Shoot the trumpet player!

Shoot the trumpet player!

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This is a short title serves me well to pay tribute to François Truffaut, the French film director and, at the same time, to make a wish I have been harboring for a few months now: that a compassionate soul would do the fifth floor neighbor in. He is a lad who, every day, practices with his instrument. Precisely in this verb, “practices”, is the nub of the issue. He doesn’t play the trumpet, he practices. He is an apprentice and ignores –poor thing!- that as a trumpet player he sucks. He is a zillion miles away from the group of virtuosos who are born with a treble clef-shaped birthmark on their cheeks. Were Miles Davis, Louis Armstrong or Dizzy Gillespie ever a pain in the ass to their neighbors?…
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