Who would have thought that a quiet little bedroom community like ours would harbor a teenage boy who could make your ears bleed? Oh, I’m sure this teenage wonder is a fine young man who has never been in trouble with the law…that we know of. And I’m sure he gets good grades, drives safely, doesn’t do drugs, and he probably doesn’t give his parents any sass.
Although if he did sass his parents they probably can’t hear it anyway. I’m sure they must be deaf by now.
Who am I rambling on about? The neighborhood drummer boy. He beats his drums with the volume turned up as high as it will go. (Do drums even have a volume knob? They must.) It wouldn’t be so bad if the overly enthusiastic drummer boy could actually keep the beat. He can’t and that’s the problem. His “music” is all over the place. It’s so bad it reminds me of bad, very bad impromptu jazz. Frankly, I’m surprised no one has told him that he has no talent for the drums.
Nor does the poor boy have a talent for singing. I’d actually feel bad for him if I wasn’t busy cringing while he is screeching into the microphone.
I really wouldn’t mind any of it if he didn’t amp up the volume so high our windows rattle. Or in summer, if he didn’t start playing THE minute we walk outdoors to spend some time in our pool. It’s driving us F’n nuts. (for My girl: F’n = Fudge and.)
But just when I think of marching myself over to their house to demand he shut it down, I stop myself. I can’t bring myself stomp on his enthusiasm. He practices so much I don’t have the heart to tell him that even after all that work, he still sucks. I’ll let someone else throw tomatoes at him until he gets it right. I know someday he will.
Or I’ll be deaf and won’t care.
Here is my latest page, dedicated to drummer boy.