THE GREAT CHRISTMAS CONCERT CATASTROPHE OF 1979

When I was ten years old, my mother made a decision that would haunt our household every Thursday afternoon for the next two years.

She decided my brother and I were going to learn the violin.

Not because we asked.

Not because we showed any musical aptitude whatsoever.

But because, in her mind, learning a classical instrument would magically transform us from the feral, undisciplined creatures we were into refined, cultured young gentlemen.

Spoiler alert: it didn’t work.

We lived in a small town called Paradise, California.

And yes, I’m aware of the irony.

Because for my brother and me, Paradise was anything but — especially on Thursday afternoons, when a man named Mr. Skerzick would arrive at our house, violin case in hand, dressed impeccably in a pressed suit and tie, his white hair combed back perfectly, his long nose and neatly trimmed mustache giving him the appearance of someone who might have once conducted symphonies in Vienna.

Or committed war crimes in Poland.

My brother and I were convinced — absolutely, unshakably convinced — that Mr. Skerzick was one of those infamous Nazi war criminals who’d escaped capture after World War II and was now hiding out in our small little town, living under an assumed identity, teaching violin to unsuspecting children as part of his cover.

With a name like Skerzick, how could he not be?

We had no evidence, of course.

But we didn’t need evidence.

We had imagination.

And paranoia.

And the kind of confidence that nine and ten year old boys have when they’ve decided something is absolutely, unquestionably true.

THURSDAYS WITH HERR SKERZICK

The lessons themselves were a disaster from the start.

My brother and I never practiced.

Not once during the week.

Well — that’s not entirely true.

About fifteen minutes before Mr. Skerzick arrived, we would attempt to practice… assuming we could first locate our violins, our bows, and those yellow Minuet in G music books that were perpetually buried beneath mountains of clothes, toys, comic books, and whatever else we’d thrown on the floor that week.

Mr. Skerzick would sit patiently in our living room, hands folded, waiting.

And waiting.

And waiting.

Until finally, we’d emerge disheveled and out of breath, trying to act natural — like we hadn’t just spent the last fourteen minutes tearing our rooms apart like meth-addled archaeologists — clutching our instruments as if we’d unearthed ancient artifacts from a tomb.

Then the lesson would begin.

And it was always, always obvious that we hadn’t practiced.

There was no improvement from one week to the next.

In fact, I’m pretty sure we got worse.

At the end of every lesson, Mr. Skerzick would look at us with a mixture of disappointment and something darker — something we couldn’t quite name, but that made us wonder if he was mentally calculating how much trouble he’d get in if two American children simply… disappeared.

“Boys,” he’d say, his voice calm but firm, “your mother is paying a lot of money for these lessons. Not to mention the violins. And the music books. You need to practice.”

We’d nod solemnly.

“We will, Mr. Skerzick. This week will be different. We promise.”

It never was.

MY BROTHER THE VOLCANO (OR: EVIDENCE THAT MY MOM MAY HAVE SPAWNED THE SON OF SATAN)

Now, my brother had a temper.

Not just a normal kid temper — I’m talking about something primal and terrifying.

When he was younger, if he got mad enough, he would bite his own arm.

Hard.

Hard enough to draw blood.

Then he’d scream in pain.

And then, because he was so furious about how much it hurt, he’d bite it again.

And then scream again.

And bite again.

It was a vicious, self-inflicted cycle of rage and pain that would continue until someone intervened or he simply wore himself out.

My mother used to joke — though you could tell it disturbed her deeply — that when she was pregnant with him, he probably bit his own umbilical cord when he got mad.

She’d laugh when she said it.

But her eyes would go distant — like she was genuinely wondering if she’d somehow spawned the son of Satan and was still trying to process how in the world that had happened.

The few times my brother actually attempted to practice the violin, his temper would flare almost immediately.

He’d get so frustrated that he’d take his bow and smash it straight down onto the music book sitting on the stand in front of him — hard — punching a giant hole clean through the pages.

Sometimes multiple holes.

All the way through the book.

When Mr. Skerzick arrived for the next lesson and noticed these gaping wounds in the sheet music, he’d pause, tilt his head slightly, and ask,

“What happened here?”

My brother would shrug.

“Ummmm… moths?”

Then Mr. Skerzick — with the patience of a saint and the timing of a comedian — would slowly reach over, pick up the violin bow, and fit it perfectly into the hole.

Like a puzzle piece.

He’d hold it there for a moment.

Studying it.

Then he’d slowly turn his head and look at my brother.

Not angry.

Not confused.

Just… looking.

It was the kind of look you remember long after you forget everything else.

My brother didn’t know exactly what that look meant — but he knew he didn’t like it.

