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Berkana's avatar

I should choose one to write about

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Scott MacLeod's avatar

No Encore

I never was the concert-going type. As a kid cramming into a sports arena to bop in the aisle to Blue Oyster Cult was not my idea of a good time. To return with one of those ubiquitous black concert T-shirts. Not that my parents would allow it when you could buy a cheap blank tee and mail away for an iron-on of the band for half the price. Of course, I attended all the kids' recitals but that doesn’t count. I guess I was a decent enough husband that I never screwed up so badly to be dragged to the philharmonic as recompense. Now I sit in what I suppose is the best seat in the house, right next to the band. If being close to bagpipes could ever be a good thing. My sister thought it was a good idea to hire some guy to imitate strangling a goose in honor of our forebears who left home almost 150 years ago. As I lie here in this coffin while the piper blasts away it occurs to me I am experiencing my first, certainly my last and, by default, my most memorable concert ever.

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