I dreamt last night that I was doing heroin with Matthew Broderick.
To be clear, I do not partake in opioid consumption, be it with celebrities or otherwise. Regardless, Ferris and I measured out a predetermined number of doses. Sitting at a bar with drinks lined up like airplanes awaiting takeoff at Laguardia would have been more my style. I can’t speak for Matty. I’d figure him to be more of an oxycontin guy than a dirty old smack abuser.
I have no affinity for drug use nor would I ever attempt to glamorize it. Why my subconscious mind partnered me with Matthew Broderick and an illicit substance, I cannot say. However, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off is one of the best movies of the eighties and a generational favorite of mine. Who didn’t want to fake being Sal Guzman, the sausage king of Chicago? Who didn’t want a hot girlfriend named Sloane or a goofy sidekick named Cameron? Fuck Ed Rooney. Ferris was a righteous dude.
Fortunately this was only a dream, yet another incongruent storyline with seemingly no correlation to anything existing in my conscious world. I had another dream immediately following my escapades with Mr. Broderick, but for some reason that one fell by the memory wayside. It seemed just as memorable, but the only retained recollection emphasized that I should remember it. I’ll have to do better when remembering to remember…in my sleep.
But a guy can dream.
As a young kid, I consciously and ardently dreamed of being one of The Beatles. If “A Hard Day’s Night” or “Help” appeared on one of our four local television channels, I surely watched it. “Yellow Submarine” never quite piqued my interest, though. After all, the Beatles were real life musical heroes and pop/rock stars, not poorly animated cartoon characters!
The fervor and excitement surrounding The Beatles exploded a bit before my time, but they still captivated me. I possessed no interest to pluck the bass like Paul McCartney, strum chords like George Harrison, or write songs like John Lennon. For some reason I wanted to hammer on the drums and cymbals like Ringo Starr.
Because fifth grade loomed in my not too distant future, I ruled out joining a neighborhood garage band and cutting my teeth in the local club/live music venues of Northern Virginia. But an alternative tickled my fingertips. I could pick up a pair of drumsticks and join the school band. Maybe that’s how Ringo earned his percussion chops. I couldn’t wait to perch myself behind a drum set and wail away.
Instead, I received a practice drum pad.
This was basically a block of pine with a thick piece of leather glued to the wood. It did not look like a drum and it did not sound like a drum. I’m uncertain if I can accurately incapsulate my disappointment level with this cow-skin draped hunk of dead tree. I never saw Ringo pound out a beat on one of these idiotic things. I could barely hear the drumsticks striking its banal surface. Was this some sort of band hazing joke?
No. The band teacher expected me to learn on this piece of modestly cushioned crap. It was similar to picking the strings of an unplugged electric guitar, but not quite as audibly rewarding. However, Christmas was just around the corner. I no longer believed in Santa Claus, but maybe that fictitious merry muse, or whoever acted on his behalf, would deliver a snare drum under the tree and I’d be on my percussion path.
Unfortunately, we sometimes get what we ask for.
There it stood on Christmas morning. Silver stand with a slightly canted drum positioned atop with a pair of drumsticks crossed over the surface. Thin chains stretched tight to the bottom of the instrument to produce its definitive snare drum sound. A lever could release these chains, producing a more hollow sound. This sounded fine, but not the rocking drum beat I hoped to hear. Unfortunately, the snare didn’t sound right either.
It resonated a tinny and rattled noise. There wasn’t the tight, pounding thump I hoped to hear when my sticks struck its surface. My mother found that laying a towel over the drum’s top helped alleviate the problem. I got more of the sound I wanted, but the towel reduced the drumstick’s ability to bounce off the drum top. How could I emulate Ringo Starr with these displeasing reverberations. No rock band draped absorbent cloths over their drums. Sadly, it looked and sounded pathetic.
The padded wooden practice drum gave that bounce, but there was no enjoyment in hearing the thud of the drum. The snare drum without the towel sounded like crap. Did other drummers have these issues? Had Ringo, himself, suffered through this milieu? I just wanted that damn sound.
To make matters worse, the band instructor insisted I implement a traditional drumstick grip.
With this style the left hand held the stick palm up while the right hand held the stick palm down. Maybe band geeks thought this proper, but Ringo never drummed like this nor did any of my other musical idols. It felt like marching into a 18th century battlefield instead of knocking out modern, rhythmic beats.
I just wanted to pound that drum skin, holding the sticks like a rockstar. What do you mean you’re not going to teach twirling the sticks or snatching them midair while hammering out a pounding rhythm? I thought playing in a band was going to be fun, not antiquated, pre-modern musical dogma. If I was to hold my left handed stick palm up, please wrap a bandage around my head and accompany me with a fife player and a tattered American flag.
However, I possessed enough talent to make the regional band squad, but that’s where the journey ended. I loved the idea of drumming, but lacked the dedication to attain my percussion paradise dream. Bottom line, I was good enough to make the team, but not good enough to start. Alas, I was never meant to be Ringo Star. This of course sounds silly, but that realization filled my heart with much sorrow.
When you’re younger, all dreams still feel possible.
But what’s a dream, anyway? No kid who ever played cowboys and indians insisted getting put into the role of the local accountant. However, many a successful number cruncher lived fruitful and fulfilling lives even though they never dreamed of achieving that accomplishment. So I wasn’t Ringo Starr. Apparently, only he was. At least I didn’t end up doing drugs with famous people. Hey, wait a sec. Didn’t Ringo do that?