I had made steady progress with the ukelele over a three year period. My social life expanded as word spread that I could play this exotic instrument. Walking down the street carrying my case, I found strangers waving to me and I waved back. It seemed the whole town scrunched into a small pub every weekend to listen to me. This was so much more rewarding than my day job designing barkoloungers.
As I continued to practice in my spare time, I got better, but the gains became smaller. There came a day where I felt I'd reached my limit. I hit the wall; I was struggling with the more difficult compositions.
Everyone knew my dream was to audition for the National Ukelele Orchestra, located in West Orange, NJ. This was a 44 person traveling group that had garnered plaudits from all over the world.
The town took up a collection to send me to the yearly auditions. I tried to explain I wasn't at that level and never would be. They took it as false modesty.
There is no describing how bad I was. I butchered Mozart's Fifth Ukelele Concerto. Someone threw a shoe at me. It was the janitor. The plane ride home was agony. What could I tell them?
To my shock, hundreds greeted me at the airport, holding up barkoloungers, a sign I was still part of the community. They took me to a bar and got me stinking drunk.
The next morning, sick with a hangover, I discovered a kazoo stuffed in my jacket pocket.
I saw my future.
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