I love music. My parents told me that I was showing signs of being musically talented at the age of one. I assume that in the eyes of a proud parent, hitting some pots and pans with metal utensils, waking the entire neighborhood up during siesta is considered to be a promising talent. I was expected to become a Jascha Heifetz, an Arthur Rubinstein, or any other outstanding Jewish musician. My first performance was at the age of two, the audience thought that it was outstanding and demanded an encore. Which I apparently delivered, again and again and again, until asked to shut the hell up and go to bed. The audience then tucked me in and kissed me goodnight.
To fulfil the promise, my proud parents, in cooperation with my first sponsor, my late grandfather, bought me an accordion. Imagine a small child, with a huge instrument, going to music lessons twice a week. Two years later I was ready to strangle the damn thing and drown it in the river. Only it wasn’t alive, and we lived no where near the river. Then came an angel from heaven, by the name of Shlomo Ravitz, who taught me to sing. That promise disappeared as soon as my voice changed into something close to an untrained raven.
To make a long story short, I love Pink Floyd, Deep Purple. And many other rock bands.
Lately, though, it would appear that we have a visiting musician in town. Even better than just “town”, practically outside my window. This bird, gets up when it’s still dark, and makes it its personal challenge to wake me and my family up every morning before 5:00 AM. To be precise, it only wakes me up. But I get really upset, I search for my ear-plugs, while knocking some other stuff off the night-stand, plus, and this is really what usually does the trick, I curse the stupid bird in multiple languages, using some X rated words, mostly in relation to the stupid animal’s ancestry and body parts. At this point my wife joins the party and starts to say some nasty things about certain people who, when they are woken up, cannot simply let the rest of the world continue to sleep. The children sound the alarms. My wife gets up to fix their blankets or deliver some water. When she’s back, so I’m told, she is already fuming. Not at the winged singer, but at me. I, however, am not listening. I’m sound asleep with the ear-lugs deep inside my ears.
We really wanted to live in the suburbs, the countryside, we just didn’t think that the settlers would be so welcoming and loud. If anyone has an unemployed “early bird” cat, please let me know.
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