And he never brought up moths again.

THE DAY MY BROTHER WENT SPELUNKING UNDER HIS BED WHILE I PLAYED VIOLIN

One particular Thursday, my brother couldn’t find his music book.

At all.

So I had to go first.

There I stood in our messy bedroom, violin tucked under my chin, bow in hand, squeaking and sawing my way through some butchered version of a classical piece while Mr. Skerzick sat in a chair watching me with a look on his face as if he were wondering what in the world he could possibly have done in a past life to deserve this.

Meanwhile, off to the side, my brother was halfway under his bed.

His legs flailed wildly as he dug and clawed his way through the horrible stuffed mess beneath the bed frame looking for his music book, tossing things out behind him — action figures, socks, crumpled homework, a half-eaten sandwich — grunting and yelling every time he bumped his head on the underside of the bed or touched something sharp.

At one point, he bit his own arm and screamed.

Then kept digging.

What a sight that must have been.

Me, playing terribly.

My brother’s legs thrashing around like a drowning man.

Mr. Skerzick sat there in his chair, stone-faced.

And that’s when the look on his face changed.

Not frustration.

Not confusion.

Recognition.

The kind of look that comes with a sudden realization — as though he had just remembered exactly what he had done in a past life to deserve this.

Then my mother got an idea.

OPERATION: SYMPHONY (OR HOW MY MOTHER ALMOST UNINTENTIONALLY DESTROYED CLASSICAL MUSIC FOREVER)

My mother’s idea, it turned out, was simple.

If my brother and I weren’t taking the violin seriously at home, maybe we’d take it seriously in public.

In front of adults.

People who practiced.

People who cared.

So she decided we should join the local symphony.

In her mind, this was going to fix everything.

We’d be inspired.

Motivated.

Rehabilitated.

Transformed.

It was a terrible idea.

A well-intentioned — but catastrophically horrible, terrible idea.

She brought it up to Mr. Skerzick, who, it turned out, had more pull than we realized.

Because Mr. Skerzick wasn’t just our violin teacher — he was also the first-chair violinist in the Paradise Symphony, the only real professional in the group, and close friends with the conductor, a stern, sharp-nosed man named Thomas Newman.

Mr Skerzick and Thomas Newman looked like they could have been brothers.

Or co-conspirators. 

They had the exact same posture, the same unsmiling stare — the sort of men you could picture decades earlier in matching uniforms, carrying out unspeakable acts that no one dared talk about anymore.

Anyway — when my mom mentioned the symphony, Mr. Skerzick jumped on it.

Because he felt guilty.

My mother had been paying him week after week, and not only were we not improving — we were somehow getting worse.

So when she floated the symphony idea, he grabbed onto it like a life preserver.

He talked to Newman.

Pulled a few strings.

And just like that, we were in.

No audition.

No discussion.

No one pausing to ask whether this was wise.

Suddenly, my brother and I were “full fledge members” of the Paradise, California Symphony — which sounded impressive at first… until you took a few minutes to really think about it.

Because — when I say “symphony,” I should clarify.

It was mostly retirees and hobbyists — people who took themselves just a bit too seriously.

The women would always show up to practice wearing too much makeup.

The men would show up wearing too much cologne.

Except Mr. Finch, who always smelled like booze.

And then there was Ethel Warbler.

Ethel was a force to be reckoned with.

She stood out from everyone else in the symphony— gloriously, unapologetically, and at full volume.

While most members of the symphony showed up to rehearsals in conservative, muted clothing, Ethel always arrived in blinding floral suits so bright you instinctively wanted to shield your eyes.

The patterns on her clothes stretched across her body in ways that fabric was never intended, blithely outlining every wrinkle, fold, crevice, and other anatomical secret detail the church preferred stayed hidden

It always felt like if she bent even slightly — turned a little too far one way or the other, stretched, or sneezed too hard — she might explode, showering the orchestra in hibiscus-patterned petals.

But nobody cared.

Because the town adored her.

She was a local legend — a civic mascot — and the centerpiece of the symphony.

And it had nothing to do with the instrument she played.

Because she DIDN'T play an instrument.

She whistled.

With her lips.

And the town thought it was genius.

They even built her a special platform — a raised “whistling section” — where she stood high above everyone else like a brightly floral wrapped bloated goddess - a blaring parade float of local pride.

Meanwhile, my brother and I were placed — more accurately, dumped — exactly where we belonged:

At the very back of the violin section.

With a couple of empty chairs deliberately left between us and everyone else, as if they needed a physical buffer.

We were so far back, we were practically sitting in the parking lot.

