Piano Man

Yesterday I went to the doctor about one hell of a sore throat.
It's Strep.
I got my meds. Amazingly, after only 3 pills it's starting to feel better. So I had a cigarette this morning.
Yeah yeah yeah.
So, I'm sitting out front, and I can hear someone playing the piano. It seemed to be coming from a house where I didn't realize any musicians lived.
It was nice, soothing.
It got me to thinking about when I was a kid.
I played guitar, and my brother played the piano.
We both were expected to practice for at least a half an hour a day.
I hated it. Now I wish I wasn't such a fucking brat, and had actually realized what a great thing it would be to know the guitar as an adult.
I also remember hating the fact that my brother had to practice so much, and the fact that he was a bit of a keener, and would go beyond his 1/2 hour mandatory practice time.
I would be sitting in the basement with my extensive G.I. Joe collection right in the middle of some creative fantasy that indulged my juvenile sexual ideas (ie. The Baroness would be getting dry humped by one of the horny soldiers) and that damn piano would be belting out some Bach.
It killed any imagined sexual discovery my action figures where trying to engage in.
While I was smoking this morning I thought how I should have been more adult about it.
It was great music, I should have appreciated it.
Then......
The person across the street came to a part in the song that must have been particularly tricky. They stopped, tried it again, fucked it up, stopped, tried it again, fucked it up.....
I got the 'hot pricklies'.
I wanted to toss a brick through their window.
My musical childhood came flooding back to me.
Hearing the same few bars over and over again, then, when my brother thought he had mastered it, would start from the beginning, get to that part and fuck it up. Then, play the same god damn bars over and over again, and then start from the beginning.
It was torturous.
Children should not be subjected to one another attempting to learn a musical instrument. Especially not a LOUD one.
Sometimes my brother reads my blog.
I love you man.
I put my cigarette out (early) and headed back inside, thankful that all I had to do was close the door and the ivories would fade perfectly into the distance.
I am not without blame. I am just without patience.
My brother might secretly hate me, in high school, I played the trumpet.