TotalEclipse

Not being a wordsmith I have choosen the more hands-on approach.
First up
THE FUNNY PHOTO

Yeah I know it's a 'DOG' of an instrument but don't worry, his 'BACH' is worse than his bite.

*Note: No instruments were mamed or killed in the production of this picture.

Next up to the plate
BACK TO SCHOOL

This is a Half scale non-playing trumpet
The list of stuff used to make this
Bell..........................Old chair leg(modified)
Bell bow...................Half of curtain ring
Valve casings...........Old dowel that use to lock my sliding window(should fix that one day)
Valve tops/bottoms...Galv nuts
Valve stems.............Toothpicks
Valve buttons...........Caps that make screws look pretty
Slides......................an arrow
Tuning slide..............Other half of curtain ring
Mouthpiece...............Paint pen nozzle with nail through it
Rings.......................keychain ring and paperclip

Time to build.............Don't ask!!

And finally
WHY SHOULD I WIN
There are certainly people here who probably deserve to win one of your horns than I do. But I NEED to win!
I am 100% sick of having excuses why I am not playing as good as I could. When you play old horns you seem to have logical reasons why you were unable play your part properly or if your tone is not quite right.
If I were to be given a world class horn then its NO MORE EXCUSES!!!
Having an instrument that would inspire you rather than limit you would be a true blessing. Even for a hack like me.








To all a happy and safe Easter holiday.......I'm off to Fraser Island

trumpetmike

The picture (and explanation)

Last week I was doing my regular teaching. I had to go and find one of my students (who had forgotten what time their lesson was - despite it having been at the same time every week since September ). Upon my return to the room I found the following.


With a note underneath
"I heard you discovered the copper Eclipse flugel, life is no longer worth living."

I tried resuscitation, but it was too late, my flugel had died.

RIP TrumpetMike's Flugel


PART II
You just can't beat a limerick

In Dunstable you will find Leigh,
Listening to Mr Noel Langley.
He sat in a chair,
And regretted the dare;
“How loud can you play double C?”



http://i3.photobucket.com/albums/y62...ationChair.jpg
(this picture accompanies the limerick, but the rules state only one picture within the contest, so if you want to see the Noel Langley Appreciation Chair, you will have to click the link)



Why I should win

As ever, this is the hardest part of a competition such as this. I have read all the other entries and there are many people who are worthy of winning such an amazing prize, probably more worthy for it than I am. This, combined with the true English reserve, makes this part easily the most difficult; still, it is compulsory, so here goes.

The main reason I feel I should win this contest is that I am already an Eclipse fan and am already to be found recommending them to my students and ex-students. If someone asks what sort of flugel they should buy, Eclipse is always the first name to be mentioned. The instruments are simply the finest I have played. The reason I feel I should win is that at the moment, when I advocate that they should buy the Eclipse, I am always asked “why haven’t you got one then?”
If you think I sing Leigh and Eclipse’s praises now – just wait until I actually own one!

There are, of course, other reasons as well.
An Eclipse flugel would finally allow me to take solos on the flugel, something I am currently reluctant to do, due to not being able to produce the sound I am looking for. Having played the Eclipse flugel in the past, I know they produce exactly the sound I have been looking for, for so many years.
I hereby swear to uphold the tradition of being a good ambassador for Eclipse. Every professional Eclipse owner (in fact, every Eclipse owner full stop) I have ever met has been a really nice guy/gal, always willing to help in any aspect of trumpet playing and very encouraging to every other player they have come across. I would be proud to uphold this tradition.


The fact that it would also be a lot cheaper (no flights to take into account) if I won shouldn’t be taken into account ;)

SWIndL

1. My Limerick/Poem
There was a young trumpet blower,
Whose instrument got stuck to his mower,
It ruined the brass,
But at least cut the grass,
And did so an octave lower!

2. My Model



This is the Legompet made entirely of Lego. (I made this before I looked at the other entries and saw the other lego trumpet). It took me most of yesterday evening and the whole of this afternoon but it was worth it. It's pretty much to scale and has everything a normal trumpet does (including a moving spitvalve!). Sadly it doesn't play but it's fun pretending it does!!!

3. Reason I should win

I am just 15 and I'm still learning the trumpet. I play in a concert band (South West Surrey Concert Band to be precise) which is for young musicians. I used to be the top trumpeter for the junior band and played all the solos. Now I've been promoted to trumpet 3 of the senior band but with an eclipse trumpet I'm sure it wouldn't be long before I would get to the top. I've also just started playing Jazz. I also help out at a young brass group for beginners for my Duke Of Edinburgh. I am their composer in residence, as my trumpet teacher (trumpet mike ^^ above) who runs it says. Having a top quality trumpet would inspire the beginners as well as me. I think my playing could be greatly inhanced if I got either a new trumpet to replace my old one or a different one (C or Flugel) which would give me a greater playing range. I only have 2 tumpets my plain Yamaha Bb and my Legompet (altought I do have a WW2 bugle and a hunting horn that doesn't work). Winning this competition would motivate me to play more and if I win I promise I will practice every day for a year (apart from where its physically impossible) which I'm sure my trumpet teacher and mum would be happy about (but the neighbours won't be hehe ). I don't work (apart from a paper round) so I definitely can't afford one and I won't be able to until I'm much older, also my parents wouldn't fork out as much as they cost so this is the only way I could get such an amazing instrument.
Also Thank you Leigh for such a brilliant competition and making my Good Friday as much fun as it has been.
Also Good Luck to everyone else! Happy Easter!!

__________________
^^ Another wonderful comment/question/answer/joke/insult/compliment/profanity/request/plea/command/profound statement^^
(delete as appropriate)
made by SWIndL

busnutmedic

2. Story

Joseph’s Tune

August 21, 1933

“Sit down!” the admonition came. Eight year old Joseph Ollari turned around in the back seat of the ‘29 Ford and sat down. He closed his eyes. The car rumbled along the dry, dusty summer road, headed for the city orphanage. He scarcely noticed the sun, as it shone on his closed eyes. He remembered his mother’s face, smiling at him. His eyes burned, tears filling them, and a sob caught in the back of his throat. He remembered the woman at the hospital telling him he would never see his mother or father again. He thought of his Aunt Giovanni. He would never see her again either. He remembered the angry face of his uncle as he called the orphanage. Shortly after his aunt’s death, his uncle had demanded that the orphanage take Joseph. They came, and Joseph was now with strangers, going to a strange place.

After the car accident that killed both of Joseph‘s parents, Joseph had been shipped off to live with his mother’s younger sister - Giovanni Grant. Never having met her, he knew her only from the tiny picture his mother kept in the tarnished silver frame on her bureau. After Giovanni had married a wealthy business man in Peterborough, NH, the relationship between her and Joseph’s mother waned, until Giovanni had nearly forgotten her older sister existed. After learning of her sister’s death, she had taken her nephew Joseph in, but she was too busy with her business affairs to pay him much attention. Giovanni died of a sudden illness in 1933, and with her went any welcome Joseph had in the Grant household.

