I once had a buddy who decided one fine summer day that that we -- he and I -- should become rock stars. I'd always thought of myself as a folkie, had a classical guitar and my three chords -- but he was hot to do it.
He came into some money. Well, let's be truthful here -- he got a really good deal on some stuff that he picked up, what we used to call a five-finger discount. He sold that, and took the money to the local music store. Showed up at my house with a brand new Fender strat, a Hoffner bass, and a couple of amplifiers. I was passing surprised.
Here, he said, you get to be the bass player.
All we needed was a lead guitarist -- my buddy was gonna be the rhythm player and lead singer -- and a drummer, some groupies, and we'd be all set.
Well, that, and some talent and skill, neither of which we had.
I knew exactly zip about playing bass, but, hey, if Paul McCartney could learn, I could, too, right?
Unfortunately, two days -- two days -- after I came into possession of the same kind of bass guitar that Paul had used to conquer the world with a little help from his friends, my friend fought the law, and the law won. I came up with bail, but he needed money to pay his lawyer, and alas, the guitars got sold in a big hurry. (Pretty soon, he, uh, was not in a place where he and I could practice together anyhow, and that was the end of that venture. Easy come, easy go.)
I sometimes wonder if I had held onto that bass and learned how to play it what might have happened.