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(SFGate)   Unlike a cello in the clutches of the TSA, this oboist managed to keep his oboe from harm. While collapsing to the ground from a brain hemorrhage. During a performance   (sfgate.com) divider line 6
    More: Scary, TSA, symphony  
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5630 clicks; posted to Main » on 25 Feb 2013 at 9:37 AM (1 year ago)   |  Favorite    |   share:  Share on Twitter share via Email Share on Facebook   more»



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2013-02-25 09:56:23 AM  
5 votes:
Strange timing, seeing this article first this morning.  I was in a bar bathroom over the weekend, taking a break.  There was this old man who sat on a stool by the door, holding a little tray of cologne and breath mints.  He sat there slumped, in a dark blue suit, thick framed eyeglasses, and deep creases that ran from the corners of his mouth.  He stared straight ahead, holding the little tray, like a little crack in the universe where the ever trickling waters of sadness leaked away behind the everyday scenes.  As I walked toward him, he blinked and his eyes stayed closed.  He sat there for just a moment, then pitched forward, falling face first to the piss-scuffed floor.  But he kept that little tray up, the little mints and sweet smells that served as his livelihood, balanced forever on his fingertips.  And he was dead.

This other guy in the bathroom starts freaking out, laughing, "Did you see that shiat?  Do you farking see that?  Dude just keeled over and died!  Holy fark I'm tripping my nuts out!  Who does that?"

He took out his cell phone and started taking pictures of the warm corpse holding the tray.

Gently, I reached down, took one of the chalky, Easter colored mints, and pushed it into the old man's mouth.  He probably never ate a single one, hoping instead to sell them to a passerby, some drunk in an overstretched collared shirt who invariably said "No."  He deserved a little treat.  It was after all, his retirement party.

I stepped over him and went out to where the music blared and the people were dancing poorly.
2013-02-25 12:05:49 PM  
1 votes:
Brain problems are common among oboists.  Why else would they play an instrument that's basically the beta version of the clarinet, which is easier to play, less expensive, and sounds less like a baby duck being squeezed to death?

Bassoon is one of my favorite tone colors in the orchestra, though.  Go figure.
2013-02-25 10:17:13 AM  
1 votes:
I wonder if he ever thought he wood wind up like this.
2013-02-25 10:14:25 AM  
1 votes:

Boonlert Boonpan: The article was a quick reed.


Did you read it twice?
2013-02-25 10:03:13 AM  
1 votes:

spentmiles: Strange timing, seeing this article first this morning.  I was in a bar bathroom over the weekend, taking a break.  There was this old man who sat on a stool by the door, holding a little tray of cologne and breath mints.  He sat there slumped, in a dark blue suit, thick framed eyeglasses, and deep creases that ran from the corners of his mouth.  He stared straight ahead, holding the little tray, like a little crack in the universe where the ever trickling waters of sadness leaked away behind the everyday scenes.  As I walked toward him, he blinked and his eyes stayed closed.  He sat there for just a moment, then pitched forward, falling face first to the piss-scuffed floor.  But he kept that little tray up, the little mints and sweet smells that served as his livelihood, balanced forever on his fingertips.  And he was dead.

This other guy in the bathroom starts freaking out, laughing, "Did you see that shiat?  Do you farking see that?  Dude just keeled over and died!  Holy fark I'm tripping my nuts out!  Who does that?"

He took out his cell phone and started taking pictures of the warm corpse holding the tray.

Gently, I reached down, took one of the chalky, Easter colored mints, and pushed it into the old man's mouth.  He probably never ate a single one, hoping instead to sell them to a passerby, some drunk in an overstretched collared shirt who invariably said "No."  He deserved a little treat.  It was after all, his retirement party.

I stepped over him and went out to where the music blared and the people were dancing poorly.


Yeah - sorry about that. My flatulence has killed many a men's room attendant - so much so that I'm considered the typhoid Mary of crop-dusting.
2013-02-25 09:44:44 AM  
1 votes:
The article was a quick reed.
 
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