Left of the Dial

eye of the beholder

So I'm in my office and I realize that as I'm looking at my computer screen I'm murmuring “oh, aren’t you pretty? You are so pretty. [sigh] No. But...you’re just so pretty, though…” 

And then I realize Max has come downstairs and passed by the door and it's possible she heard me whispering sweet nothings. And for a moment I worry before I decide that, yeah, she probably has a pretty good idea of what I'm looking at. 

Of course they're silly and unnecessary. But...but...when I was 9 years old, see...

cymbolic

So the Golden Weasel and I have, on several occasions, watched videos such as this:

Apparently, being in the room while something like this is happening is an astonishing experience, as one feels as much as hears the sound. It's sometimes called a sound bath or, more specifically, a gong bath. We have expressed how very much we'd like to experience something like this in person. 

So when this ad went up on Craigslist the other day, I showed it to her. "I found the perfect present for your next birthday," I said. 

She looked at my phone and gasped. "Yes!" she hissed. 

Naturally, the Brawn was nearby and, naturally, he was intrigued. "What is it?" 

I started to angle my phone so he could see. Before his eyes could even focus, she quickly added, about the hypothetical future gift which is never actually going to be acquired, "you're not allowed to touch it." 

as is meet and just

So the Brawn and I are eating breakfast. Or, rather, he is and I sip coffee, attempting to wake up. It's just the two of us, Top Management writing in her studio, the Boy already off to school, the others are still snoozy-woozing in their room (or hiding in California). The morning playlist—somewhere around 450 songs, randomized—is playing, as it usually is at this time of day. 

This comes on: 

As soon as it starts, the Brawn starts bopping his head as he continues to nom cereal, still reading a Warrior book. 

Then the third line comes around. 

I sincerely miss those heavy metal bands
I used to go see on the landing in the summer
She fell in love with the drummer
She fell in love with the drummer
She fell in love

 

Shiny, shiny pants and bleach-blond hair 
A double kick drum by the river in the summer
She fell in love with the drummer
Another and another
She fell in love

Out of the corner of my eye I see him stop bopping. He tilts his head slightly and looks at the speaker, but the lyric has already moved on. So he goes back to his book. But this time he doesn't headbang. He doesn't eat. He's simply still, something which is very rare for him. 

The next verse kicks in, and this time when the third line — the key line, obviously — comes around, he immediately looks towards the speaker, to make sure he heard right the first time 'round. 

He listens closely. Then he nods at the unassailable correctness of the line and the act it's describing. 

He goes back to reading, again nodding in perfect time to the beat, a bit more forcefully, understood. 

quelle surprise

The Brawn sits down for breakfast and finds his bongos are still on the table, exactly where he'd placed (and played) them the day before. 

"Oh!" he says, pleased. "I'm always so surprised when my bongos are here. I'm always like 'oh, am I having drums for breakfast? Okay!'" 

Can Neil Peart eat cheerios and play drums as he watches a Stampy video? Okay, sure, he probably could...but I'm willing to bet he never has. 

the big beat

My children are, as everyone who's ever met them will whole-heartedly attest, often (but not always) to the chagrin of their own offspring, the best ones ever born. But they're not blessed with what you would call an overabundance of The Funk. 

Until now. In the past few months, it's suddenly become very obvious that I finally have a child who seems to have been born with an innate sense of rhythm.

(Indeed, whilst writing this, I played a tiny bit of the linked video, and he immediately began bobbing in time. When I closed it, he looked shocked and hurt. When I opened it again, he said, "keep this on.") 

Naturally, Top Management is delighted by this turn of events, barely able to stop grinning whenever The Beast starts up his banging on stuff. 

I, on the other hand, feel like I'm in a film from the 1930s: those drums...those blasted drums. Won't they ever stop? 

I am given to understand I was the same way as a child. Top Management informs me that I still am—the same way, that is, not a child...I think—but I find that hard to believe.

Either way, I cannot imagine how the hell my parents and sibling put up with it. (My good lady wife and offspring are a bit easier to understand: they pretty much have no choice, as I am too large for them to move.) 

And now I can sadly add "No bongos before 7 a.m." to the list of sentences I never thought I'd have to say.

trousers rolled

The good lady wife is out of town this weekend, at the first ever reunion for her original college, which was sold to the Japanese after her sophomore year. (Oh, 1980s...you were wacky and no mistake.)

Took advantage of the absence to allow the girls to play Rock Band, she not being as fond of music at ear-splitting levels as some of us.

After searching the entire house, we were only able to come up with one drumstick, a shocking event, given that I spent the first half of my life attempting to never be more than a few feet from a drumstick at any moment.

Still, the facts were the facts: there were no other sticks to be found. So I grabbed the youngest and headed to Guitar Center to buy a pair of sticks, the first time I'd done so on this coast—I think the previous time I'd bought sticks was back in 2001, in preparation for my short-lived tenure with Gloria Deluxe, as we hit the road for a half-dozen rapturously received live dates in support of their then-newest LP, Hooker.

I slowly move past the plethora of guitars, each and every one of which seemed to be gazing at me with the saddest of eyes, just begging to be adopted. But I'm steely in my resolve, and we go back into the drums section. A kid asks if he can help, and I explain that I'm just there to buy some sticks, some 5As and, given that they're just for a wii game, the cheapest will do.

He grabs the cheapest and plunks 'em down on the counter. They've got a cardboard band around them, holding them together. I look up at the wall of sticks and notice that they're all already paired, wrapped in either plastic or cardboard.

"Do sticks always come in pairs now?" I ask the salesguy.

He looks confused. "Well...yeah."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Have my entire life."

I look at him, effortlessly flaunting his 20 or so years on this planet. And I think back to the ritual of buying new sticks, how you'd ask for, whatever, Vic Firth 5Bs, perhaps, with the nylon tips. And they'd plunk a few dozen sticks down on the counter and you'd slowly roll each one back and forth a few times, to try to find a pair without even a hint of warp. Then you'd tap them against each other, to find the pair that were closest in tone. Sometimes, if you were lucky, you'd find three or four that were just perfect, and you'd feel like you'd found, if not the Holy Grail, at least a damn fine cup buried in the sand. 

And this kid has no idea of how it used to be, and thinks I'm senile. And I don't just feel old, I feel ancient and decrepit.