And that, as it turned out, is one of the main reasons why everything wound up going so horribly wrong.

WEDNESDAY NIGHTS IN HELL (WITH THOSE ENORMOUS CHOCOLATE COVERED JELLY-FILLED SUGAR-SPRINKLED NUCLEAR KO-KO BOMBS)

Every Wednesday night, my mother would drop my brother and me off at the local community center, and we’d take our place in the very back of the violin section.

It had to look ridiculous.

We were the only ones under fifty.

By about forty years.

A sea of silver-haired, serious musicians — all focused and disciplined…

…and then these two knucklehead kids in the back, ages nine and ten, looking like we’d been dragged there kicking and screaming against our will.

Which, of course, we had been.

We hated it.

For the first half of rehearsal, my brother and I would sit there like zombies.

Dead-eyed.

Lifeless.

Dragging our bows across the strings with all the enthusiasm of prisoners on a chain gang, wishing we were literally anywhere else on earth.

But then — halfway through each rehearsal — a genuine miracle would occur:

Intermission.

Which meant only one thing:

DONUTS.

Every week, the conductor’s wife, Margery Newman, would show up with stacks of pink donut boxes — glazed donuts, chocolate bars, maple twists, old-fashioneds, sprinkles, crullers — the whole sugary spectrum.

And then there were the Nuclear Ko Ko Bombs.

Those Enormous, Chocolate Covered, Jelly Filled, Powder Sugar Sprinkled Nuclear Ko Ko Bombs.

These weren’t normal donuts.

These were magnificent rare edible treasures.

We had never heard of them before or seen them anywhere else.

They looked imported — like something smuggled out of Europe in a velvet-lined briefcase.

They were huge.

Chocolate-covered.

Stuffed with jelly.

Dusted in powdered sugar, like they’d been rolled in sweet radioactive fallout.

And there were always just a few of them.

Which meant that when intermission hit, it instantly became less of a break and more of a survival event.

The moment the conductor said, “Let's take our break,” my brother and I snapped back to life — our heads whipping toward the donut table like hunting dogs catching a scent.

Then — we bolted.

We sprinted across the room like we’d been fired from a cannon, muscling past elderly violinists and flutists, making a beeline for those Nuclear Ko Ko Bombs, grabbing as many as humanly possible before anyone else could get their hands on them.

Those Ko Ko Bombs were our motivation.

They were our fuel.

Forget Beethoven.

Forget Mozart.

We were there for the bombs — and once we’d pillaged the table, we’d retreat to the far corner of the auditorium to devour them like two half-starved wolves guarding a kill, glazed psycho looks in our eyes, paranoid and fiercely protective, ready to fight anyone who dared come too close.

We’d inhale them, and by the time we were finished we’d literally be out of breath - dizzy - and light-headed.

Then, after taking a minute or two to recover, we’d stagger back to our seats in the very back, buzzing, jittery, eyes wide, hands shaking — fingers sticky, chocolate glaze and jelly smeared across our mouths, dusted with white powdered sugar like two speed-freak raccoons who’d had a bag of cocaine explode in their faces.

It usually took fifteen or twenty minutes for the full effect of those Ko Ko Bombs to kick in.

And when it did…

That’s when the real chaos began.

A BRIEF DETOUR INTO INSANITY: MEET PETE AND JOHN

Somewhere along the way, my brother and I invented a game.

Not Monopoly.

Not tag.

Something much stranger.

We created characters — bizarre alter-egos — that we could slip into instantly, without warning, like flipping a switch.

I was Pete.

My brother was John.

Pete was... unhinged.

Think Jerry Lewis in The Nutty Professor — only if someone had removed his brain and then plugged him directly into a wall socket.

He stumbled, flapped, collided, apologized, and then immediately did it all over again — like a human slapstick routine that never quite ended.

He was the kind of character who would walk into a quiet room and somehow set off three different accidents before anyone had time to stand up.

John, on the other hand, was the caretaker.

Calm. Responsible. Long-suffering. His entire job in life was to keep Pete from destroying property, injuring bystanders, or accidentally setting something on fire.

And we played these roles everywhere.

At home.

At school.

At church.

At weddings.

At funerals.

Especially at funerals.

We’d improvise entire scenes.

Pete would go off the rails — knocking over plants, shouting nonsense, running into things, eating dirt — while John would rush in, apologizing to everyone in sight and trying to drag Pete away before someone called security.

Sometimes we would get so deep into character that the rest of the world disappeared. We forgot there were other people in the room. We forgot there were consequences.

We just… escalated.

And escalated.

And escalated.

Like two kids completely possessed.

And then, if you added sugar into the mix...

