i am learning to play the harmonica.
a somewhat incendiary hobby to be acquiring at the age of 29, according to my mother, who- in the exact same line and tone she once used regarding the subject of gay marriage- inquired, is this what people are doing now?
i use the word "learning" loosely, as i'm mostly exhaling and hoping for the best.
the harmonica is a poor substitute for a piano. let me just say that. one cannot pound a harmonica and, yes, for me, pounding is the piano's big attraction. it's a percussive instrument. it is meant to take a beating and, to go all thomas kincade for a sec, it warms the soul to give it a good one every now and again.
the harmonica is also a poor substitute for an accordion, which would've been my second choice for musical exploits. alas, accordion lessons are hard to come by and accordions are loud. and because i have been endowed with scruples regarding the disturbance music makes in the lives of others that my neighbor's guitar-playing, caterwauling boyfriend clearly does not share, i've shown restraint.
i have settled for the harmonica.
there has been one great shock so far in my "learning" to play the harmonica and that is the lesson in which i have taken the greatest pleasure as regards retribution again the aforementioned caterwauling man next door.
that lesson is this: there is fine line between "beautiful dreamer" and the laugh of fran drescher.