Blast Beats

 . . . as a child I remember standing there at the end of my driveway, waiting for the school bus and wondering what wondrous taunts the bullies would have for me, seeing as I was a geeky fifth grader carrying a xylophone . . . that's right, a xylophone!


THIS DORKY THING!

There's no way you could possibly look cool lugging that heavy thing.  And d____ those things were heavy. I remember in high school when I actually put on a pair of marching-xylophones (for our marching band didn't believe in drum-pits) and I was amazed at how heavy those things were.  I really gave it to the two girls for maintaining the stamina to keep up out on the field, but man I was glad to have been Sectional Leader (by seniority) and snare 1.

 . . . because that thing was so much more cooler than those dorky xylophones!

  

But in truth, I hated the snare.  I hated the xylophone.  And I really hated the crash cymbals (an unfortunate instrument forced upon freshman).  I just wanted to play the drums people.  And the guitar.  And the bass.  And video games and chess and Risk.  So I did . . . 

. 

 . . . .as I proclaim, thus I am.