This year, I’ll be winging it to Chicago to spend Thanksgiving with my parents. Given past experience, I’m guessing that expressions of gratitude will be in short supply.  So instead of saving up all my thanks for a Sharing Circle of Thanksgiving Fun, I reckon I’ll just unleash it on you fine folks.  Here it is: A few weeks ago, I was invited me to tell a story into a microphone at a bar.  I didn’t know anyone there and fell into conversation with a fellow performer, a musician.  Let’s call him James. James appeared to be in his late 40s or early 50s.  Tall, dark skinned, gregarious and clearly passionate about music.  Very passionate.  He talked to me for over 40 minutes about music.  He expounded upon the importance of craft and how young musicians nowadays had none.  Upon the mediocratization of music that had happened since the advent of the super-producer and vocalists who rely on computers to enhance their talent.  He extolled the virtues of Elton John, Billy Joel, The Beatles—musicians who had no gimmicks.  Just their talent and passion.  That was real music, man. He spoke about his own work.  The mysterious power that he, as a musician, had over women.  How he sought to emulate his idols, perfect his craft or at least get better every day.  About being a studio musician and craving the interplay between craftsmen.  He made me want to pick up an instrument and become, if not a maestro, then at least reasonably proficient so that I, too, could experience that camaraderie and power over women. By the time he finished speaking, I was looking forward to seeing him perform.  Surely someone that passionate would at least be interesting to watch. Two hours later, James...