Two years later, at the age of ten, Joseph was adopted by the Barobys.
Peter and Roberta Baroby were not rich people, but having worked hard in their younger years and then inheriting a rather large sum from Peter’s father, they were not badly off at all. They had lost their youngest son in a construction accident before the Depression started, and the rest of their children were now grown up and married. Peter was thin and tall, with gray hair, and eyes of a piercing blue. However stern they may have looked at a glance, you soon realized that they were kind, no doubt aided by his quiet demeanor. His wife Roberta wasn’t beautiful, but her eyes were attractive, and one never quite felt the same after hearing her blissful laugh ring through the house. She was a few inches shorter than Peter, but her bearing was so elegant and straight that one would have never thought there was a difference. Her light brown hair she kept pinned up in a bun - not the harsh picture that we so quickly conjure up of a mean schoolmarm, but that of a gentlewoman, a kind lady. Roberta’s sister, who worked at the orphanage, had brought Joseph on a visit to their house. Roberta had thought his expression was that of utter misery, so sad, and so innocent. Her heart had felt torn for him. After a few weeks, the Barobys had decided that they ought to do something more with the small fortune they had been blessed with, and Joseph came to their house to live in October of 1935.

November 29, 1939

The school bell sounded the end of another day. The rain had stopped and the late September sun was shining brightly. The doors of Brookstone academy opened a moment later and the usual rush of boys and girls poured out. One boy came after the others, walking slowly. He held 3 or 4 books in his left hand, and was preoccupied with examining a small poster in his right hand. His brown hair that had been neatly combed to the side that morning was now falling on his forehead, the clothes that had been spotless and ironed were now bearing the signs of a long recess taken that afternoon.
“Wait up there a minute ole’ pal Joseph. Whatcha reading there?” The paper he had been so intently focused on was snatched from his hands. He looked up and saw one of his classmates, William Burg, with a smirk on his face.
“Give that back to me!” Joseph said in a quiet, but angry voice. In a loud sing-song voice William read the title of the poster.
“Music competition. Winner to take instrument of his choice from line of professional King models and one hundred dollar US savings bond.”
“Give it back!” Joseph cried, this time with pleading in his voice.
“Ha,” retorted William in a taunting laugh, “You don’t need that trash, not you. I say, why don’t we just put it here and it’ll be put to better use.” He threw it in the street, and with a sharp cry Joseph ran into the street after it. William beat him to it, and tore it up in front of him.
“There’s your contest.” said William with a sneer in his voice. He ran off leaving Joseph by himself. Joseph’s eyes stung. How he hated the way his schoolmates treated him! As the tears threatened to brim over he turned and ran the rest of the way home, not stopping to look behind him.


1207 Greely Ave, the residence of Mr. and Mrs. Peter Baroby. Their house wasn’t a large one, but it stood there looking stately in the neighborhood in comparison to the smaller, more modern houses surrounding it. Two white pillars adorned the porch, and black shutters accompanied each large window. The lilac bushes in the front yard stood, their blossoms having been cut off long ago, their leaves beginning to fall. An aged rocking chair sat deteriorating on the porch, and two flower pots sat on either side of the stately doorway. Vines were growing on the lattice underneath the porch, and the grass looked as though it hadn’t been clipped in some time.

Joseph stepped up onto the porch and opened the door. He started up the stairs, headed to his room to practice playing his trumpet.
“Joseph? Is that you?” Called a woman’s voice. Mrs. Baroby could be heard walking across the dining room, the slight rustle of her skirt just brushing the floor. Her head appeared in the hall doorway as Joseph stopped halfway up the stairs. “It’s me,” he said.
As she walked down the hall towards him she clucked her tongue and said “It is ‘I’ my boy, you mustn’t forget it. How many times have I reminded you?” She was too far away to notice the tear streaked face and the muddy clothes.
“Your father wants to have a word with you.” She said. As soon as she left the hall Joseph ran up the stairs.

“Joseph!” Peter Baroby said from behind his desk, as his adopted son stepped into his study.
“I’ve decided - that is, your mother and I have decided, that it would be best for you to switch schools.” Joseph looked up in surprise.
“Would you like that, Joseph?”.
“Yes sir!” Joseph replied, his eyes beginning to brighten.
“You’ll have to board near the school, and it will be quite a change from what you’re used to here. The academia will be a bit harder, but I’m sure you’ll do fine.” His father continued. Joseph remained silent - partly because he was thinking about what these new changes would bring about, and partly because he was so surprised. As his father went on with the details of the curriculum, Joseph barely heard. He, at boarding school!
“You’ll be studying with Master Friedman - he’s the director of musical studies there. I hear he’s quite an accomplished musician.” Joseph could barely contain his excitement. His mouth opened.
“So you agree to go then?” His father asked, tilting his head down and looking at Joseph over his spectacles.
“Do I!? Why yes sir!” For a moment Joseph could think of nothing to say. His father stood up, walked to the door and called his wife to tell her the news.

Joseph left the next month, bound for Greenwood. Mrs. Baroby sent Joseph off with a basket of sandwiches and a hug, Mr. Baroby with a firm handshake. As Joseph boarded the train, Mr. Baroby looked Joseph in the eye and said ”Do your best.” Joseph nodded. The last sight he had of them was Mrs. Baroby waving her handkerchief, standing on the platform with Mr. Baroby, one arm around his wife, the other waving at Joseph.

September, 1941
The school bell rang, reminiscent of the old bell at Brookstone some two years ago. A tall, thin young man shut his book and slipped it into the book bag under his desk.
“Master Baroby.” Mr. Peabody said the word ‘Master’ with an extra edge to his normally thin, nasally voice. His face matched his voice. His glasses seemed to be permanently hanging low on his nose - which itself always seemed to be lifted in disdain. Joseph stopped and turned.
“Sir?” Joseph said. Mr. Peabody took a step closer to him before answering, and looked around the classroom at the other students who were packing up their books to leave, as if to gain their attention.
“This is your paper from last week. You have earned a C. Your academic studies show much to be desired. What a shame. Those teachers of yours down at the arts hall should understand there‘s more to life than that silly trumpet of yours.” Mr. Peabody said. He stepped back with a smirk on his face. Joseph heard the laughter of the students who were still getting ready to leave the classroom. Joseph stood, his face turning red with shame. One boy was left, he smiled at Mr. Peabody and walked to the desk of the teacher. He handed him a few papers and Mr. Peabody’s smile became as wide as his face was. He patted the student on the shoulder and looked at Joseph.
“You should learn from Rupert. He’s our star pupil.” Joseph grabbed the graded paper and ran, not stopping until he was well past the school. The cool fall breeze felt good on his hot cheeks. He passed a group of girls, on the sidewalk.
“Hello, Joseph”, one girl said, the others waiting to see his reaction. He nodded at her, and then walked hurriedly past, nearly tripping himself on the sidewalk. The girls laughed at him, turning their attention to another, more popular male student who was coming their way.
As he neared his home, he heard the strains of the organ grinder, one street over. He smiled, forgetting for a moment the incident with Mr. Peabody and the girls on the sidewalk. The music reminded him of the songs of Mr. Friedman’s homeland, that he had taught Joseph to play.
When Joseph had first come to Greenwood, Mr. Friedman had invited him to dinner with his family. Joseph hadn’t been sure what to expect, but he had gone feeling a sense of duty to the man who was to be his music teacher. When he arrived he was greeted by Mr. Friedman’s wife, a tall woman with a kindly smile and the same German accent as her husband, and his daughter Isabella. Isabella was a year younger than Joseph and studied at home with her mother. She captivated Joseph with her long wavy brown hair and sparkling green eyes. The first time he had met her he had been rendered nearly speechless. He managed a “How do you do?” and then stood looking at her, feeling very much a fool, not knowing what held him so. She had laughed, and asked him how he liked Greenwood. At the end of the evening, Joseph found himself trying to think of a way to see Isabella again. He was shocked that he would feel this way. But she was not like the other girls. No girl he had ever met made him feel so. And those eyes that seemed to dance every time she laughed!
After the meal, Isabella had put on a record of Mendelssohn, and they spent the evening listening to music and talking about every day things. Joseph learned that Mr. Friedman and his family had left Germany fleeing the persecution of those who resisted the government.
“Where do your parents live Joseph?” Mrs. Friedman had asked. Joseph paused a moment.
“They’re dead,” Joseph said. Mrs. Friedrich looked at her husband.
“They were killed when I was young, in a car accident.” Joseph finished.
“Ach, I’m sorry my boy!” Mrs. Friedman said, with a catch in her voice. This was not the first time Joseph had heard sympathy expressed about his parent’s death. Yet it was different with Mrs Friedrich. Mrs. Friedman‘s grief seemed genuine in a deeper way that anyone else‘s had. For a moment Joseph felt tears welling up inside of him, and was nearly overcome by emotion, though it showed little on his face. Unknown to Joseph, Mrs. Friedman was remembering her own parents. Fighting for their freedom they had been killed by the Gestapo when she was young. She felt the pain Joseph did, but she told him nothing of her parents death. Instead she reached for his hand across the table and squeezed it, smiling, with tears in her eyes.

