It turns out that my aunt and uncle didn’t make it in from Illinois this weekend to pick up the drums, thereby postponing—or prolonging—my musical instrument separation anxiety (as Doug calls it). I’m starting to get used to the idea, at least, and for the moment, I’m just thinking of myself as between instruments.
I’ve finally parlayed my delightfully unbalanced perspective on life into crass commericalism. No, it’s not a talk show. Lately, I’ve been making my own obnoxious t-shirts. Now you, too, can own something that I would wear.
When my family was visiting earlier this summer, I found out that one of my cousins (is she ten already?) wants to learn to play the drums…and so does her dad. As it happens, I have a drum set still sitting in my parents’ house from when I was in high school. In my mind, I was going to be fabulous. I was going to be the drummer in the nation’s best punk band. It was a vital part of my self-image. I was going to have hair dyed outrageous colors, ripped fishnets, and a leather-and-vinyl wardrobe. I was going to look fabulous, travel, and have a great time doing something I loved. All I needed was some practice and a couple of Ramones. Obviously, this did not happen. (Except for the hair dyed outrageous colors and ripped fishnets.)
I never intended to stop playing, but when I went away to college, there was no way I was going to haul the drums out to the West Coast. When transferred back to IU and signed up for marching band, I was in the color guard. After I moved out of my parents’ house, there was never a good place to put the drumset. Nor did I make time to practice. Granted, I was very busy, what with graduate school, multiple jobs, and so on. Still, I did miss it and kept promising myself I would start up again “some time soon.”
I didn’t. It’s been years since I picked up my sticks, and while I still miss it, at this point I would almost have to start over from the very beginning. And now, there’s another wrinkle, which is the fact that Ed absolutely, positively, did not want to listen to me practice. Ever. Turns out that his younger brother used to play drums, and drove Ed entirely around the bend with the noise from the adjoining bedroom. And I know myself; I wasn’t going to limit myself to playing when Ed was out of the house. If I was in the mood, I was going to pick up my sticks and go to. Better to avoid temptation. Still, I never entirely gave up on the idea of starting up again someday. (I suspect that the fact that Mom has been dying to get the darn things out of her house since 1993 has something to do with it.)
Finally, I caved in to the pressure from Mom and Ed. I’m giving my drums to my cousin and my uncle. Really, a musical instrument ought to be—needs to be—played, and those drums have been gathering dust for far too long. When I talked to Ed about my decision, I broke down and cried…in public, even, which is something I loathe doing. Just thinking about it has me all choked up. Honestly, I don’t think I could have done it if the drums weren’t going to someone I know and love. I found out today that my uncle’s family is coming in on Sunday to pick up the drums, and I find myself getting a little leaky around the eyes thinking about it. I know that this is the right decision, and I am not going to change my mind. But there’s still a nineteen-year-old punk drummer lurking in my head, and she’s very, very upset.
“Wear comfortable shoes.” —Heather M.
“Never brake in a turn.” —Ira M.
“Be careful not to crash into the crucifix.” —Joan R.
Despite the fact that the cover art closely resembles that of Conquistador, Dies the Fire is not a sequel. S. M. Stirling’s latest novel is a retread of of his Lost Nantucket concept, writ large. The premise is that Someone or Something manages to flip a switch and change a few laws of physics so that the last 250 or so years of technology is rendered useless overnight. Nothing electrical works, steam engines can’t produce enough pressure to yield a useful amount of work, and gunpowder doesn’t ignite. Stirling gives us a nice assortment of characters, from a Tolkein-obessessed teenage girl and a Wiccan high priestess to a very clever ex-Marine and a West Coast multimillionaire. There’s a not a huge amount of plot, but it’s an excellent demonstration of the devolution and adaptation of both individuals and society. It’s an enjoyable read, but I think that the Lost Nantucket trilogy is more interesting, because you have a clash of technology levels and associated mindsets, rather than everyone in the same boat.
Via Ernie—amusing coincidence or karma? You be the judge.
In which the TransAmerica Team does a great deal of shopping in New York City, makes travel arrangements, and visits the Metropolitan Opera.
