Standing at a fork in the road. Not the kind that splits or joins the road, with one heading toward a more common path and the other diving into the less travelled side of life, but the kind you place next to a spoon when setting the table for a meal. Some people combine the functionality of the fork and the spoon and call that a spork. I guess that sounds better than a foon. This particular fork stands 8 feet high, and has a remarkable 87 tines, each a slightly different length. Each tine, when plucked or struck, produces a unique tone. My dilemma rests no so much in choosing a path, or picking a song to play on this giant fork, has more to do with the arrangement. Instead of the normal scale of lower pitch to the left and higher to the right, as found in the piano and other instruments, the tines are, more or less, randomly distributed. I could pick out a tune, which would assuage the raging wild bear racing toward me, given enough time; however, time is what I lack. Time to improvise and start tapping out something. I can see the spittle splaying from the bear’s mouth as it roars and flashes its teeth on its way to my certain doom.