In a short time, Mr. Friedman began see something in Joseph that the other boys did not have, even the other orphans he had known through the years. He saw the pain in his eyes, the pain that so mirrored his own past. Yet there was something in this kind of pain that made music all the more beautiful. Living without beauty or love for so long, one are able to appreciate it so much more when it is finally granted. When faced with unspeakable tragedy, some die of heartsickness, others become mindless, but still others have spirit of perseverance. They have stubborn hearts that know through the pain that love still exists somewhere. Some are not even aware that it is love they seek, yet they still seek, hungering for it. Whether they know it consciously or not, they realize that there is love in this place that God had created to be so beautiful, and that it is only the sin of those who care nothing for it that would destroy it and its inhabitants. Mr. Friedman knew that Joseph had a stubborn, persevering, willing heart.
Mr. Friedman had spent countless hours teaching Joseph the history of music, and the beauty in music that is so often missed in the fast paced world we live in. Joseph loved it. His mind drifted to the piece he was working on that week. Joseph opened the white picket gate surrounding the boarding house yard with one hand, pausing to wave politely at a neighbor. He entered the house and ran up all of the stairs to his third floor room, his feet making a racket on the old wooden steps. He opened a door that revealed a nearly empty dormer. There was a small set of drawers opposite his bed, which was spread with his own thin blanket and the quilt Mrs. Baroby had made for him. He missed his parents. His summer visit had been cut short when the Barobys’ grandson had been killed in a farming accident in Missouri. Their son and daughter-in-law were devastated, and the Barobys had gone to Missouri, planning to stay for several months. They stayed in touch with Joseph through numerous letters. Their last letter informed Joseph that their daughter-in-law was expecting a child and decided to stay longer. They sent him their love, and promised to be back by the time school was out in the spring.
There was a small round window to the left of the bed. Pulled up close to the window was a music stand, and next to the stand was a small stack of music. Next to the bed there was a tattered case, marked with tarnished brass letters. C-O-N-N.
Joseph set his books down on the set of drawers and opened the case. He closed his eyes and ran his fingers over the tarnished brass, ignoring the dents and the scratches. He imagined it shiny as gold, without a dent or scratch. He sighed, as he positioned the music stand and put the trumpet to his mouth. He played.

“Joseph!” Mr. Friedman called. He motioned animatedly with his arms for Joseph to come see him. Joseph’s face lit up at the sight of him, and he made his way down the hall to the door of the music room.
“I have special announcement to make today!” Mr. Friedman said. Joseph had noticed that his music teacher tended to miss words when he was excited, or nervous. As Joseph said “What is it?“ the school bell rang, and Mr. Friedman hurried Joseph back down the hall.
“I tell you later, hurry now or you’ll be late.” Joseph turned to leave and returned to his classes with mixed feelings. Certainly it was something good Mr. Friedman had to tell him, yet he couldn’t imagine what news his teacher had.

Mr. Friedman thumbed through pages of handwritten music on his desk. He stopped and frowned. He thought a moment, humming to himself, and then reached down with his pencil and wrote something in the music. He glanced at the clock. Classes were almost over, Joseph would be there in a minute or two. Joseph was a bright spot at the school for Mr. Friedman, and he looked forward to telling him about the good news. Mr. Friedman had the opportunity to select one of his best musicians participate in a contest in Boston in May, the prize being five hundred dollars. Mr. Friedman knew Joseph had worked hard. He had practiced diligently. He deserved a chance to prove himself.
“Mr. Friedman.” Joseph said, coming in so quietly he nearly startled the man.
“Hello Joseph!” Mr. Friedman replied. “I have very big news for you.” He motioned to a seat, and Joseph sat beside him. Mr. Friedman leaned a little closer to Joseph and raised his eyebrows, as he had a habit of doing when explaining something.
“I have learned there is a music competition in Boston, they have asked me to choose a student to participate. I have chosen you to represent the school.” Mr. Friedman said quietly, with a gleam in his eyes.
“Me? Joseph said. “Why, there are a dozen others who play as well as I”.
“Ah, that is not true. But my boy even if it was, you have something else the others do not.” Joseph pondered this a moment. What did he have the other students did not? They had parents. And money. And friends. Mr. Friedman interrupted his thoughts, “Don’t look so worried my boy!”. His eyes crinkled up in a big smile. “Here is the music they have chosen.“ Joseph reached for the music.
“The prize is five hundred dollars.” Mr. Friedman said. Joseph’s mouth dropped open. Then he caught a glance at the music. His mouth remained open but his eyes lost their excitement.
“But look at the music! I- I don’t think I can do it.” He said. Mr. Friedman sighed, and began to tell Joseph a story.
“Joseph, there was once a young man who’s father worked at a mine. Everyday he would meet his father at the mine with lunch and stay until his father had to go back to work. One day his father took him through the inner workings of the mine. He showed him the levers in the control room. They had an emergency lever that would alert the men to evacuate in the case that a shaft should become unstable. He told the boy the red light would blink if a main support was collapsing. A few weeks after this the boy came to the mine, early and walked down to the control room. The boss was seated in a chair, passed out, a bottle of whisky still clutched in his hands. The boy happened to glance over and he saw the emergency light flashing. He remembered his father’s words. The men were in danger! He went out and yelled for help. No one answered. Desperate, he ran back in the control room, took the lever in his hands and pulled. Nothing happened. He pulled harder. Still nothing. He pulled until the veins stood out on his arms. He stood back. ‘I can’t do it‘, he said. He cried out in despair. He knew the men - and his father - would perish if he did not succeed. Their lives were in his hands. He paused, setting his feet firmly on the ground, he grasped the lever in both hands, seeing only his father’s face, he pulled with every muscle in his body. The lever moved slowly at first, and then suddenly let go, the boy sprawling backwards. Afterwards he was praised for being so strong and so brave, but he knew he was not strong. He had done it because all he could see was his father coming home to him again alive.” He looked at Joseph with pleading in his eyes.
“You too, Joseph, are strong beyond what you think you can do. You can play this piece. You will win the contest.”

