I distinctly remember the day I brought my plastic recorder home from music class in the fourth grade. The minute I got off the bus, I hit the pavement running toward home. Pulling the beautiful instrument out of its slick green case, I proudly showed it to my mother. The subsequent hours were spent in a vain attempt to play “Hot Cross Buns”—an effort that soon ran her out of the house with her hands over her ears. It was a thwarted creative moment. I call it the day the music died. While I’m still an avid music-listener and frequent shower singer, I’ve not since undertaken any serious musical endeavors. I’ll do everyone a favor and stick to my day job.