There are only a couple of people in this world who should play a recorder. You aren't one of them and my son, Nathan, is most certainly not one of them, either.
In my evolution as a human, I have come to hold much less defined beliefs as to the nature of evil, but when I came home and found my son screeching away on his shiny new recorder, I immediately discovered a powerful certainty that Satan is alive and walks the earth.
"Hey, dad," my freckled one grinned, "Look what I got!"
"Wonderful," I regurgitated. Then I felt invisible, malicious fingers grasping at my throat.
So, let's examine the (maybe) two categories of people who have a right to play the recorder:
1). if you are a wizened Navaho Indian sitting alone under a vast night sky atop a red rock mesa, then you may be a candidate. The recorder "properly" played gives off that haunting, lonesome wail that seems most appropriate to wilderness places--places where other humans can't hear you.
Turns out there was only one category.
Anyone else who presumes to take up the recorder is either a small child upon whom this instrument of evil has been forced, or a sadist. Or both.
My son is both, I'm pretty sure.