Bye-bye, Bassoon. . .

It's recently come to my attention that ski has, or soon will be, returning his rental bassoon. That's all well and good. I'm confident that ski was an excellent caretaker of his double-reed charge. Just the same, it does point to a growing problem in America — and I think you know where I'm going with this.

 

Oh sure, who can resist young children, in those weeks before Christmas, begging for a new bassoon under the tree? ("We'll take care of it, Daddy. We promise.")

 

Or what about that relationship that's teetering on the edge of disaster? How could the love NOT be rekindled by a simple candlelit dinner, Starlight Vocal Band on the stereo, and gently slipping a brand new Fox bassoon into the hands of your lover?

 

Yet, there is a dark side to this. Often, these bassoons end up being returned to bassoon shelters. Even worse, some are sold to so-called "bassoon farms". Yet more tragically, some bassoons are abandoned to the streets where many of them end up as baseball bats, automobile tailpipes, didgeridoos — and in Eugene, Oregon — high-capacity bongs.

 

Too frequently, the naïve and inexperienced bassoon owner has no idea of the time, energy and expense a bassoon can really be. Did you know, for example, that the average contrabassoon consumes its own weight — in small rodents — in less than a week's time? Do you know how much orthodontia it takes to correct a bassoon-induced overbite?

 

So please, won't you join me in educating an ignorant public? Help us find a loving, caring and permanent home for all of our bassoons. And remember, if you're currently a bassoon owner (or, as we prefer to call you, "bassoon buddy"), remember to get your bassoon spayed or neutered!

 

Bassoons: Sometimes Gone — But Never Fagoten!

That has......(weep)............touched me deeply..................where do I sign up?

Ya know

 

Oprah just did an undercover special about the abuse that goes on at bassoon farms. I have to say that I had no idea. I think this is a great cause that you are bringing to peoples attention. But, if you think oboe's have it bad you don't even want to know what happens to rented piccolos once they're done with.

you don't even want to know what happens to rented piccolos once they're done with.

Oh dear! I think I once saw one on an X-ray in an episode of "Scrubs".

you don't even want to know what happens to rented piccolos once they're done with.

Oh dear! I think I once saw one on an X-ray in an episode of "Scrubs".

 

I'm glad someone picked up on that line.

Alas, it is true, the rental bassoon has returned to its Rentalville, USA home. Whether it will or not to find another loving and temporary home remains to be seen. It is unlikely again to roost (as bassoons are wont to do) at my place, as my double-reedy eyes have their sights set on the outright purchase of a bassoon of my very own. Maple, not plastic, thank you, and hopefully with a name-brand bocal. As my teacher commented, the lack of a brand name stamped into the rental's bocal was an indication that "someone wasn't too proud of it". I, however, was nonetheless proud to have occasionally produced notes with it that were relatively in tune and pleasing to the ear.

 

I am already missing cutting the tip of my tongue on a brand new reed, the thrill of pouring "condensation" from the boot joint after a long day's practice, and using bits of metal and wire ties to invent and fabricate new keys for the instrument. I lament no longer being able to experience the joy of successfully half-holing the G, the smell of the leather seat strap, the ironing of freshly washed swabs, and of course, the discovery that I had indeed cut my tongue on the reed by virtue of eating a nice vindaloo afterwards.

 

But, I must suck it up like a big bassoon boy, because it was my own decision to bring Mr. Squawky back to the store. My bassoon studies were consuming too much of my time, and I have, as they say, bigger fish to fry at the moment. I am truly saddened, but with every intention to return one day with a bundle-o'-sticks-o'-joy of my very own.

 

. . . I lament no longer being able to experience the joy of successfully half-holing the G, the smell of the leather seat strap. . .

Uh-ooooh. I'm getting this unsettling feeling we may have brushed up against ski's darker side.

Miggs: I can smell your seat strap.

Hannibal Lecter: Now then, tell me. What did Miggs say to you? Multiple Miggs in the next cell. He hissed at you. What did he say?

Clarinet Starkling: He said, "I can smell your seat strap."

Hannibal Lecter: I see. I myself cannot. You use a medium reed, and sometimes you watch your embouchure in a mirror when you practice, but not today.

Here, let me scrape that reed for you, Clarice. . .

Funny, I never noticed before, but my bassoon teacher looks quite a bit like...

 

 

 

 

Nah, it can't be...

 

Miggs: I can smell your seat strap.

Hannibal Lecter: Now then, tell me. What did Miggs say to you? Multiple Miggs in the next cell. He hissed at you. What did he say?

Clarinet Starkling: He said, "I can smell your seat strap."

Hannibal Lecter: I see. I myself cannot. You use a medium reed, and sometimes you watch your embouchure in a mirror when you practice, but not today.

 

 

ski prepares for his audition with the "Elvis Bassoon Ensemble".

You can see I'm playing a B, one of my better notes. And judging by the angle at which I'm holding the bassoon and the puffiness of my cheeks, I believe that picture was taken just before I launched a giant spitball at a rival impersonator walking up the street. BAM! Right between the eyes!

Cool! Dueling Elvi! C'mon you two — "Blue Suede Shoes" at 30 paces!!! 8)

http://www.score2picture.com/logicpix/choose.jpg

Gentlemen, choose your veapons!

After failing his tryout with the Bassoon Brothers, (he hadn't anticipated they'd ask him to play "Rawhide") . . . .

. . . ski perseveres and lands a gig with the "Bad-Ass Biker Bassoonists". He is forced to give it up after deeming the initiation ritual as . . . unacceptable.

But it wasn't all for naught. In the end, he met the girl of his dreams. And they, of course, lived happily ever after in wedded bassoon bliss.

 

Bravissimo!!

 

Hey, is there, like, a 10-smiley face emoticon? Y'know, like in Risk?