Guitar lessons yesterday afternoon, the first time in three weeks and third time in three months. I wait on a stool, guitar and purse and notebook around me, wondering why the screamy emo music being played in the shop is so bad.
The girl who's always had her lessons before me - why do these people not change? - leaves and I head in. My teacher, Dave, who doesn't scare me as much as he used to, asks the other teacher, whose name is also Dave, what his music is. The band's called Degenerate Hometown Heroes, or Degraded Hometown Heroes, or Desperate Hometown Hereos, something like that.
"Hmm. I don't really like it," I say.
"Well. That makes two of us," says my Dave, as he closes the door to the lesson room.
"You know, I really hate the word hometown." Hometown
sounds like Homer Simpson
. "You know there's that convenience store over there called Hometown Pantry, like oh that's going to give me so many cute memories of my hometown and make me shop there?"
We work on going from a G chord to a D chord. We play scales in several hard-to-reach places scales should not have to be played. Dave has fun actually playing something while I play that D chord as backup a billon more times. I say something about how nice it is to feel like you're hitting the wrong strings and have the right sounds appear anyway. Dave fits in a couple of starry-eyed mini lectures about how, for the greatest players, "there are no wrong notes".
I have a feeling I'm just overestimating how often I'm screwing up, but I do have this teeny mental glipse of what it might be like to be good at guitar. Ha ha ha.
Lesson over, I'm packing up. There's a ripped-down note on the beat-up piano that says, "Back in 5 min". But Dave has sloppy handwriting, and I read out loud, "'Beckinstin'? - Oh, no. 'Back in 5 min'."
"Beckinstin...," says Dave in his teacher-who-thinks-his-students-are-loons mutter.
"That'd make a cool band name."
"Better than - better than -" I've totally lost it. I'm hitting all the wrong vocal cords. I can't stop laughing to get the words out. Apparently I manage some sound resembling "hometown", becuase Dave starts laughing too.
We leave the lesson room, and "the Goth boy who forgot to bring shampoo when he joined Vampire Academy last millennium" is waiting. "Ooo, I love how both our jeans are written on." Mine have stars and hearts in green and blue, his have lots of words in red and black. Goth boy actually cracks a smile at that and I walk out, keeling laughing, trying to explain to my mother why, exactly, this is quite so funny.