How Bout That Band!
After crooning a song in public, I like to thank my imaginary band. It includes Jimmy H. Ivies on the tuba, “all the way from San Francisco,” and Billy Bo Bob Jackson Bobby on the ukulele. “And for those of you out there who said I’d never make it with just a tuba-ukulele duo,” I add triumphantly, “nnnnuh” [obscene Italian gesture].
Last week on a plane ride I was sitting next to a talkative Army trainee who just graduated high school. He said his dream house is a Boeing 767. We shared a passion for hearses—his favorite being the 1959 Cadillac—and he came around to mentioning that he plays a musical instrument.
“Oh,” I said. “Which one?”
“The tuba.”
“Well, that’s funny,” I responded, ready to launch into an explanation of my whole imaginary band shtick, when all of a sudden he pulled out an oddly-shaped black case from the lower compartment and began to unzip it.
“I also play the ukulele.”
Wittgenstein put it best: On US Airways, we are condemned to die in company and rejoice alone. (Tee-hee. I’m German and you’re not.)