Later that evening Joseph returned to his residence, the small room with the round window. He scarcely noticed the lady of the house looking at him when he entered. He walked up the stairs slowly this time, too busy thinking to run. He wondered if it was too much to hope. Too much to ask of life. When he reached the top step, he turned the door handle slowly and opened the door. It creaked open. The sunlight streamed in, bright yellow and orange. He looked out the window. The sky was breathtaking. A single bird sang a tune. All at once he knew what he must do. He would play. He would overcome this piece, this piece that would win the contest.

Joseph worked many weeks with his teacher. The morning was, of course, filled with classes, which Joseph now saw as an necessary evil. The afternoons were spent with Mr. Friedman coaching him, and his evenings were spent alone, playing until no light remained in the little round window. Autumn passed, with its brilliant leaves and bite in the air, merely hinting at the cold weather that was ahead. The days grew shorter. Winter came, it became cold. So cold some days, that upon picking up his trumpet, the valves would be frozen stiff. But still he played. Isabella had given him a pair of gloves she had made, with the fingers open and cut short. Joseph had discovered a way to see Isabella. Each week he stopped at the Sunday service at the little white church on the corner near the school. He always found her sitting in the same pew with her parents, near the front. Each week Isabella would smile at her father, with those green eyes and Mr. Friedman would nod at Joseph, giving him permission to walk her home.
Mr. Friedman worked tirelessly, giving to Joseph his energy in their unified goal of winning the contest. But one day Mr. Friedman didn’t show up at school. One of the other teachers had a message for Joseph.

Not feeling well. I will see you on Monday.

It was signed by Mr. Friedman. Joseph was troubled. Mr. Friedman had never been ill before. Besides that, he felt alone. It was Friday. He thought of going to visit Mr. Friedman. He would see Isabella again! But then maybe it was better to give Mr. Friedman a rest. Why, the man had been spending all his time teaching him, surely he must be tiring of it! He decided to wait to see Mr. Friedman until Friday. He walked home and practiced through out the rest of the evening.

The day was quickly approaching. Joseph had played the piece flawlessly already once for Mr. Friedman. Mr. Friedman never failed to have an encouraging word for Joseph. Joseph in turn gave Mr. Friedman his all. Still, something had changed in Mr. Friedman since the sudden illness that had kept him from working. Many days Joseph would notice a shortness of breath, and Mr. Friedman would wave off Joseph’s inquiries with an “I’m fine, don’t worry about me.” Joseph would worry, especially when some days Mr. Friedman had to pause on his walk from the music room to the exit down the hall. “Go on ahead!”, he would always say, but Joseph would never leave his side. Joseph stopped staying late in the afternoon, and started practicing at home after his lesson was over.



One week till the competition. Mr. Friedman’s smile was as wide as Joseph had ever seen it, but he noticed the dullness in his eyes and the weakness in his step.
“We have nearly done it, Joseph! Seven days to go.” Mr. Friedman said.
“I can hardly believe it!” Joseph replied. “Mr. Friedman, thank you so much.” Joseph found himself nearly throwing himself at Mr. Friedman, wrapping his arms around him. Mr. Friedman patted Joseph on the back, pulling away to look at Joseph’s face.
“You have done so well. I scarcely imagined that we would make it to this day.” Joseph frowned.
“But Mr. Friedman, you told me I could play it.” He said.
“Ah, but you did not believe you could do it. If you didn’t believe you could do it, we would never
have made it to this day. I knew you had something, but I wasn’t sure of your commitment until I saw you practice twice what you used to, until I saw you sacrifice your lunch hour for more practice, and when I passed your house and saw the light burning in the window, and heard your playing drifting down through the night sky.” Mr. Friedman said. He fell into a fit of coughing. Joseph stood, unsure of what to do, or say. When Mr. Friedman stopped coughing, he pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped perspiration from his forehead. Joseph noticed how pale he was, despite the blood that had risen to his face from the coughing fit. Mr. Friedman sat back in his chair.
“Is there anything I can get you?” Joseph asked. Mr. Friedman shook his head. Then he paused, remembering something.
“Yes, there is something you can get me. Get me that bag.” Joseph got the bag and handed it to Mr. Friedman. Mr. Friedman unbuttoned the bag and drew out a folder of music. His hands trembled as he put it in Joseph’s hand. He drew Joseph’s free hand over the music, and held it there. Joseph looked for the title. There was none.
“This is yours, Joseph. When I was in Germany, I wrote the first movement. When I came to America, I finished it. I have written this over many years of my life. It is my life’s story. You will know the pain, the suffering, and then the wonderful joy I felt. You will know, I have seen it in your eyes.” Mr. Friedman told Joseph. Then he sat back in his chair, closing his eyes. Joseph looked at the music, and then at Mr. Friedman.
“Thank-”, he began, his voice breaking. “Thank-you”, Joseph said, in barely a whisper. Mr. Friedman smiled.



Joseph strained to see the crowd. The participants would perform for the audience of 400 or more, and then the winner would be announced following the last performer. He didn’t see anyone he recognized. He had begged Mr. Friedman to accompany him on the early train to Boston. In the 5 days before the competition, Mr. Friedman health had improved. Although he was still pale, he no longer seemed as if he was gasping for breath, and his coughing fits were fewer. Scanning the audience, Joseph didn’t see Mr. Friedman or his wife, or Isabella. Joseph worried. Mr. Friedman had said he would arrive an hour early and meet Joseph in the rehearsal room. When he didn’t arrive, Joseph assumed something had kept them, and that they would arrive later in the audience.
What had kept them? The dim impression he had of his parent’s automobile accident flashed through his mind. He shuddered, and tried to forget the images that were now imprinted in his mind.
“Are you alright?” Someone backstage asked him. Joseph put on a halfhearted smile.
“I’m fine.” he replied. He pushed his way into the crowd of other soloists headed to warm up their instruments. Joseph took a deep breath. He sat down and picked up his trumpet for the hundredth time, fingering the last 16th note run in the piece. His palms were sweaty. He opened up his bag of music and pulled out the piece Mr. Friedman had given him a week earlier. His eyes scanned the music. He had played it many times in the week, nearly to the point of neglecting his competition piece. Suddenly he was struck by an idea. Why couldn’t he play the piece Mr. Friedman had given him?! He knew the piece as well as the competition piece, even only knowing it a week, it seemed to come naturally. But then he thought about the months of practicing he had spent on the official piece. He knew he would play the piece he originally had planned to, but it didn’t stop him from asking one of the passing judges assistants if such a thing was allowed. The man laughed. “Well for one thing, chances are that the accompanist wouldn’t know it. Second, you’d be disqualified. You must play the piece that was assigned to you.”
“Thank-you.“ Joseph said quietly, and the man nodded, walking away. Joseph returned to his seat, picking up his trumpet nervously. He glanced at the clock. Ten minutes and the competition would begin. He was fourth to perform. He got up and walked to the curtain. Someone spotted him.
“Come back from there! It’s too late for that!” but the man walked away as quickly as he came, obviously busy making other preparations for the night’s event. Joseph’s look at the audience turned up no Mr. Friedman. He sighed, and made his way back to where the participants were lining up. Perhaps Mr. Friedman would show up later with his family.
Joseph sat through the first solo, the young man coming in a measure early twice and somehow remaining out of sync through nearly the entire piece. Joseph would have felt sorry for him, but he was too occupied thinking of what could have happened to Mr. Friedman and thinking miserably that Isabella wouldn‘t be present. A man dressed in a black suit walked into the room as the third soloist was playing his cadenza.
“Joseph Baroby?” He said, scanning the room. Joseph stood. The man pressed a piece of paper into his hand and leaned to his ear. “Sender says it’s urgent.” Joseph nodded. Who would send a telegram to him here? His thoughts went to his parents in Missouri, but he knew only Mr. Friedman would know to reach him here. He noticed everyone was looking in his direction. The man remained there. Joseph opened the telegram.

