If Ghetto Had a Face, It Would Be the Artist in Me

It’s been a busy few days…

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Remember him? Don’t worry, if he were alive, he wouldn’t remember you.

I’ve always wanted my children exposed to music, much in the same way that passengers on an airplane are exposed to tuberculosis. Wait, that’s not quite right. But I have always hoped that my kittens would take after their musically-inclined old man. I play the piano and love to sing and dance, sometimes to my detriment. So far, the daughter seems to have the natural love of music in her blood. The son, too, likes to dabble with notes and tones, though not with the same enthusiasm. That’s not problem. I really just want to raise them with an appreciation for music and the ability to read music. Beyond that, I want to give them the opportunity to play any instrument they feel drawn too. But Daddy (and Mommy) are doing this in a serious manner. Toward that end, my little girl, all of three, has just finished a month of piano lessons. Amazingly, she loves it! I a few days, my son will begin his journey with the violin. Imagine my amusement, then, when my wife sent the two of us to the showroom today to “rent” a violin. I guess buying one outright really doesn’t make sense. What if he doesn’t like it? Still I can’t help but feel like he’s getting the shaft on this one. His sister gets to play on our own piano, in fact, the one Daddy learned to play on. Come to think of it, that piano was constructed with green wood and never really recovered from three moves in three years. It rather resembles something one might find in an underground jazz club (the kind where you can still smoke right next to the flammable curtains). All that’s missing is the toothless hooker singing honkytonk while perched on the edge of the lid.

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It’s so tiny, I had to laugh.

Speaking of artistry, last week I painted our dining room. We got tired of looking at the lovely shade of primer the house painters had done for us a few months ago. I enjoy painting (when my back isn’t killing me) and I had some energy so I spent last Monday night painting the heck out of that room. It was some shade called Stormy Monday or Moody Bitch or something like that, it looked like an off-gray to me. The next morning, s proud of my handiwork, I went into the room and peeled off the blue painters tape so that my wife would get the full effect of this masterpiece. The only problem is that, in the daylight, she noticed all kinds of imperfections – chief among them, the lack of a second coat. Hey, I was tired. Sue me. So a few days later I started taping up the trim and ceiling edges again. I ran out of tape. “Just running out to Lowes, babe. I’ll be right back.” Before I had picked up my keys, my wife, ever the frugal one, began lamenting to me the waste of funds I was about to make. We had a friendly back and forth and nothing got done that day. You wanna’ know why? Someone thought the master painter in me should simply “reuse” the old tape. Cut to the chase… You know she always wins. And more often than not, she’s also right. On that latter point, the jury’s still out but tonight, as I dutifully finished my painting, I felt like the most ghetto artist on the planet. Take a look…

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You have now officially seen it all.

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One response to “If Ghetto Had a Face, It Would Be the Artist in Me

  1. HAHAHA! You go, girl! (to Mrs. Harvey, of course) Ghetto tape it is.

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