Specifically, those Symphony Intermission Nuclear Ko Ko Bombs...

Well… that’s when things would truly go off the rails.

By the time the symphony would start back up again after intermission, those Nuclear Ko Ko Bombs would be in full effect — and my brother and I would blast straight into Pete and John mode.

And there was nothing that we - or anyone - could do to stop it.

Things would spiral out of control quickly.

We’d start off lightly, poking each other with our bows.

Then we'd escalate to full-on stabbing.

We’d whack each other across the heads with our violin bows.

John would “accidentally” jab Pete in the ribs.

Pete would try to spear his bow into John’s ear.

We’d start sawing pure, non-musical nonsense across the strings of our violins, pressing down extra hard just to wring out every terrible squeak and grinding noise we could — making it sound as annoying and horrible as humanly possible.

Then we’d start using our feet to motor our chairs around on the floor — shuffling backward, spinning in circles, crashing into each other again and again like demolition-derby cars.

Then we’d take turns sneaking back to the donut table, cramming even more sugar into our mouths.

And the cycle would continue.

And because we were in the very last row — tucked behind rows of polite, elderly musicians — no one ever noticed.

At least… until the night of the big annual Christmas concert.

DECEMBER 1979: THE NIGHT WE SET THE PARADISE SYMPHONY ON FIRE AND BURNED IT TO THE GROUND

This was the event of the year.

The Paradise Symphony had been rehearsing all fall for the big annual Christmas concert — held in the high-school gym the same night they lit the town Christmas tree.

It was a big deal.

Families in sweaters and scarves.

Kids with candy canes.

Hot cocoa in the air.

The gym was packed.

Including our parents.

My dad sat there with his arms crossed, wearing the expression of a man serving a sentence.

My mom glowed — absolutely convinced this was going to be our shining moment.

She even made us wear cheap blue polyester suits that itched like fiberglass and made us look like miniature used-car salesmen.

The orchestra filed in.

The lights dimmed.

Thomas Newman — (the symphony's conductor and retired war criminal) — raised his baton.

The concert began.

And for a while, everything was fine.

Boring.

But fine.

The symphony actually sounded good — months of practice had paid off.

Mr. Skerzick played beautifully, his white hair glowing under the lights like a man who believed he had finally outrun his past.

Ethel Warbler whistled her heart out.

Between songs, the audience applauded politely.

My brother and I sat quietly in the back row behaving.

For a while.

Then — somewhere in the middle of the program — something shifted.

Maybe it was the hot stage lights.

Maybe it was the smell of cocoa in the air.

Maybe it was knowing Santa was just days away.

Or maybe it was the fact that my brother and I had secretly found Margaret Newman’s pink donut boxes backstage — the ones meant for the symphony after the concert — and had inhaled every last Nuclear Ko Ko Bomb we could find in the bunch.

So when my brother’s elbow accidentally bumped into mine…

That was all it took.

Just that one tiny bump.

And instantly, we slipped into Pete and John mode.

Like flipping a switch.

At first it was subtle —

a nudge back…

a smirk…

Then it escalated.

Fast.

We started swatting each other with our bows.

Then poking.

Then jabbing.

We weren’t playing 'music' anymore.

We were just sawing noise out of those violins like deranged lunatic lumberjacks on a sugar bender.

At one point, the entire orchestra had a dramatic, planned pause.

Silent night.
Holy night.

Except we didn’t stop.

We just kept screeching through the silence — laughing, whacking each other — fully committed to the greatest Pete-and-John performance of all time.

Heads started turning.

The murmuring spread.

Up front, Mr. Skerzick slowly stopped playing… then his head gave the tiniest, horrified little jerk to one side — like a man realizing the past had finally caught up to him.

Thomas Newman, the conductor, kept looking over in our general direction, fighting to see through the bright stage lights to see what in the world was going on. 

The audience began laughing.

Which only made us go harder.

Pretty soon we weren’t background players anymore — we were the main event:

Two idiots in cheap blue suits, flailing around like demon puppets, absolutely convinced we were invincible.

Half the audience thought it was hilarious.

The other half looked traumatized.

Ethel stopped whistling.

Newman began to sweat profusely, waving his baton wildly, faster and faster - trying to keep the music together.

But it was useless.

There was no way to recover it.

My brother and I had completely obliterated the annual Christmas concert from the back row.

It was, without question, the greatest disaster in Paradise Symphony history.

And the greatest Pete and John improv performance of all time.

THE SILENT RIDE HOME

When the curtain finally closed, nobody moved.

Then, the entire orchestra turned and stared at us like we’d spray-painted the Mona Lisa.