Mr. Friedman took ill this morning after you left. He was taken to the hospital but the doctors were unable to do anything. His last words were “Play, Joseph.”, and I know he meant those words.
Play, Joseph.
Mrs. Friedman

Joseph felt faint. The room was melting, his tears blurring his vision. The man who had delivered the paper reached out to steady him. Joseph pushed away, his fists clenched.
“No!” He said, his voice strained and forced.
“I’m sorry..” said the man, his voice trailing off. The occupants of the room all remained somber, well able to guess the contents of the telegram. An accident, a death in the family. Joseph’s body trembled, giving way to silent, wracking sobs. Mr. Friedman word’s echoed through his mind. “ It is my life’s story.” Joseph stopped crying. He listened. “It is my life’s story.” He knew what he would do. He set his jaw, and nodded at the man.
“Thank you.” he managed. The man nodded back, and left the room. Joseph reached to his side. He pulled out a piece of music.

The audience waited. Joseph whispered something to the accompanist. The accompanist nearly gasped in surprise. “Are you sure?“ he asked, noticing Joseph’s downcast, tear streaked face. Joseph nodded. He walked slowly to the center of the stage. He put his music on stand. He bowed his head for a moment. The audience began to grow restless. Joseph fought back tears. He closed his eyes. He lifted his trumpet and focused his eyes on the music. He began to play. He filled the entire auditorium with the dark, rich tone of his trumpet, playing such a sad melody that even the eyes of a stony faced man sitting in the back row - if you looked closely - were filling with tears. He played perfectly, the audience not whispering a single word. Joseph felt the pain of the author. The sorrows of which Mr. Friedman had experienced in his childhood. The sorrow of losing brothers and parents. The sorrow of being left, loved by no one. The ache he felt, stabbing at his heart unmercifully should have destroyed him, destroyed his ability to play. Yet he played on. The other competitors watched him from the wings, some of them unable to grasp this pain that Joseph was conveying - unable to know because never having experienced a tragedy this great. Never have experienced a tragedy because they had never loved so much as to know pain. Others knew. They recognized the sorrow. Joseph stopped. He had come to the end of the first movement. He paused. He turned the page. He took a breath. He began. He played, slowly, quietly at first. How familiar was this passage to him! Simple it was, but moving beyond words. This was Joseph now. He felt the familiar reminder of sorrow mixed with the ever more confusing joy that filled his heart at the most unexpected moments. The second movement reached its height, a confusing mix of sorrow and joy. He reached the third movement and it began in much the same way the second one had ended. Joseph knew the music was changing. The joyful melody was emerging from the chains of misery. The sorrow was losing. It wasn’t overtaking him. It wasn’t winning. It was dying. It was leaving. And some, never having experienced joy failed to understand this change. At the end of the piece, Joseph was oblivious to the audience, lost in his sorrow. The audience was silent. He began to leave the stage. Slowly, over the whole audience, thunderous applause began to rise. The man who had delivered the telegram led Joseph back to the center of the stage, and as Joseph took a bow, the audience rose to their feet. And Joseph tried to smile through his tears, feeling a sense of accomplishment he had never felt before.


Years passed, and Joseph grew up to be a fine musician and trumpet player. More than that he became a kind and loving person, a wonderful husband and father. Five days after his twenty third birthday he married Isabella Friedman and they had four children, of which the Barobys and Mrs. Friedman were thrilled to be grandparents. Joseph never forgot what Mr. Friedman had done for him, and all of his life he treasured not only the piece of music he had been given, but the more important gift Mr. Friedman had shown him, the gift of love. He won many contests, many awards of achievement, and was revered as a great musician, but he knew that even more precious than material things was the love that Mr. Friedman had shown him, the love that God had made so perfectly, the love that surpasses all other things. Many others tried to play the piece, but they never captured what Joseph had captured that night he played at the competition. Mr. Friedman had given Joseph the piece without a name, and Joseph had never named the piece. It was known for ever after as Joseph’s Tune.

Bonnie Macdonald, March 2005


3. Trumpet Model



This trumpet is made of polymer clay (a plastic based clay that hardens in an oven), superglue, and stainless steel wire. Everything is made out of clay except for the springs and the valve stems. The trumpet is made of 44 individual pieces, 18 being in the valve mechanisms, which contains hand made springs.

The mouthpiece is removable, and the valves work. Each valve assembly - which measure just over 8/10ths of an inch long (20.3 mm), and about 3/20ths of an inch (3.8 mm) wide - contain six individual pieces which enable the valves to depress, and return upward when pressure is released, just like real trumpet valves. Although the horn is balanced enough to stand upright on its own bell, it comes with a stand, which is made of clay also, enameled in black.

The trumpet measures 3 ½ inches (approximately 88.9 mm) long - just about the length of my life sized trumpet mouthpiece. The bell measures under 1 inch across, and the mouthpiece is just over 3/8ths of an inch (9.3 mm)long.

For tools I used my hands, a utility knife blade, a dremel, a guitar pick, various sized drill bits, and some sandpaper.


5. Why should I win?

I cannot attempt to justify myself to be worthy of such an honour. There are possibly many thousands of people who have worked just as hard as I have at the art of playing trumpet, and many more that have worked harder. If I should win this contest, it will be not on my own merit as a person, or as a trumpet player, but it will be only by the kindness and generosity of the people who are sponsoring this contest, the content of my entry, and the decision of the judges. I trust that the judges will judge fairly, and I know that whoever wins - even if it not be me - will have come to the position of winner by their just decision.

I am thankful that I have been blessed to be able to perform on my trumpet at hundreds of our family’s concerts in twenty four states in the US, eighteen of them within the past 6 months. I would love to be able to perform for the first time in the remaining 26 states on an Eclipse! I would like very much to be able to represent Eclipse in the US as a performer.

