GUITAR MAN
"Dreaming permits each and every one of us to be quietly and safely insane every night of our lives." Charles Fisher, in Newsweek...
...or...
Sometimes a man just needs a diversion from his work.
When my wife, Judy, told me that one of her cheerleader's mothers was a music instructor, I saw it as a sign from God. And the Sign said to me: my man, the time is now. This is the moment you have been waiting for ever since you heard Neal Sedaka's, Calendar Girl. Ever since you heard Bob Dylan's harmonica. Ever since Bruce revived a long dormant dream...My man, you are going to learn how to play an instrument.
Coincidently (another sign from God?), Judy's cheerleading banquet is this weekend. And since she just finished her fifteenth successful and final year as varsity cheerleading coach at Christian Brothers Academy in Syracuse, New York, this banquet would be her last. I had to go. I had to meet my guru.
"I know why you want to go?" said Judy.
"This is your swan song," I said. "I want to be there." I lied.
"Right!" said Judy. "You want to meet Pat."
"That too!" I said.
Then I called my son, Jeff, who can play the guitar and the piano, to see which instrument he thought was easiest to play.
"I don't know," he answered. "Why?"
"Because I want to play an instrument," I said.
"You can't," he said.
"I'm serious," I said.
"You can't sing and you can't play," Jeff said. "You're tone deaf."
I totally ignored his assessment of what I knew to be my latent talent and pressed on. "How about a harmonica?"
"Dad, why don't you just pretend you're in high school and buy a Mustang?"
"I'm going to learn," I said.
"You can't learn," Jeff responded.
"Do you still have the first guitar you bought?" I asked.
"No," he said. "I gave it away."
"YOU GAVE IT AWAY!?" I said.
"I left it in Philadelphia," he said.
"I WANT IT!" I said.
"Dad, you can't play!"
"Where can I buy a guitar?" I asked.
"You can't," Jeff said.
"Why not?" I asked.
"Your fingers are too fat," he said.
"I'm going to learn," I said.
"You can't learn," he responded.
"I CAN!"
"YOU CAN'T!"
"I CAN!"
And so the conversation went. But whenever somebody, especially my wife, son or daughter, tells me I cannot do something I want to do, it only strenghtens my resolve to do exactly as I plan...
At the banquet I met Pat, who was extremely happy to learn I wanted to play an instrument. "It certainly is never too late to learn," she said. I smiled weakly, thinking she said that as if I was going to die soon and had come to the right person to learn quickly. All I needed to do was choose the right instrument. The harmonica was my first choice, but Pat thought a harmonica would be difficult.
"You have to have a good ear to play the harmonica," she said. "Play it by sound." Since I didn't know re from fa, had never put two notes together in harmonious conjunction in my entire life, how was I going to play a harmonica by sound. My first choice was out of the question.
Pat then suggested a guitar (my second choice), piano (third choice), or..."With your lips, you should try the trumpet." I told her I took trumpet in seventh grade, but quit when lessons interfered with basketball practice. I'm 5'7" in shoes with heels. I should have stayed with the trumpet. Hey, I have the lips!
I admitted to Pat that I did not understand the mechanics of musical instruments. I thought playing a harmonia would be a simple thing. Blow into it while moving your tongue left and right on the air slots; and if you do it long enough, you'll get it. Music would come out. I thought a guitar was tough with all the different finger configurations on six strings, moving your fingers the length of the neck, and changing finger configurations at the same time. But when Pat assured me it wasn't as hard as it looks, I forgot about the piano and trumpet. I mean, every boomer worth his rock 'n roll salt has played a chimerical Gibson; one arm a windmill spanking six strings on the downstroke, the other stroking an imaginery neck; then smashing the thing defiantly in triumph on the stage a la Peter Townsend of the Who...I pictured myself out on our deck on a warm summer evening in jeans, no shirt, wayfarer shades, and baseball cap on backward. It's my fify-fifth birthday. Everybody is prodding me to play something...maybe something I wrote. At first I say no, then reluctantly (yeah, right) pick up my guitar and play some Dylan...The Times They Are A Changin'...flawlessly.
