4,326 years ago (also known as my sophomore year in college), I took the first of what would be many fiction writing classes at my university. Our little writing workshop was taught by a grad student named Dan, who was working on his own Master's degree in fiction. We wrote stories and pored over each other's work in class. We had class on a rooftop deck one sunny afternoon while sipping tequila. Don't worry, we were all over 21; at least that's the story I'm sticking with.
What's significant about this particular class, however, is not the writing, not the instructor and not the tequila. It's that one of my classmates was a quiet guy named Ho, whom I never saw again once that semester ended. That is, until I was reintroduced to him in San Francisco about four years ago through our mutual friend Jack. Jack has since moved to New York, but he was in town last week, and I had dinner with him and Ho at The Grove on Fillmore Street last Tuesday.
And that's when I learned the information that may change my life: Ho plays the bass.
Okay, maybe Ho's musical ability won't change my life, but it is going to change my open mic performances. Yesterday, Ho joined Jackie and myself for rehearsal, and I believe he is going to play with us from now on. Yippee! It's like we're almost a real band. If yesterday's rehearsal is any indication, adding bass to our repertoire will be a very good move. The songs sounded so good, and Ho hasn't even fully learned them yet.
Plus, Ho has recording equipment at home and already has offered us the opportunity to record stuff. And he writes songs... at least a little bit... and has offered to help me translate the original melodies I sometimes wake up singing in the morning into real music.
This could be the beginning of great things for my little music hobby.