You start out as what, spruce, growing two hundred years up the side of a mountain then they cut you down and age you for another fifty or so. It’s a grandfather – father – son – grandson business. Eventually you’re a cello.

Eventually you’re a cello. In the right hands: wow. You’re the king. Even there in your case, leaned in the corner of the room: pure potential.

Look, in Mig’s defense I’ll admit he had an especially bad day yesterday. It didn’t seem bad to him until he got to his cello lesson then he finally noticed.

Still, it was painful. I felt like I was watching Michael J. Fox try to eat Froot Loops with chopsticks on a bad day. Or: Larry Flynt getting a lap dance. Whatever.

OTOH, Mig did learn something important that might help him vastly, about the relationship of the white and the black keys on the piano with his finger positions.

We’ll see.