The Beat Stops Here

I got a drum kit the other day. It's a used, 5 piece with a hi-hat and crash. It sounds very nice and looks pretty cool. As I brought it home I had fantasies about starting up another band--this time with me on drums. Maybe it could be called "The Meatles" and we could release and album called "Beat the Meatles!"

I've always wanted a drum kit, stretching all the way back to third grade when we had musical aptitude tests at school and they said I might make a good drummer. I took the evaluation sheet home and showed my parents that I would make a good drummer and that I only needed to get a drum kit in order to begin my musical career--a career which would undoubtedly bring me enormous wealth, fame and power. It was the first time I can recall my parents ever laughing at me. Apparently they thought drums would not be a good idea in a house with seven children and only three bedrooms.

Now, 36 years later, I finally got a drum kit.

It only took about ten minutes for me to begin to doubt the findings of my third grade musical aptitude test. It was shortly after I poked myself in the eye with a drumstick and just before everyone in the house came running downstairs to see if I had knocked over the entire contents of the basement or somehow catastrophically damaged the foundation of the house. Apparently, I have no natural rhythm and a shocking lack of hand/eye coordination. Or, more accurately, hand/eye/foot/brain coordination. Perhaps I did have an aptitude back when I was a wee lad, but it withered without appropriate attention? Maybe skill at the drums is like facility with languages? Maybe you have to learn to speak drum before the age of 15 if you are ever to be fluent in drumming?

Whatever the case, I think I should stick to writing. Fortunately, I had the fore site to tell my wife that the drum kit was for my daughters. They are still young enough to learn.