This is the first time I’m posting a blog (or is it blogging a post?) in the middle of the day, and not at 3 in the morning. Does that mean I have a life, or don’t? You decide. (This was written in the middle of the day. I didn’t end up putting this up until the middle of the night. I guess I have no life)
We watched Million Dollar Baby tonight. It was ok, I wouldn’t have voted it best picture, but I could see it was the kind of movie that wins in Hollywood. It was sort of a cross between Rocky, the Karate Kid, a League of Their Own, and 21 Grams. It had the guy who played Vic the Zeppelin fan from Almost Famous in an incredibly minor and pointless role.
Nobody liked my army post. Rutgers doesn’t like anything political that I say, and Sarit just wants me to write about oranges. She’ll like this one, because there’s going to be monkeys. Monkeys are always fun.
A few nights ago I was jamming with Ari, Feivel and Tsippi. For those of you who don’t know, I play the drums now, or at least I try to. I’ve been playing around with them for a couple of months now. I think, of all the instruments, the drums are the easiest to play. Because we all play drums; like when you bang on a table, or clap your hands in rhythm, (I think rhythm would make a great word to use when playing hangman. I’ll add it to my repertoire, along with repertoire, myrrh, and jellybean) you’re really just playing the drums. An actual drum set is all that separates you from an actual drummer. (And long hair, dark glasses, and an attitude. Unless, of course, you already have long hair, dark glasses, and an attitude)
So there I was, happily banging away at the drums, when I missed a beat. When a drummer misses a beat it’s not like when a guitarist misses a note, or a singer goes off key. It throws everybody off-tempo for a few seconds before he (the drummer, or, in this case, me) can recover. So Ari and Feivel both look at me, and look at each other and say to me “Maybe you should take a little break… sit the next few songs out.” So I leave, shamed and humiliated at my poor drumming.
That’s not the worst part, though. Seconds after I closed the door to the band room behind me, I hear a perfect drum beat. They had replaced me with a synthesizer. A machine took my job (now, why hadn’t they just done this from the beginning, instead of suffering along with my incompetence? I don’t know). I mentioned this to Deenie, and she said that they might as well have trained a small monkey to do my job (happy Sarit?). But when I thought about it, if you found a monkey that could hold down a decent beat, it could probably do my job even better than me. He could use both his hands and both his feet. And maybe even his tail, but that’s a bit of a stretch. Then when it came time to replacing the guitarists, I think larger apes would do the trick. A small monkey, while potentially proficient at the drums, wouldn’t be able to master the guitar like a real ape. We’d have to leave the singer human, so Tsippi could stay. We could call the band “Tsippi and the apes.” All they would need would be long hair, dark glasses, and an attitude.