I went hunting with my father and two of his friends this weekend. Great time. Drank too much scotch, ate too much red meat, listened to old men talk about past conquests both real and imagined.
One of the men, when I went to put some music on the stereo, stopped me and said, "Hell no. We're talking here."
My dad drew me aside and said, "Gene doesn't like music."
That took a while to sink in. I couldn't believe it. So I asked the old guy about it. "You don't like music? Any music?"
"Hell, no. Just noise to occupy you while you wait to die." He was having major back pain at the time and heavily self-medicating with J&B. So I can understand his dark outlook. But music is an anodyne.
My dad looked at me and shook his head, warning me off.
"You ever like music?"
The old dude blinked. "Naw. It's silly frivolous crap. It's nonsense, music."
My dad vehemently shook his head.
So, I stopped questioning the old dude. But, damn, going through life without music? That's not life.
Next morning, his back and shoulder hurt him too much to hunt. We went out and were overrun with ducks. He hobbled to his car and drove home.
Hard to believe that someone could be born into the world without the capacity to enjoy music. But there it is. I've met the poor son of a bitch. And it wasn't pretty.
Livre d'horreur français #40 Kindle
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