unexplainable phenomena, things that only reveal themselves to you after years of assorted life experiences and careful observation. A good example of this is the existence of the gremlins that keep stealing my car keys and leaving them in random places where I’ll never think to look for them, such as in my dishwasher or on the roof.

Another of these natural phenomena – one in which intrigues me greatly – exists on a much grander scale, involving the very concept of space and time itself. In addition, it’s something that I’ve become quite familiar with over the duration of my professional career. In fact, it’s even been deemed “Kurt Minutes” at my current place of employment, undoubtedly because I was the person who first brought it to everybody’s attention. To briefly summarize, Kurt Minutes is when, mysteriously defying all of the laws of physics, the very fabric of time itself – yes I said time! – is somehow bent, warped, and twisted to the point where it begins to temporarily operate on a completely foreign scale, one that’s uncharted by all forms of conventional measurement.

For example, I may contact a coworker and ask if they have five minutes to go over something with me. They’ll agree, and – cognizant that time is indeed money – I’ll succinctly and clearly articulate my point and gather the necessary feedback within the allotted 300 seconds. However, if Kurt Minutes has somehow gone into effect, these 300 seconds will have mysteriously morphed into some other elapsion of time, perhaps thirty minutes, perhaps even forty-five!! Eventually, the universe will snap back to its normal state of being, and my coworker – having obviously been affected by the very rules of nature bending before their eyes – will come out of it listless, groggy, and barely articulate, to the point where they’ll only be able to say such nonsensical things as “Do you even know what a minute is?” or “Next time I'll bring a pillow!” or “You did it again! I really should kick you in the head!”

Interestingly enough, I long ago determined that I have either developed – or have always been inherently blessed with – an immunity to the aftereffects of Kurt Minutes. This means that while I can experience it like anybody else, I never feel tired or drained once time snaps back to its proper state of being. It’s truly quite fascinating, and I suppose that in the interest of science, I should probably donate a sample of my DNA to whatever university or large research conglomerate is currently studying this phenomenon, as it might prove crucial in helping to synthesize some sort of vaccine.

On a semi-amusing note, Kurt Minutes has now become sort of an inside joke with everybody I work with. Now, while I personally find this cavalier attitude to be a bit strange, I suppose it’s just a natural reaction to them being faced with something completely out of their realm of comprehension. In fact, this carefree outlook has gotten to the point where if I ask somebody for a few minutes of their time, they’ll quite often smirk and reply, “Kurt Minutes or real minutes?” This always makes for a good chuckle, and I admire their wit and candor in the face of the unknown.

Now, you may be wondering why the continual threat of Kurt Minutes hasn’t completely freaked out all of my coworkers to the point of them seeking out new forms of employment. It’s a great question, and my answer to you is as elegant as it is simple: You see, although you may not realize it, Kurt Minutes is most likely a universal phenomenon, and so it probably isn’t something that only occurs to my coworkers and I at our shared place of employment. In fact, I’m quite certain they’ve all seen it manifest itself many times outside of their daily jobs, which means that quitting would do absolutely nothing to spare them from its effects. (And, before you ask, I have considered inquiring about it with a select few of them. However, I’ve never followed through, mainly because I make it a strict policy to never question any of them about their home lives, just in case one of them turns out to be, for example, a serial killer.)

What does support my theory, however, is the fact that Kurt Minutes has occasionally happened to me outside of work, manifesting itself in a very similar way: I’ll explain something to a friend, but the short five minutes I'll take to do so is then somehow twisted and bent into a full hour or more, leaving my friend in a rather frazzled and disheveled state, to the point where it almost seems they’re regretting the various life decisions they’ve made that have led them up to that very moment! Yes, that’s how disorientating and powerful Kurt Minutes can be!!!

Now, at the risk of sounding braggadocious, I have to say that I’m completely unafraid of the fact that time and space occasionally goes through these – for lack of better words – cosmic hiccups. This is mainly because in all of my time experiencing Kurt Minutes, it’s never gotten any worse, nor has it become any more prevalent. In short, it seems to be mired in a stable sort of instability, and I’ve long ago grown used to dealing with it. Plus, my immunity to its aftereffects – whether developed or inherent – makes putting up with it quite easy, as aside from the loss of time, I never come out of it any worse for wear.

