Seven Red

she and I have zero musical talent. None. We’re horrible. Of course, like all people with no musical talent, we fantasize about having musical talent, and now that we have babygirl, we can invest her with all those fantasies and thereby set ourselves up for bitter disappointment. To this end, we are currently fantasizing about enrolling her in music classes at the Old Town School of Folk Music, where she will learn to sing and play any number of instruments, preferably guitar. Yes, we’re that kind of silly.

In SC, I used to go to karaoke, but never sang. Not once. And I got drunk. Real drunk. But never drunk enough to sing. she is the same. she wishes she could sing. Me too. I also wish I could play an instrument. In high school, we all had to take a music class which involved playing an instrument. My friends and I all chose the clarinet, because it was well-known to be the biggest bullshit instrument in the class, an easy pass. Needless to say, we all failed the midterm, which involved playing a G. A G on the clarinet means simply blowing a clean note without holding down any of the keys. Couldn’t do it. Hell, I couldn’t keep an unbroken reed for more than a few days. I sucked, totally.

But babygirl won’t, thanks to our oppressive parental desires, already too heavy for babygirl to lift. Babygirl will sing at karaoke and jam on a clarinet like nobody’s business. So I was checking out some stuff on YouTube and I came across this cover of the Flaming Lips song. I’ve been into this song lately, likely because it contains just the right paradoxical amount of outrageous egoism and pathetic self-pity, my two favorite modes for the last few months. So here’s babygirl in 16 years or so, singing about Dad:

Trackback URI | Comments RSS |