19th February, 1885. When last we left our merry band, Mrs. Atwood had found herself in a state of dishabille, in a bed with a gentleman with whom she was not previously acquainted. The room itself was in wild disarray; a table covered with empty champagne bottles, a broken lamp, clothing scattered all the way to the water closet, and so on. Mrs. Atwood was, with a bit of difficulty, able to regain her ensemble if not her composure, and slip back to her room unnoticed by anyone except the gentleman’s bodyguard (Who addressed her as “Miss Sarah”). Back in her suite, she discovered that the mirror over the dressing table had been broken, and the bedroom widow was slightly open. She confided in Miss Kingston, who then enlisted Dr. Hu’s aid–albeit with a rather sanitized version of events. It was determined that Mrs. Atwood had likely suffered some sort of possession, and she took herself to the local Anglican church forthwith in order to acquire a protective object.
Mr. Laughton and Mr. Carl set out on a mission to arrange transportation to Miami, stopping first at the New York Yacht Club. Mr. Laughton attempted to determine if any private vessels (there were not) were available and renewed a few business acquaintances, while Mr. Carl admired some of the unique architectural features of the main club room. After perusing the newspapers, Mr. Laughton settled on booking passage for seven on the Crimson Star, departing the 22nd from New York Harbor. The two gentlemen then went on to procure appropriate garments for tropical climes. Mr. Laughton, in his usual autocratic style, purchased seven seats to the Metropolitan Opera’s Die Fledermaus, providing a welcome diversion.
Miss Kingston, having discharged her obligation to Mrs. Atwood, took off on an extended shopping trip with a flawlessly polite Miss Carlyle in tow. She interrupted her commercial activities long enough to send a telegraph to the Texas Rangers, inquiring about the crimes for which Miss Carlyle’s recently-deceased father was wanted. Mrs. Anderson, still unable to make contact with Nevada Jack, procured practical traveling clothes and an amount of ammunition that might be described as excessive only by anyone who had not been paying attention to current events.
Dr. Hu, after examining Miss Kingston’s room, made his way to New York University in order to consult one of the more esoteric occult tomes. After a brief wrangle with one of the university’s librarians, an exceptionally tall gentleman named Sebastian came to his aid. Using his formidable research skills, Dr. Hu was able to deduce that Mrs. Atwood had encountered a passenger from the Infamous Ghost train, known to haunt the North American railway system these past twenty-seven years.
The next evening at the hotel, a few members of the team discovered that the same apparently-Irish Wells Fargo men that they had spotted on the platform in Philadelphia (still carrying their crate) were dining at the Waldorf=Astoria, and appeared to have overheard the group’s travel plans. Still, tickets were bought and paid for, so the group decided to chance going on with their plans, and simply remain aboard ship during the Crimson Star’s brief stopover in Atlanta. Accordingly, they arrived at the appropriate pier at the earliest boarding opportunity. Mr. Carl purchased the day’s New York Post on the way to the dock, and found (buried between a lengthy report of the dedication of the Washington Monument and a Soapine ad) a brief article about the escape from Sing-Sing prison of notorious hit-man Joey “Too-Bad” Malone.
Tune in again for an account of the journey to Atlanta and points south…
Quote of the game “Laudanum, anyone?”
Thanks (I think) to Brian for bringing this to my attention. I particularly like the song that Sara Patterson wrote about it.
I was sitting at the dining room table afternoon, paying some bills, and I realized that the only sound I could hear was the pen scratching. I put the pen down. Absolute, perfect silence…something that almost never happens even in our pet-and-kid-free house. There’s always some source of noise —the furnace, a computer fan, the dishwasher, the dryer, the microwave, the TV, Ed humming to himself. And if it’s not inside the house, it’s a neighbor’s dog, kid, leafblower, or lawnmower, or birds, crickets, and so on.
I focused, trying to detect even the smallest noise. Absolutely nothing. I realized that I was holding my breath, and fascinated, I continued to sit, listening to that perfect quiet. I don’t know if I can explain how wonderful it was, akin to spotting a rare bird or a double rainbow. I’m not very good at just being in the moment; my mind is always bouncing around, full of ideas and things to do and various lists. I’m easily distracted. But for just a minute or two, I was there.
Powered by FireStats