Making music and making eggs are sure paths to stardom
I know nothing. At least I feel that way most of the time.
Take eggs. Oh, I know eggs. I eat eggs every day. I don’t know if they’re supposed to be good for us or not. I can’t keep track and I don’t care.
I was talking to some people recently, just chit-chatting, and the subject of eggs came up. And one guy was like, “nothing beats a farm-fresh egg.” And everyone agreed.
The whole time, I was thinking, I’ve had eggs from friends with chickens and I’ve had eggs from the store and I like them all equally and I don’t think I could tell the difference.
But he went on. Farm-fresh eggs have an orange yolk and that yolk stands right up.
I had no idea what he was talking about now. I wanted to counter-argue and ask, if eggs I buy at the store aren’t farmfresh, what the heck are they?
I’m pretty sure they aren’t processed overseas and shipped here.
But what do I know? I thought I knew eggs. Turns out, maybe I don’t know eggs.
You ever notice that no matter how smart you are or how experienced you are or how long you’ve been doing that thing you do, someone is always smarter or more experienced or has been doing that thing you do since before you even knew what that thing was.
Like years ago, I decided I wanted to learn to play the guitar. I took my dad’s dusty guitar case since he hadn’t used the thing in years, maybe decades. I quickly learned to pluck the opening to Smoke on the Water and felt like I was probably a rock star.
I practised Smoke on the Water every day until my fingers were calloused little guitar plucking pads.
I was ready for my debut. The details are hazy, as things tend to be for us rock stars, but I just remember being at a party or maybe it was just a little gathering and I felt comfortable enough to bring out the guitar.
I just kind of held it for a while, quietly picking at a string, pretending to tune it even though I had no idea how. Twang, twang, twangy twang twang. I was begging for a request to play something.
Someone finally asked, “Oh, do you play?”
And I launched ferociously into the opening to Smoke on the Water.
I waited for a reaction but once people realized that was all I had, they went back to chatting and ignoring me and my guitar.
Until someone else at the party or small gathering said, “Oh hey if you’re all done, mind if I give it a try.”
And I thought, “Sure kid. You can try to figure out how I just made this guitar sing. And you will fail and everyone here will worship me as the rock star that I am.”
And this person proceeded to absolutely shred and had the whole room engaged in a singalong, took requests and they wouldn’t even let him quit. He had to try three times to put the thing down.
OK, so I practised some more and some more and some more. I got together with a guitar guy friend who taught me a few chords so I could strum along to songs. I bought guitar magazines and tried to learn to play popular and classic rock tunes. I was feeling pretty good and laughed at my old self. What a silly little Smoke on the Water plucker I was back then.
Well, I got myself invited camping so, of course, I packed my guitar. And when the campfire got roaring and the crowd gathered, it was time to take control.
I was ready to play some Tragically Hip, maybe a little Rolling Stones. I strummed some chords and people were kind of trying to get into it but I never really learned any songs all the way through. I’d be good at the opening then I fizzled out.
Luckily some other guy in the crowd was able to take the guitar right from my hands and turn himself into the life of the campfire party.
I did have my shining moment though. The next morning, when nobody wanted a song and everybody wanted an egg, I was ready, spatula in hand.