I’m a pretty good looking guy. I don’t think that’s an outrageous statement. Don’t get me wrong, you’re not going to see me anytime soon on a Calvin Klein billboard sporting their latest line of briefs. But I think it’s safe to say in the spectrum of hotness I’m a little closer to George Clooney than to George Costanza.
I know, I know, this article is certainly not the platform for me to wax lyrical about my superficialities. I am meandering my way to a point here, folks. And that point is to register an official complaint.
Let me explain. When I was a teenager, I would read the stories about how Benny Goodman and Artie Shaw were pop superstars, with untold fame and fortune, and women lining themselves up to be with them. Now, Artie seemed like a handsome gent, but Benny? C’mon. Not exactly your Hollywood leading man. He had the appearance of someone more comfortable handling your tax-return than your daughter.
But by reading about it, it seemed like clarinet was the key to sex appeal. I was seventeen when I picked up the clarinet. Not one to ever really have success with the young lasses at school, surely this was the fast track to superstardom and subsequent romantic attention. It seemed obvious to me that after a few months of practice, the girls would flock from their football-playing boyfriends’ arms to hear me squeak out a few high notes on “Sing Sin