Not everybody, however, shares in my immunity, and I realize that’s quite unfortunate. However, it’s still very manageable, and if this is the first you’re hearing about Kurt Minutes, I urge you not to worry about it. It’s just something we all have to live with. Plus, to be blunt, there are much more important things we should all be focusing our energies on; for example, trying to figure out how to catch those darn gremlins that move around our car keys. Those little buggers are sneaky!!

You Play The Mando-what??

Not that long ago, I decided to take the plunge and buy a mandolin. Besides having an itchy online-shopping trigger finger, my main reason for doing so was because I’d long since peaked at the “Excruciatingly Boring” stage of guitar playing, and instead of wanting to put in the blood, sweat, and tears needed to actually get any better, I was hoping I might somehow be a virtuoso at a different instrument. (Hey, don’t judge! It’s the American dream of laziness! Heck, if the mandolin doesn’t work out, I just might purchase a trombone and see what happens!)

Now, some of you might be asking, “Just what in the heck is a mandolin?” Well, that’s a very good question, and my answer is that it’s a small, stringed instrument in the lute family that’s usually associated with bluegrass music and which looks like something you’d give to a child because a guitar is too big for them. (“There, there, Timmy, why don’t you try this one out? It’s just your size!!”) And if that isn’t a good enough description for you, I recommend you do an image search, at which point you’ll probably say, “Oh yeah, I’ve seen people play those things before, standing way in the back of the band! Who makes them, anyway? Fisher-Price?”

Dispute its diminutive stature, however, don’t sleep on the mandolin. It may be small, but Ricky “Highway 40 Blues” Skaggs plays one, along with Marty “A Bunch of Good Songs You Never Remember Off the Top of Your Head” Stuart. Heck, even Waylon “I’m Cooler Than You No Matter Who You Are” Jennings was known to pull one out on occasion, most notably on an episode of the “Dukes of Hazzard.” (It’s a great scene, by the way. Besides the mandolin magically appearing and disappearing on his person throughout the song, he’s standing by himself on the stage, yet somehow being backed by an entire band. My current theory is that they're up on the roof. Check it out!)

Now, what makes the mandolin interesting is that it has, and I’m quoting Wikipedia here, “four courses of doubled metal strings tuned in unison, thus giving it a total of eight strings.” In other words, it’s sort of like a four-stringed instrument, except each string is really two strings tuned exactly the same and set super-close to one-another. So, in order to sound a note, you have to mash down on two strings at once. This, in turn, will quickly bludgeon your fingers into a painful mush, which is the exact state they’ll remain in for the first several decades of you playing the instrument. After that, however, you’ll probably develop helpful calluses to make things easier, just in time for the arthritis to set in.

Another interesting thing about the mandolin is that since it’s so short, the strings produce a higher pitch than a guitar, which results in it being much easier to be terrible at than it’s six-stringed cousin. In short, when you screw up on the mandolin, everybody hears it, including possibly most of the next county. (This holds true even if you’re playing with 14 acoustic guitars, a drum set, and that one annoying guy who thinks he’s all that on the electric guitar.)

Still, the mandolin is cool, and for good reason. First off, since it’s so small, it’s incredibly portable, and you can easily just toss it into your car if you’re heading off to a jam. (Just ask any upright bass player how handy that would be!) Sometimes, admittedly, it does get lost between the seats along with your phone, but the tradeoff for its portability still makes it worth it. Second, Steve Earle wrote “Copperhead Road” on a mandolin, so that automatically makes it a cool instrument. Heck, now that I think of it, I really don’t need to present any more arguments as to its inherent coolness; the Steve Earle fact alone pretty much seals the deal.

Moving along, the reason I decided to write this essay isn’t so I could talk up the fact that I have – and can awkwardly strum – a mandolin. Instead, it’s so you can become more aware of the instrument and start to recognize it while watching and listening to music. In my humble opinion, it’s quite underappreciated in the grand scale of things, and I think it deserves a little more respect.

Anyway, that concludes today’s lesson on the mandolin. However, join me next week when we’ll continue with our series “Instruments I’m Horrible At Playing.” I’ll be doing a deep dive into that time in sixth-grade when I had to try and learn to play the {shudder} recorder, cumulating in my first ever solo performance, a truly memorable rendition of “Friends Are Neat.” You won’t want to miss it!