PJB

1. The Limerick

Flying through glissandos and slurs,
His fanfare becomes a mere blur.
The trumpeter’s insane,
The maestro profanes,
“Slow down, you miserable cur!”

2. The Story

Rico was tired. Another long Friday had morphed into the wee hours of Saturday and he needed sleep. Henry and Gilbert had given him a ride from the restaurant dropping him off a couple blocks from home. Those two had become good friends of his—more like older brothers—even though they were at least fifteen years older than he. Rico’s thoughts wandered as he made his way home. The lights at the top of Sandia Peak twinkled through the warm summer night. A new Chris Botti tune played in his head. Rico could see his house up the street. In his mind, he had already dropped his horn case inside the door and stripped off his mariachi outfit. He couldn’t wait to climb into bed and close his eyes.

Seventeen years old, Enrique Lopez was a second generation Hispanic American who had never strayed far from the city of his birth—Albuquerque, New Mexico. Not because he didn’t want to. Rico’s story was a familiar one. He was the first born child of Luis and Sarah Lopez, and brother to 11-year old Cynthia. Shortly after his ninth birthday, Rico had become the man of the house when his parents divorced. Rico’s father had never achieved much success before the divorce and afterwards, accomplished even less. On the rare occasions when Luis called, he had little to say and nothing of substance to offer.

After the divorce, Rico, Sarah, and Cynthia moved into their current home. Rico’s grandfather, Gilbert Lopez, had insisted upon helping Sarah with the purchase. Gilbert was everything Luis wasn’t. Kind, loving, and generous, he had done his best to make sure Sarah and his grandchildren were not neglected. Gilbert loved both of his grandchildren but the boy Rico held a special place in his heart.

Rico had never known Gilbert without his cane. Even though he had heard his grandfather’s countless stories about playing trumpet in bands all over the southwest, Rico had a hard time envisioning his grandfather as a vibrant young man chasing the ladies and playing his horn through the night. For all of Rico’s life, the grandfather he knew walked with a pronounced limp, doted on his grandmother, Lydia, was a member of the Knights of Columbus, and was in bed most nights by 9:30pm. He didn’t fit the picture of a wild man. Didn’t matter; Rico loved him. His grandfather was his soul mate.

In fifth grade, Rico saw Gilbert’s old trumpet for the first time. It was magic! When Gilbert opened the case, the old Conn Connstellation caught the sun streaming through the window and the whole room was set afire with its sparkle. Rico had never seen anything as pretty. True to Gilbert’s generous nature, he allowed Rico to “borrow” the horn when the kid started middle school band. Deep in his heart and with the wisdom of his years, Gilbert knew the old Conn had found a new master.

Rico took to playing trumpet like a duck takes to water. Afternoons, weekends, holidays, Rico played that horn. Some nights, he even slept with it. By seventh grade, he was sitting first chair in the school band. By the time he entered Del Norte High School as a freshman, he could outplay almost every high school senior in Albuquerque—pretty good in a city of roughly 600,000 people! Rico had chops. Even better, Rico had tone. When he played that horn, that old Connstellation just sang!

From the time Sarah had divorced Rico’s father, she had worked at least two jobs to support her family. During the day, she worked full time in the accounting department for the city’s public works department and that paid for the essentials. At least four nights a week, she worked retail at Dillard’s in ladies lingerie. While the extra money was good, the employee discount really came in handy when it came to putting clothes on two growing kids.

Sarah had taught her children well—they were good kids! Even better, Rico was a terrific bother to his young sister. From the time Cynthia was three; Rico had helped feed her, bath her, bandage her scrapes, and occasionally dry her tears—quite a responsibility for a young boy. Sarah loved to hear him play his horn but, always a mother, she worried about her boy taking his responsibilities so seriously. Young men should be able to be young men—be goofy, get silly over girls, play ball, hide Playboy magazines under his bed for those moments when Mom’s not looking. Rico didn’t do those things. In the day-to-day responsibilities of his life, his horn was his outlet, his escape, his companion.

As Rico moved up from middle school, high school band became the center of his school life. His band director, Roy Lozano, had also grown up in Albuquerque, earned his bachelors in music education locally at the University of New Mexico, and had only left the area to study for his Masters. Even then, he didn’t travel too far since Texas Tech was just over the New Mexico-Texas border. Roy was not a trumpet player but, man, he could tear up a tenor sax!

Roy took an immediate liking to Rico and, soon, the two shared a strong teacher-student bond. When marching season was over, Rico would spend most afternoons in the band room with his new mentor. Often, the band room stereo would be pumping out cool jazz. Other time, classical music would fill the air. Rico soaked it all in but jazz…jazz excited him! As winter turned to spring, Rico learned to distinguish Bird from Coltrane, Freddy Hubbard from Chet Baker, Return to Forever from The Crusaders. Roy had opened up a new world of music for his young protégée and Rico delighted in exploring it. Man, those cats could play! On nights she wasn’t working, Sarah was hearing a different Rico, a player who was learning to make his horn talk, cry, even whisper.

At the start of summer band camp for Rico’s junior year, Roy announced that their marching show for the coming football season was going to be a celebration of New Mexico’s diverse heritage. For something a bit different, one of the numbers would feature a small group playing as a mariachi band, complete with strings. Roy had chosen “Mariquita (Lady Bug),” a cut from Linda Ronstadt’s album, “Mas Canciones,” as the featured number. Since it would be band feature, Roy had rearranged the tune with solo trumpet playing the vocal melody. Rico would play the solo.

Rico had never listened a lot to mariachi music. He soon found it was incredibly fun to play. The number came together quickly and on a cool fall evening in Albuquerque, the band performed the tune at Del Norte’s first home football game. Bowing to tradition, the kids took off their uniform hats as they formed on the sideline and donned black sombreros just as the stadium announcer finished their introduction. The crowd loved it! They clapped along and the few who knew the words sang their own solos for the folks in the stands. Henry Gonzalez ignored them—the kid playing the solo was good!

Henry had played in the Del Norte band some twenty years earlier and, although his two daughters were still in elementary school, he would occasionally take them to a home football game. His wife hated football and usually stayed home. On the other hand, the girls loved the pageantry—the bands, the flags, the cheerleaders. The actual game was of little consequence. Most times, Henry had his hands full just keeping tabs on their whereabouts and financing their numerous trips to the concession stand. Tonight, he could see the girls hanging on the stadium railing enthralled with the antics of the Del Norte cheerleaders. Those two were growing up fast!

Henry tried to make the most of the occasional free Friday night but such nights were rare. Most Friday evenings, he played in the house mariachi band at Garduño’s, a popular local chain of restaurants. Henry most often played at the Winrock location since that store always seemed to pull in a lot of tourists. ‘Anglos’ loved to hear mariachi and the tips were pretty good. He had been playing there so long that he was now the “old man” of the group. Over time, Henry had become a player/manager and also handled the hiring and firing of musicians. Although the band had a pretty slow turnover of players, he had just fired Greg Ramos, his second trumpet player, after Greg showed up late one too many times. Henry needed to find a good player.

