When I made my weekly foray into Clinton, to the Laundromat tonight, I wasn't expecting there to be a young man there practicing his guitar. His singing wasn't the greatest (he'd probably improve greatly with a little self-confidence and maybe some breath control lessons), but he could carry a tune and his guitar playing was fantastic. The Laundromat has two televisions, which are kept tuned to some country music cable channel, so I always look forward to Mondays with trepidation. Running into Guitar Man was a definite treat and MUCH better than Extreme Home Makeover (which, seriously! Do they just show the same episode every week? There's always some skinny guy acting insane, then they knock down a house, then they build stuff and then a bunch of people cry.)
Unfortunately, Guitar Man brought along (or perhaps simply attracted) Harmonica Old Guy. Harmonica Old Guy accompanied Guitar Man on his harmonica. Except he couldn't play it. Guitar Man is playing Stairway To Heaven and Free Bird and Harmonica Old Guy is interjecting a high-pitched screech at irregular intervals. Then Harmonica Old Guy confided in me that he can't sing and then he proceded to prove it.
And he wouldn't stop!
He couldn't carry a tune and he didn't know the words (he kept singing "a wretch like me" but not in any way that you'd recognize as being part of Amazing Grace) and he wouldn't shut up! Guitar Man put up his guitar and busied himself with his cell phone and I'm stuck there with a phony smile on my face listening to this guy mumble random lyrics in the tune of "Fingernail on chalkboard". And you know, it's times like this that I really regret that my mother didn't raise me to be someone who can look a stranger in the eye and say, "you know what? You're right! You DO suck! Now do us all a favor and shut the fuck up!"