The Screaming Room

Ah, “Platoon.” An Oliver Stone classic. I have it cued up in the DVD player ready to go. You got your Berringer, your Sheen and your William “Jaw” Dafoe. You got your gunfights, your moral atrocities and your betrayals. What more do you want in a Vietnam movie? Throw in some classic 60’s tunes, Stone’s mastery of human behavior and that’s a good movie night.

But anyway. Vietnam, huh? I think of it only because of John “Jaw” Kerry’s latest blunder. Here’s a guy who fought the good fight in ‘nam only to repeatedly stumble when trying to parlay wartime heroics into political clout. Last year, it was accusations of lies about his performance on the Swift Boat. Now it’s an offhand remark about solidering and class partitions that threaten his 2008 bid for the White House. To review, Kerry said this: “Education, if you make the most of it, you study hard, you do your homework and you make an effort to be smart, you can do well. And if you don’t, you get stuck in Iraq.”

As blunders go, is it a huge one? To me, it doesn’t rise up (or sink down) to the level of Gary Hart and his sexual prowess on Monkey Business. But of course, Michael Dukakis simply rode a tank clumsily across the campaign trail and it ruined him. Ed Muskie dripped what appeared to be a tear and voters threw up their hands in disgust. Primal scream Dean let go one good shriek and he was labeled a lunatic.

Good thing I’m not running for office. You people would surely reveal that… thing that you know about me.

I had an acoustic guitar once and big dreams of rock ‘n roll heaven. But my fingers were clumsy on the strings and I never got beyond the first couple notes of “Horse With No Name.” I was trying to advance to “Dust in the Wind” when it all went wrong. I slammed the hateful instrument against a wall and cracked it. Seeing that the damage was done, I then proceeded to slam a door repeatedly against the wretched guitar until it was nothing more than a heap of splinters and horribly bent strings. And what a fine sound it made.

I thought maybe a harmonica would provide me the musical outlet I sought, but my tongue and lips were no more cooperative than my fingers. Everything I tried to play sounded like wind blowing through a rusty tin can with BB holes in it. The harmonica went into a campfire. And what a strange sound it made.

I like to think it was artistic rage, but whatever. I never tried another instrument. I’d love to play the piano, but you can’t slam one of those in a door and it would be difficult to toss one onto a bonfire. The violin would be nice but they’re so delicate and pristine and curvy, they remind me of a woman. I could never bring myself to abuse one, and I know damn well that I would reach that point. I suck pretty bad with the musical instruments, people.

So the clamor of my muse makes no sound. I’ve learned to live with it. In honor of those who have mastered the ancient instruments of music, I am posting a pair of photos of a mystery pianist. Pianist is a damn fun word to say. And when somebody we know voluntarily dons attire that would make Liberace finger his ivories, well… Do with it what you will.