Sunday, May 22, 2011
The Heir is already a better guitar player than I ever was. No one has to tell him to practice. You have to tell him to stop, mostly.
Once, about four or five years ago, I sat The Spare down on my lap at the drum set, and held his hands while he held the sticks and played a few drumbeats. Little kids are stubborn and he tried it himself. His feet didn't reach the floor, and he'd get down from the drum throne, step on the bass drum pedal, clamber back up on the seat, and hit the snare. It led to a ... languid tempo. That was it. I thought that was the end of his interest in it, but you never know with these things. We think it's better to offer encouragement than micromanage our children's interests.
Last week, out of nowhere he announced he wanted to play the drums with his brother. He sat down at the drum set and played a perfect backbeat. 1 and 3 on the bass drum, 2 and 4 on the snare, eighth notes on the ride symbol. He tells his brother, "Play Jenny, Jenny," and sings 867-5309 on the refrain while he's playing. Amazing.
My wife teaches him at home, and suggested I start giving him a drum lesson after I eat my lunch. Okey Dokey.
First day, he sits down behind the drums and asks, "How do you spin the sticks?"
You'll go far, my son.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Well, one muscle did. It was his big heart that carried him for 96 years. RIP, Jack. I think I'll tow a freighter with my teeth while swimming handcuffed tomorrow in your honor. After I chip the ice off the river, of course.
Fitness guru Jack LaLanne, 96, dies at California home.