Have You Ever Heard Them?

Last night I went up to visit my Dad and little sister (8 years old) who I hadn't seen since Christmas. It turned out that last night was the annual Choral Festival/Recital for my little sister's private elementary school, so I figured 'what the hell' and went with them. Before the large recital in the gym, different rooms in the school were open where kids from various grades gave performances on different instruments. We were corralled into the small library, where Tommy Wyzcowski gave me my small taste of how great the next 2 hours would be. Tommy is a fourth grader who looked like the irritating red-haired kid in Harry Potter, and specialized in the Oboe. After about 20 people sat down and became quiet, Tommy went to a tape recorder by his side and began his accompaniment music. He then sat down, took a deep breath, and played the Oboe.

I'm not sure 'played' is the right word, because the next thing that came out of his instrument sounded more like someone took a fishing pole and whipped a goose to within an inch of its life. My natural instinct was to laugh and throw rotten fruit. I literally had to bite my lips with my teeth while I convulsed, to keep from having one of those deep, belly laughs where you usually end up crying. I looked at my dad, who was doing the same. His wife, (my step mom) was glaring at both of us. Dead Rats. Grandma bending over in a thong. Nothing was working. Trying not to laugh just makes it worse. I think I took about 3 deep breaths in the whole 3 minutes that kid played whatever the hell it was supposed to be. Thank God that's over. Little did I know this was just foreshadowing things to come.

We shuffled into the half full gym and sat fairly high on the bleachers on the side of the room. These bleachers were obviously meant for children; I felt like I was sitting in a clown car. Some old man kept needing to get by, but these bleachers were so small that every time he brushed by I'm pretty sure I got to second base. Maybe that's why he did it four times. More and more people came and packed into these bleachers, and it started to get hot. The one day I forget to put on deodorant. I looked at the two doors leading to the lobby, the only way out. At 7:30 sharp they came slamming shut like a bank vault. There was no moving for a solid 2 hours. Somewhere off in the distance I could hear Satan laughing, as the room became smaller and hotter....smaller and hotter.

There was a loud din in the room as the conductors were getting organized, because just about every parent in the stands was yelling, smiling and waving at their kid across the room to get their attention. I was also smiling and waving at their children, just to freak them out and hope they choked on stage. My deodorant was giving out at an alarming rate, and my pit stains were halfway to my elbows. In front of me two yuppy men, whose wives were sitting between them, leaned behind their wives to say hi to each other:

"Hey Bob, how are things going?"
"Pretty good! I just got back from a great rock climbing vacation! You?"
"Same, I had an awesome day on the lake, came home, and railed my wife all afternoon."

Oh wait.... I forgot, this is NOVA. It actually went:

*In a downtrodden, monotone voice*
"Hey Bob, how's work?"
*Bob turns his head with a blank lifeless stare*
"I had to put in about 80 hours this week, you know how it goes."
"Yeah, that's how it goes."

followed by an awkward silence in which I was almost sure both men were going to break down and beg the other to help assist their suicide attempts. I wanted to congratulate both of them on their beamers and success/happiness in life, but I had bigger things to worry about... the show was starting.

A skinny man dressed in a bad suit stood up in the front of the room with a microphone, "Tonight, you're in for a real treat." Did he say treat, or torture? This guy looked like Kip from Napoleon Dynamite with a blood lust for boy-genitals, with a pencil thin molester mustache. After making the worst cliche jokes I've ever heard, he introduced the fifth and sixth grade band teacher. This lady who looked like she was thirty five going on seventy. She probably graduated from Juliard, burning with the hopes of influencing children to become great musicians, then spent ten years with them and was now just a haggard, tired shell. She snuck off stage while the band played their first song, probably to pour herself a drink and tie a noose for later.

The first few miserable notes rang out in the auditorium. Dead Rats. Grandma bending over in a thong. My step mom was glaring at me, but these kids sucked. This was pathetic. I could make a better arrangement by having homeless people bang on various parts of trashcans. I didn't realize they were playing the Starwars Theme until halfway through it. Had I known the occasion and layout of the theater, I would have streaked across the stage at this exact moment. That should have turned at least 3 of the mentally undeveloped children gay.

After two more songs the band exited stage, and the Fourth Grade Chorus filed in. Some yuppy prick saw his child walking off the stage and was attempting to go grab him and make a break for it. Get back here asshole, everyone had to listen to your kid play shitty music, now you have to stay and listen to theirs. We're in this together. I was so angry and jealous that he was getting out of there early that I felt like jumping on his back and riding him to the ground like a jockey, then pounding him into unconsciousness like a roid-raged gorilla. I had now been sitting up straight on these backless bleachers for 45 minutes, and I was sweating like a whore in a church. An hour and 15 more minutes to go.

The Fourth Grade Chorus began their first song. It appeared to be some sort of medley like row-your-boat, with only girls singing first. Then the girls started singing. Both genders sounded exactly the same. Maybe that was the music teacher's subtle joke. Still, the sound was horrible. I am fucking never having kids. After the song I realized that the parents weren't clapping because they thought the song was good, or even because the song was over. They (and I) were clapping because any sound other than 40 untuned child voices, including nails on a chalkboard, was lotion on the eardrums. After another half hour went by, and I reflected upon the Guinness world record holder for standing still, who did so for four days straight at a Vietnamese prison camp. Lucky. They could have fucked up his streak by having their children sing nearby. The Fourth and third grade choruses finished, and it was time for the second grade.

My sister tried not to look up as her class filed by our bleachers on the way up to the stage. She did, and sure enough, there I was: Arm cocked back with gum in hand ready to fire. Her look of horror met my evil grin as I let it rip, gunning for her hair. My meddling step mom, at exactly the perfect second, yanked the back of my sleeve so that the gum popped out of my hand onto my lap as I swung. FUCK! I couldn't have an ounce of fun in this place. At least my armpits were stinking it up nicely. The second grade distributed their auditory pain followed by the first grade, and finally this hell was over. The doors opened and you could almost hear the auditorium release its deep breath of hot, smelly, stagnant air. If my wife gives birth to a Mozart or Beethoven, the world will never know because I'd rather they suck at sports then be great at music. The world's most awful little league baseball game is still orders of magnitude better than the world's best choral festival.