I have to mention that I have a Roland synthesizer that I use for all my writing and sequencing, and I have been really pleased with it, except that after about a month of fooling around,you need to go out and get a sythesizer module to get more better sounds, after which you need to get another sequencer program and a better library program, and after a couple years, you discover that you have several thousand dollars worth of stuff that you never use, and that you still need more, and you end up getting a real piano anyway, because the synthesizer is always patched into a whole rack full of stuff, and, athough you have it set up so that you can just play it through a modified PA system that you set up because you can't really tell what something sounds like on headsets, you would just as soon not having every goon and his brother trying to play it and resetting all the parameters, even the tuning, because in addition to transposing, you can also reset the pitch or even tune the individual keys, and, invariably, when you have reset everything to give you some odd sort of Turkish temperament that you discovered in some odd book at the libary, this goon starts fooling around with it and decides to recalibrate it because he knows all about synths, and ends up trashing your tuning and a whole bunch of patches that you had not yet uploaded to the library program, even though you had written an extended piece in using the patches, the scale, and a rhythm patttern that you can't find again because you copped it from a group of musicians that you saw on TV, and anyway he recalibrates the synth and starts jamming with his brother who has decided open up some guitar cases that he finds in your office closet, and takes out a very old and well preserved archtop that is finished all in black but has no pickguard and then begins whacking away at it with some weird oversized pick that be brought with him only he is as big a goon as his brother, and he keeps missing the strings and scrapes the pick across the top of the guitar, leaving all kinds of scratch marks of which he is blissfully oblivious, and after you politely ask them to stop and escort them back to the rest of the party, you overhear the girlfriend of one of them talking about what an asshole you are for not letting them play because they are really great musicians and can play every song that the Rolling Stones ever did, and you are jealous and on a permanent ego trip because you went to music school--