Soon after the little white truck incident, fate butted in and forced my parents into trading our in-the-sticks residence for a snug city apartment. The drawback was that I spent most of my prekindergarten years indoors, and playing outside on my own was no longer an option.

One of my pastimes was to take part in children’s entertainment via our newly gained black and white television set. My favourite show was the Looney Tunes. One day, after witnessing Bugs Bunny’s antics, I scampered over to my mother’s LP collection. With my head tilted at a 90-degree angle and a quizzical expression on my mug, I clumsily flipped through several albums until I recognized one of them. I grabbed it and thrust it near my mother’s face. I asked her if the cartoon’s soundtrack was from the LP in question. She craned her neck back while glancing at it cross-eyed and confirmed that the music was indeed from the composer in hand. I realize that skeptics among you will state the obvious; 

 

Hoping to provide their child with a healthy dose of self-confidence, all loving parents will reply positively to the brats’ query. They will do so, even if the slow-witted offspring is flaunting a record of Marcel Marceau’s Greatest Speeches. 

 

Several years later, that Kodak moment surfaced in the back of my mind, and when I hinted it to her, she described the account just as I had remembered it.
 

I did not mention this childhood vignette to boast my music-related memory. I am aware of my faults, but arrogance is not chief among them. My aptitude at citing minute details out of mid-air has diminished (considerably, I might add) over the years. Even then, that so-called “skill” was at recalling pop culture references instead of life changing words of wisdom.

 

The rationale for my bringing up the cartoon anecdote was to illustrate how music has captivated me since… well… always, I guess.
 

When watching a television show, I was more interested in the opening theme than in the story itself. Screenplay quality standards of the time might have had something to do with it. Stellar, you say? I think not.
 

Years later, music became more meaningful as it coincided with my social life being nonexistent. My upbringing (through no fault of my parents), bestowed me with a chronic case of social awkwardness. I could, if need be, gush out platitudes to a shrink, hoping demystifying answers would materialize from these sessions. Several consultations wouldn't change my life’s perspective. I’ve always been a semi-recluse and I accept this lifestyle. I continue to waver between keeping to myself or over sharing. Ironically, the latter would describe me to a tee with this paragraph.

 

 

Antediluvian Ad nauseam

 

To make ends meet, my mother had few options but to work long hours hoping to provide life’s necessities to her three offspring. Her one day off fell on Sundays, which coincidentally was when Beethoven and his cronies hijacked our home. The household was awash with their music. She also liked opera, but, mercifully, the wailings of loud-mouthed rotund matriarchs and portly windbags seldom occurred.
 
Deep down, I didn’t hate classical music, for I learned to respect and appreciate the genre. However, since no other musical style filled our abode, I yearned to welcome someone other than Haydn and his contemporaries.
 
Then, out of the blue, a football game changed everything.