Drumroll, please...
May. 28th, 2004 09:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
xaaraI think I'll just shoot my orchestra buddies. Reasons follow:
-Mike came stumbling into practice an hour late, complaining about his lack of sleep due to prom and other *ahem* extracurricular activities. Aside from a few Aspirin for his hangover, he hadn't had anything to eat and so begged a few dollars off me to go buy a slice of pizza. Diagnosis: tympanist patheticus.
-Charles didn't show up until fifteen minutes after Maestro started conducting, and he sure didn't make a quiet entrance. His arrival was marked by a loud cymbal/triangle/tambourine crash as he rounded the corner and managed to collapse the trap table.
-Tommy was annoying as always and couldn't figure out the simplest darn beat I've ever seen until I left the xylophone and went to snare to demonstrate it for him.
-Malcolm kept poking Tommy until Tommy turned around and hit him, whereupon commenced a slapping war that I only managed to avoid by grabbing Charles and telling him he was to stand between me and the rest of the gang.
But I guess it wasn't so bad. Mike could've been drunk instead of just hung over, Charles could have not shown up at all, Tommy could have been unable to play the snare part even after I played it for him, and Malcolm could have actually hit me by accident. I complain all the time, but I love my boys.
In completely different news, I was just sorting through the files I have saved on my computer and came across this little story beginning that I came up with a long time ago. It's based on the truth, I suppose, but it's a lot cleaner a conversation when it's written down like this.
<<<<>>>><<<<>>>><<<<>>>><<<<>>>>
"You need to glare more," said Andre after I managed to stumble my way through another repetition of the Samba beat he was teaching me.
I looked up at him, setting my sticks against the rim of my drum where they clicked gently. "What?"
"You need to glare more."
I smiled uncertainly, then erased the expression from my face, confused. "What do you mean, I need to glare more?"
"I mean, when you get something wrong you're happy, smiling, and satisfied that maybe next time you'll get it right. And then, about ten minutes after I give you a new beat, you get a look in your eyes, and you glare at the music, and I know you're going to get it right the next time."
"Thanks, I guess," I said. "But it's not just that I glare. It's that I get mad and then there's a few seconds where I think some human made this up, so there's no way I'm not going to be able to play it and then I just play it right because I don't want to get it wrong anymore."
"That's just it. When you glare, you're determined that you're not going to mess it up again, and you always make it happen. I'm telling you, you need to glare more."
I grinned. "What if I don't feel like glaring?"
Andre grinned back. "Then you won't, I suppose. That's not my loss – you're paying me, after all. Whether or not you do well in lessons is up to you."
"Thanks," I said. "I'll keep that in mind."
-Mike came stumbling into practice an hour late, complaining about his lack of sleep due to prom and other *ahem* extracurricular activities. Aside from a few Aspirin for his hangover, he hadn't had anything to eat and so begged a few dollars off me to go buy a slice of pizza. Diagnosis: tympanist patheticus.
-Charles didn't show up until fifteen minutes after Maestro started conducting, and he sure didn't make a quiet entrance. His arrival was marked by a loud cymbal/triangle/tambourine crash as he rounded the corner and managed to collapse the trap table.
-Tommy was annoying as always and couldn't figure out the simplest darn beat I've ever seen until I left the xylophone and went to snare to demonstrate it for him.
-Malcolm kept poking Tommy until Tommy turned around and hit him, whereupon commenced a slapping war that I only managed to avoid by grabbing Charles and telling him he was to stand between me and the rest of the gang.
But I guess it wasn't so bad. Mike could've been drunk instead of just hung over, Charles could have not shown up at all, Tommy could have been unable to play the snare part even after I played it for him, and Malcolm could have actually hit me by accident. I complain all the time, but I love my boys.
In completely different news, I was just sorting through the files I have saved on my computer and came across this little story beginning that I came up with a long time ago. It's based on the truth, I suppose, but it's a lot cleaner a conversation when it's written down like this.
<<<<>>>><<<<>>>><<<<>>>><<<<>>>>
"You need to glare more," said Andre after I managed to stumble my way through another repetition of the Samba beat he was teaching me.
I looked up at him, setting my sticks against the rim of my drum where they clicked gently. "What?"
"You need to glare more."
I smiled uncertainly, then erased the expression from my face, confused. "What do you mean, I need to glare more?"
"I mean, when you get something wrong you're happy, smiling, and satisfied that maybe next time you'll get it right. And then, about ten minutes after I give you a new beat, you get a look in your eyes, and you glare at the music, and I know you're going to get it right the next time."
"Thanks, I guess," I said. "But it's not just that I glare. It's that I get mad and then there's a few seconds where I think some human made this up, so there's no way I'm not going to be able to play it and then I just play it right because I don't want to get it wrong anymore."
"That's just it. When you glare, you're determined that you're not going to mess it up again, and you always make it happen. I'm telling you, you need to glare more."
I grinned. "What if I don't feel like glaring?"
Andre grinned back. "Then you won't, I suppose. That's not my loss – you're paying me, after all. Whether or not you do well in lessons is up to you."
"Thanks," I said. "I'll keep that in mind."