Henry liked the young kid’s sound. He didn’t know the current Del Norte band director except by name but he had occasionally gigged with Roy’s counterpart from West Mesa High. A few phone calls later, Henry had the name of that trumpet soloist along with a phone number. Sunday afternoon, he called to offer Rico a chance to audition with the Garduño’s mariachis.

The thought of being paid to play his trumpet excited Rico. He wanted to attend college and any pay earned now would quickly find a home in his savings account. His mom worked so hard for them and he didn’t want to burden her with college costs. Rico had already accepted that he would be working his way through school, most likely the local University, since he could live at home while earning his degree.

Just as Henry had heard on the football field, the kid could play! Even better, he was polite to a fault. The first time they met, Henry lost count of how many times Rico called him “Sir.” That would have to stop real soon or the other players would be merciless in their teasing.

Rico proved to be a quick study with a great ear. In almost no time at all, he had learned all the second trumpet parts in their repertoire and was well on his way to memorizing Henry’s parts too. Henry really liked the kid. It came as no surprise to the other players when he started letting Rico swap parts with him.

Tonight had been a blast! Everyone in the band was in a great mood, the restaurant had been packed all night, and a large group of military folks from the nearby air force base had partied and request tunes until closing. Those Air Force people really liked a good time and were extremely generous with their tips! The band joked with the crowd, the crowd joked back, a few diners danced in the aisles, and the bar served a ton of margaritas. Rico had a hundred bucks in his pocket—life was sweet!

Slipping between the cool sheets, Rico felt good. The house was quiet—his mother and sister had gone to bed hours ago—and he had nothing planned for tomorrow until his Saturday night Garduño’s gig. He started thinking about Mr. Lozano urging him to apply to the North Texas State University music program. The pursuit of college grants and scholarships would have to wait thought Rico as he pulled the covers over him. Sleep beckoned.

3. Why I should win the contest

As we travel the path of life, we all dream—dreams of days yet to come, dreams of successes yet achieved, dreams of riches yet amassed…countless dreams. Over the years, some dreams become reality, some are quickly forgotten, and others are “adjusted” by reality.

At one time in my life, I dreamt of great success as a musician—it didn’t happen. Oh, I’ve never stopped playing my horn but dreams of musical success became tempered by the realities of life. My achievements went in the direction of an engineering degree, a military career, a wife with whom to share my life, children to raise, graduate school, etc. Please understand, I’m not offering any complaints. I’ve been content with my choices.

One of my current dreams is to acquire a handmade “boutique” trumpet, a horn that in all likelihood will take me to the end of my playing days. Don’t get me wrong, I love my ‘74 Benge! It’s been a great horn since I first brought it home 31 years ago. More importantly, I’ve had a ball playing it! However, I hear such excitement in the posts of Eclipse owners both here on Trumpet Master and on the Trumpet Herald. I want to share in that excitement.

Years ago, I had the opportunity to live and work in the United Kingdom not far from Leigh’s home in Dunstable. My Air Force assignment to the small base of RAF Chicksands, near Shefford, Bedfordshire, was a fantastic experience that my family and I have not forgotten. Since our return to the US in 1981, I regret that my wife and I have not taken the time to travel back to England together. Now, it’s time! I can dream of nothing better than the two of us (yes Leigh, I’ll gladly pay her way!) to once again cross “the pond;” meet Leigh, John, Noel, little Shannon, and the gang; play test out a new Eclipse MY or LR, and enjoy a pint at Leigh’s favorite local. The first round’s on me! Actually, I know I’m good for more than a round!

Leigh, when it comes to making world class horns, you’re amongst the top. You have made many dream horns a reality. This year, I hope that reality is mine.

__________________
Pete Blaise

1974 LA Benge 3x Bb
1950 Olds Super Bb
2002 Yamaha 8445GS C
2004 Kanstul ZKF 1525 Flugel

TWEAK

mmm...chewy. yes, i really am holding it with my teeth. that's a pretty old picture, probably 5 years old. wow, i forgot i used to play on a bach mouthpiece!

here is a story i wrote in 12th grade during study hall. it is from a collection of stories i wrote that year (during study hall) called "stories for childern who can't function under their own power". they are all dumb. here is one of them, also quite dumb. most of the stuff in it makes no sense. that's actually the point.

Who Stole My Pants?
By TWEAK
© MCMXCIX (1999)