The Highway Reporter
...or...
Sometimes a man just needs a diversion from his work.
When my wife, Judy, told me that one of her cheerleader's mothers was a music instructor, I saw it as a sign from God. And the Sign said to me: my man, the time is now. This is the moment you have been waiting for ever since you heard Neal Sedaka's, Calendar Girl. Ever since you heard Bob Dylan's harmonica. Ever since Bruce revived a long dormant dream...My man, you are going to learn how to play an instrument.
Coincidently (another sign from God?), Judy's cheerleading banquet is this weekend. And since she just finished her fifteenth successful and final year as varsity cheerleading coach at Christian Brothers Academy in Syracuse, New York, this banquet would be her last. I had to go. I had to meet my guru.
"I know why you want to go?" said Judy.
"This is your swan song," I said. "I want to be there." I lied.
"Right!" said Judy. "You want to meet Pat."
"That too!" I said.
Then I called my son, Jeff, who can play the guitar and the piano, to see which instrument he thought was easiest to play.
"I don't know," he answered. "Why?"
"Because I want to play an instrument," I said.
"You can't," he said.
"I'm serious," I said.
"You can't sing and you can't play," Jeff said. "You're tone deaf."
I totally ignored his assessment of what I knew to be my latent talent and pressed on. "How about a harmonica?"
"Dad, why don't you just pretend you're in high school and buy a Mustang?"
"I'm going to learn," I said.
"You can't learn," Jeff responded.
"Do you still have the first guitar you bought?" I asked.
"No," he said. "I gave it away."
"YOU GAVE IT AWAY!?" I said.
"I left it in Philadelphia," he said.
"I WANT IT!" I said.
"Dad, you can't play!"
"Where can I buy a guitar?" I asked.
"You can't," Jeff said.
"Why not?" I asked.
"Your fingers are too fat," he said.
"I'm going to learn," I said.
"You can't learn," he responded.
"I CAN!"
"YOU CAN'T!"
"I CAN!"
And so the conversation went. But whenever somebody, especially my wife, son or daughter, tells me I cannot do something I want to do, it only strenghtens my resolve to do exactly as I plan...
At the banquet I met Pat, who was extremely happy to learn I wanted to play an instrument. "It certainly is never too late to learn," she said. I smiled weakly, thinking she said that as if I was going to die soon and had come to the right person to learn quickly. All I needed to do was choose the right instrument. The harmonica was my first choice, but Pat thought a harmonica would be difficult.
"You have to have a good ear to play the harmonica," she said. "Play it by sound." Since I didn't know re from fa, had never put two notes together in harmonious conjunction in my entire life, how was I going to play a harmonica by sound. My first choice was out of the question.
Pat then suggested a guitar (my second choice), piano (third choice), or..."With your lips, you should try the trumpet." I told her I took trumpet in seventh grade, but quit when lessons interfered with basketball practice. I'm 5'7" in shoes with heels. I should have stayed with the trumpet. Hey, I have the lips!
I admitted to Pat that I did not understand the mechanics of musical instruments. I thought playing a harmonia would be a simple thing. Blow into it while moving your tongue left and right on the air slots; and if you do it long enough, you'll get it. Music would come out. I thought a guitar was tough with all the different finger configurations on six strings, moving your fingers the length of the neck, and changing finger configurations at the same time. But when Pat assured me it wasn't as hard as it looks, I forgot about the piano and trumpet. I mean, every boomer worth his rock 'n roll salt has played a chimerical Gibson; one arm a windmill spanking six strings on the downstroke, the other stroking an imaginery neck; then smashing the thing defiantly in triumph on the stage a la Peter Townsend of the Who...I pictured myself out on our deck on a warm summer evening in jeans, no shirt, wayfarer shades, and baseball cap on backward. It's my fify-fifth birthday. Everybody is prodding me to play something...maybe something I wrote. At first I say no, then reluctantly (yeah, right) pick up my guitar and play some Dylan...The Times They Are A Changin'...flawlessly.
The Highway Reporter
posted by The Highway Reporter at 9:40 PM
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