1 Chronicles 15:16
Yes, your life matters.
We all are still sheltering in place, but I'm here to keep you sane and entertained.
One could hardly ask for much more than that, now could one?
I had no idea there was such a day (granted, there is a day for pretty much anything imaginable), but today is Uncommon Instrument Awareness Day. You might want to pull out your Mbira or Kalimba, your Ocarina or Sweet Potato, your Nose Flute or Hano, or any number of other "unusual" instruments (please, just none of the usual suspects!) and play a tune for your co-quarantinians to celebrate.
Allow me to do my part in exposing unusual instruments to the broader public.Here is an excerpt from that fabulous novel, Bytes Akimbo - Cybersleuth, describing an uncommon instrument: the Mahi-Mahi piob ullinagh.
After the grass-skirted steward had cleared the table, the discussion ambled along at an untoward pace, careening dizzyingly across table tops, to and fro, lickety split.
“Boden,” enquired Pete, “why is it that the men here on Mahi-Mahi wear grass skirts, while the women wear normal clothing?” The general undercurrent of murmurs and vituperation lent gravity to Pete’s query, as well as suggesting that his curiosity was not unshared.
“Haven’t you noticed the name tags on the various stewards, bus boys, and such?” replied Boden.
“If you’ll check, you’ll find that we’re being served by fellows with names like MacOttar, MacInnes, Carmichael, and Kirkcudbright. This island was settled by a group of wayward Scots who dropped their tartans and took up the grass kilt. Perhaps when we have a moment, I’ll have one of the local musicians give a demonstration of the Mahi-Mahi piob ullinagh.”
“You don’t mean … “ began Pete.
“Surely not … “ continued Karl.
“Oh, I can’t believe … “ pursued Bonnie.
“What’s that?” expostulated Polly.
“It’s a native instrument, made from local ingredients. Quite ingenious, actually. They take the tanned, preserved body of a Portuguese Man-O-War, and attach several hollowed out, polished conch shells to it at various protuberances. The Man-O-War sack is inflated by blowing into it, and the air is forced out through the conch shells, much to the delight and amusement of any audience lucky enough to encounter one of the masters of such an instrument.”
“An instrument of torture is what it sounds like to me,” berated Steve.
“Oh, you’ve heard one before, have you?”
Steve looked askance at Boden. Boden looked the skance right back at him until Steve backed down. “Irv, make him stop looking at me!” quailed a quaking Steve, “he won’t stop looking at me!”
Lunch and frivolity generally having improved the morale and posture of the group, coffee was soon served and savored. Discussion of the upcoming launch of the radioactive dolphin-unsafe cans of tuna soon won out over the question of whether they all had really to listen to the concert which Boden had surreptitiously scheduled for them that very evening.
“OK, so after the launch, we’ll decide about the concert. Please, folks, let’s discuss the fate of the world rather than the merits of blowing air into a dead Portuguese Man-O-War, can’t we?”
“Boden,” enquired Pete, “why is it that the men here on Mahi-Mahi wear grass skirts, while the women wear normal clothing?” The general undercurrent of murmurs and vituperation lent gravity to Pete’s query, as well as suggesting that his curiosity was not unshared.
“Haven’t you noticed the name tags on the various stewards, bus boys, and such?” replied Boden.
“If you’ll check, you’ll find that we’re being served by fellows with names like MacOttar, MacInnes, Carmichael, and Kirkcudbright. This island was settled by a group of wayward Scots who dropped their tartans and took up the grass kilt. Perhaps when we have a moment, I’ll have one of the local musicians give a demonstration of the Mahi-Mahi piob ullinagh.”
“You don’t mean … “ began Pete.
“Surely not … “ continued Karl.
“Oh, I can’t believe … “ pursued Bonnie.
“What’s that?” expostulated Polly.
“It’s a native instrument, made from local ingredients. Quite ingenious, actually. They take the tanned, preserved body of a Portuguese Man-O-War, and attach several hollowed out, polished conch shells to it at various protuberances. The Man-O-War sack is inflated by blowing into it, and the air is forced out through the conch shells, much to the delight and amusement of any audience lucky enough to encounter one of the masters of such an instrument.”
“An instrument of torture is what it sounds like to me,” berated Steve.
“Oh, you’ve heard one before, have you?”
Steve looked askance at Boden. Boden looked the skance right back at him until Steve backed down. “Irv, make him stop looking at me!” quailed a quaking Steve, “he won’t stop looking at me!”
Lunch and frivolity generally having improved the morale and posture of the group, coffee was soon served and savored. Discussion of the upcoming launch of the radioactive dolphin-unsafe cans of tuna soon won out over the question of whether they all had really to listen to the concert which Boden had surreptitiously scheduled for them that very evening.
“OK, so after the launch, we’ll decide about the concert. Please, folks, let’s discuss the fate of the world rather than the merits of blowing air into a dead Portuguese Man-O-War, can’t we?”
And, for your further reading pleasure, here is a link to buy the book.
As if that weren't enough (and I can't imagine that it was), today is also World Ranger Day!
Almost certainly the best way to celebrate outside a State or National Park would be to enjoy the Riders in the Sky, featuring Ranger Doug, the Idol of American Youth. It might not be the easy way, but it would be the cowboy way.
I'll be back tomorrow.
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