The sun rose early the day I moved out of my farm. I remember it as if it were yesterday. The date was Tuesday, Septeburay 42, 19999999.43, and my farm in Wichita, Kansas was full of rotting beef, so I decided I didn’t want to live there anymore. And since Wichita has a population of only - four, me and the rest of the - three people decided to move to Kansas’s neighbouring state, Ohio.
We moved to Ohio by foot, since we lost our car to a 450 ft. monster that decided to venture into Kansas and destroy stuff. The monster, whose name was actually Mohandas, apologized to us afterward, so we didn’t mind that our car was gone. 863 days after we left our farm, we reached our final destination… Ohio. And that’s when the trouble began…
We rented an apartment right away. It was a cozy apartment with 473,483 rooms and a nice view of outside stuff. We had friendly neighbors as well.
My roommate, Stanley, one of the three people that came with me when we moved, decided he was going to take a tour of the city we were in. We decided that it was a good plan, since we had nothing better to do. Before we left, I was sure to lock up my pants.
We decided we would rent a car. We found a nice place called “Oscar Meyer’s Car Rental”, and we rented an Oscar Meyer Weenie Mobile. It was full of weenie whistles which we handed out to little children as we drove by.
When we got back to the apartment, I went to change my pants. I walked into the room when I noticed the lock on my pants cabinet was torn off. I quickly opened up the cabinet to find that every single pair of my pants was gone. EVERY SINGLE PAIR!!! I looked down and I noticed that even the pair I had been wearing was gone.
“NO!!! NOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!” Those were my final words before I blacked out and woke up in the hospital.
I had 760 pairs of pants in that cabinet. Every pair, I wore with pride. Sometimes I even wore all of them at once. I loved my pants as I love my family, friends, and other. Now they were gone. They would never be worn by me again...or so I thought. Would I ever find them? I didn’t know.
My eyes could hardly open, since it was so bright. And I think they were sown shut, too. But that was far from my mind. My roommates, Stanley, Larry, and Frank were in tears. They loved those pants as much as I did. Those pants were part of our family. If we had to, we would have died for those pants. Now, they were gone.
My first words after waking up were, “How long have I been out?”
“You’ve been in a coma for four days,” the doctor said. “I’m surprised you didn’t die, since you were in shock when you got here. You were foaming at the mouth and your breath smelled like Aquafresh.”
“Oh, I did that,” Frank said with a grin on his face. “I wanted to brush his teeth before we got here.”
“That would explain why my mouth doesn’t taste like tacos anymore,” I stated.
After leaving the hospital, the first thing I had my friends do was take a seat.
“We’ve got to find those pants. There has to be a way,” I told them.
“It’s pointless,” Frank said. “You’ve been in a coma for four days now. You shouldn’t even be on your feet. Plus, we took shifts while you were out. One of us would stay with you in the room while the other two of us searched the whole USA looking for those pants. We even looked in Mexico!”
That’s when I realized the problem. “Then, my friends, we must go to the Maple Leaf State. Canada.”
“Canada! Of course! Why didn’t I think of that?!” Larry asked with great dismay. Then he remembered that he was an idiot, and his brain couldn’t think of things like Canada or other things like that.
“When are we leaving?” Stanley asked.
“Right now,” I said proudly. “To the weenie mobile!!!!”
It took us 54,000 seconds to get to the border of Canada. Then we changed our American money to a lesser degree of money. Canadian money. Then we each rented cars and split up to cover more ground. Frank decided to explore the Eskimo regions, such as the Yukon. Stanley visited Viking country, also known as Nova Scotia. Larry went to British Columbia, and I went to Quebec and Newfoundland.
Frank, Stanley and Larry didn’t find the pants I was looking for, and sometimes they found people who weren’t wearing any pants at all. However, in Frenchie Canada land, many people were wearing my pants. In fact, I found many stores marketing my pants. I guess I was a designer, because my name was on all the labels of the pants. I suppose they found my name on the inside of my pants, after all, I put them there so I wouldn’t lose them. Now, I had found them. But I had to find the person responsible for taking them. I purchased an English to French dictionary and asked in French, “Who is responsible for these pants being on the market?” Everyone who heard me looked at me and shouted “Monsieur Pantalon!!!!” They gave me directions on how to find him. I then called Frank, Stanley and Larry on their cell phones. I told them to meet me at “La Maison de les Pantalons” in Montreal. About ten hours later, they met up with me. We then entered The Pants House.
It was amazing. Hundreds of thousands of different types of pants were in picture frames hanging from the walls. We didn’t have time to look at them all, because Stanley had to make a dump really badly so we let him go use the bathroom. Fifteen minutes later, he was finished. We then looked for the office of the pants man.
We found the office about a half-hour after we started looking for it, because it was on the 571st floor of the building. A man in a uniform with a big gun stood guard of the room. He asked me who I was, and I told him my name. “Ah!” he said. “So you are the one whose pants are so stylish and fancy and good, non?”
“Uh, yeah,” I told him. “Is there anyway I can talk to the man who is marketing them?”
“Ah, Monsieur Pantalon is a very busy man. You should wait here while I check if you can see him. Wait here, sil vous plait.”
“Man, this is freaking me out,” I said. “How the heck did he even find my pants in the first place?”
“Don’t ask me, I’m a moron,” Larry said.
“Yeah, you are,” Frank added. “But he’s right, I mean, how did he get to those pants? I mean, they were locked up and everything. This whole thing doesn’t make sense!”
“Le Monsieur will see you now. But be warned, he likes to shout things in French at people.”
“Thank you for that warning, and thanks for helping us out,” I told the guard as we walked into the office.
“Well, I know how it is. He stole my pants at one point in my life. I told him if he didn’t hire me to work for him, I would break his legs.”
“And that’s when he hired you?” Larry asked.
“No, I had to break his legs because he didn’t believe I would.” That’s when we ran away from the guard in fear for our legs.
The office of this “Pants Man” guy was very big. It took us about three minutes to walk over to his desk. When we then told him who were, he said excitedly, “I am so happy to meet you finally!”
“That’s nice for you, maybe, but I’m not so happy about it. You stole my freakin’ pants!”
“Ah, but there is a reason for everything, non? You see, I want to bring different styles of pants to different parts of Canada. And your pants worked nicely.”
“So, that’s all you wanted to do this whole time?”
“Oui.”
“Why didn’t you just ask?”
“Because this way is more fun, non?”
“No.”
“Oh. Okay, well, I am, um, how you say in English, apologizing. I am... sorry.”
“So, do I get my pants back?”
“Non.”
“Then I guess I’ll have to break your legs.” When I said that, he agreed to give my pants back to me.
“Before I go, have a few more questions. How exactly did you break into my cabinet full of pants and end up back in Canada so quickly?” I asked.
“We French Canadians are a cleaver bunch. We have our ways.”
“Okay, just one more thing. How did you steal the pants I was wearing?”
“Well, you don’t look at your pants all day, you know. So when you weren’t looking, I snatched them from your legs.”
“How?”
“That, my American friend, is a secret you will never know.”
“Well that’s just prime,” I said, storming out of the office. As I left, a messenger boy walked out of a room with all of my pants in his arms. He then handed them to me and walked away.
We drove back to Ohio in the weenie mobile with my 760 pairs of pants and some not-so-fond memories of Quebec.
“French Canada really bites,” I told them as we drove in the mobile and listening to “Mingus Ah Um” on the 8-track player. “I don’t think I’ll be going there ever again.”
“You know,” Larry said, “I kind of liked it.” Then he remembered he was stupid, so he stopped talking.
I was able to go to bed that night knowing that tomorrow, I could wear my pants again. All in all, I had a good time, Stanley helped an old lady cross the street, and Mohandas, the 450 foot monster who ate our car, stepped on a rusty thumb-tack and had to get a tetanus shot.

THE END

About the Author

I am a disturbed individual who has nothing better to do than write messed up stories on a piece of garbage computer. I also enjoy flowers, furry kittens, and long walks in the rain.
In my free time when I’m not engaged in writing a story that people don’t understand, I play my trumpet. I play it very well. I also play guitar... poorly.
I have 20 computers in my room. They’re all stupid and old and from 1985. But I like ‘em.
When I get older, I hope to accomplish many things. I hope to become Prime Minister of Canada and market my pants to the French Canadians.
Uh, I guess that’s about it. Tune in next week for more wacky adventures, same Bat-time, same Bat-channel!!!




wow that story gets dumber everytime i read it...i hope it didn't offend anyone...i mean if you're a french canadian then i am sorry that you bought my pants. in the story that is...


and now, here is something that i like to call "5. MANDATORY : All entrants must give us a brief reason why they feel that they should win this contest. " actually i didn't call it that, the eclipse person did.

well, i should win this contest for the same reason that everyone else who is posting here wants to win. we all want to better our trumpet playing with a state-of-the-art trumpet that is perfect for us. we're all artists and we want to continue to better our lives as well as the lives of others. we play music for the sake of music, so people can hear what we have to give them. and since we're all musicians, it is likely that all or most of us are broke and therefore cannot afford to buy a new or good trumpet...at least that's my case, haha. in fact i have never even left the country...ive never even been to canada (despite what the story may say...it was all lies. i know...i am sorry...)so may the best person win.

Darktrumpeter

THE TASKS:-

1. THE FUNNY PHOTO

This is what happens when concert attires go too far.


4. A POEM OR LIMERICK

There once was a man doing flips
He needed a horn that flies and zips
All horns he tried were trouble
Until he reached Dunstable
Where he found and bought his Eclipse

5. MANDATORY : All entrants must give us a brief reason why they feel that they should win this contest.

I have not had the pleasure of actually playing a horn that fit me just right. All I have played were the student model horn I started on, then school horns, and finally my parents went out and bought me a strad. Although the strad is much better than any other horn I had played it doesn't quite fit me or my playing and I don't have the money to replace it with a horn that I can test before buying. I am a junior in high and am going to go into college as a music major, either education or I'll double major with performance. I really would enjoy a horn that I can grow on and into that can later help me possibly pass on my musical knowledge and skills to the next generation.