Mr. Skerzick peered back at us over his shoulder, his jaw locked and his eyes black.

His face was crimson.

Ethel Warbler looked like she was to topple over and pass out.

Then my dad appeared in the doorway at the side of the stage.

He didn’t yell.

He didn’t threaten.

He simply reached out, grabbed both of us by our scrawny necks, and then proceeded to guide us down the back hallway and outside into the night as if he were leading us to the gallows.

My mom had already left halfway through “Silent Night” — right around the fifth time we stopped being silent during that song.

She sat in the car, windows fogged.

Not from the cold.

From fury.

We slid into the back seat.

Then my dad climbed into the front seat and closed the car door.

We sat there.

Nobody spoke.

Through the windshield, we could see families drinking hot cocoa and admiring the newly lit Christmas tree — laughing about those two crazy idiot kids who just destroyed the Christmas concert.

Then — slowly and quietly - my Dad started the car, put it in gear, pulled out of the parking lot, and began to drive us home.

It was the longest silent car ride in recorded human history.

THE FINAL LESSON

The next day, Mr. Skerzick arrived for our “lesson.”

Except it wasn’t a lesson.

It was an execution.

The real man finally showed up.

He was furious.

Calm.
Cold.
Precise.

And furious.

He informed us — very clearly — that we were no longer in the symphony.

And that he would no longer be our teacher.

Effective immediately.

Then he began to list everyone who we had offended and humiliated:

Him.
Our Mother.
The orchestra.
The town.
The country.
God.
The universe.
Civilization as we know it.
The Third Reich.

And honestly?

He wasn’t wrong.

We felt terrible.

Horrible. 

100% Guilty.

Completely humbled.

For about twenty minutes after Mr. Skerzick drove off in a huff.

Then it hit us - and we finally understood what that whole "every cloud has a silver lining" saying meant.

This whole disaster wasn't that bad at all.

In fact, it was actually a GOOD thing.

It was fantastic.

Because it meant we never had to play violin ever again.

We were free.

The only real tragedy?

No more Symphony Rehearsal Giant Chocolate Covered Jelly Filled Powdered Sugar Nuclear Ko Ko Bombs.

THIS IS WHERE THE TRADING LESSON GOES

Looking back, the truth is simple:

My brother and I had absolutely no business playing the violin — or being in the symphony.

And the results spectacularly proved it.

We weren’t misunderstood prodigies.

We weren’t victims of bad instruction.

We were two kids who didn’t care, didn’t want to be there, and weren’t willing to do what it would’ve taken to belong.

And trading is like that for a lot of people.

Most folks who say they “want to trade” never stop to honestly ask whether it’s something they’re truly cut out for —

- or whether they are really willing to put in the time, attention, and effort it actually requires.

They love the idea of trading for a living…

...but when it comes time for the study, the discipline, the practice, and the time it will realistically take to become proficient, they realize what they’re actually looking for isn’t a skill —

What they are actually looking for is a quick shortcut.

Here’s the reality:

You won’t become a great trader overnight.

You won’t get rich in a week.

It takes time. It takes practice. It takes discipline.

Some people would even say it’s “hard work.”

And maybe it is — but in my opinion, it’s nowhere near as hard as a lot of other ways to make a living.

One summer in college I took a job as a roofer in the blazing heat for 8 dollars an hour.

Now that's hard work.

And I’ve also seen the cubicle life — asking a boss half your age for permission to go to the dentist… or the bathroom.

Compared to that, learning to trade feels like a dream.

But it’s still a real craft with a real learning curve — and in order to make it work it needs to be taken seriously.

If you do, trading can truly become the greatest “non-job job” in the world.

And I can show you a realistic roadmap to get there.

So if you’re someone who likes the idea of trading for a living - and who is looking for something real and sustainable…

But who is also realistic - and understands that this is a skillset that is going to take some time master just like any other skillset…

And that there are no overnight miracles…

And you are willing to put in the work…

Email me at Dan@BoomerTrade.com and let’s talk.

Let's see whether my style of trading fits in with what you are looking for and for who you are — and whether it's something you’re genuinely cut out for and is honestly the right path for you.

Just email me back at the email that brought you here - or email me directly at Dan@BoomerTrade.com. 

Just put the words "Ko Ko Bombs" in the subject line of the email or the header - and I'll get back to you personally right away.

Dan (Boomer Dan, that is)
(310) 853-2249‬

PS:  And just to reiterate — and this is said with love — please only reply if you’re genuinely serious about learning this skill set and understand there’s real work involved. There’s no such thing as “overnight success.”

I’m not looking for people who are only interested in the Ko Ko Bombs.
Been there. Done that. Sticky fingers and all.