Thursday, June 7, 2007

Rocking Rocket Launchers!

I think I told you that he broke his ankle the other day, but did you know he's in a band? Yes, when he's not killing people on the simulator, drilling his SGT into the soccer field, puggling someone off a beam, or launching that pineapple grenade, my baby boy Reuben is out on the stage, mic in hand, raspy voicing it for the world to cringe at. I couldn't begin to tell you what it is that he's singing about - even if I'm standing 10 feet away from the man, I can't understand a single word spewing out of his mouth. I have to stand at least 10 feet away to keep out of the wet zone, sweat leaps from him after 1 song.

When the kid was 8 months old he was walking - no, running. "DOG" he squealed - "DOG" and he shot straight up in a second from a sitting position - running to the front door, hitting it hard with his forearms just like a lineman - precursor I suppose for his future as an defensive tackle - and he hasn't stopped. At about 13 months old he and I went to a jazz festival and I lost him. Could not find the kid - I was panicked! I'm serious, I was crying, stomping, looking, frantically begging for help - I went to the stage to have the grand master make an announcement. My boy was missing! He was found - quickly - by the band! He was on the side of the stage. He had completely WRAPPED his body around the amplifier/speaker - boom, boom, boom, boom, and OHHHH, how he was smiling! Well, that explains why he never hears me when I call him in to clean his room - and probably explains the love for the ring he gets in his ears when he throws that grenade too!

He grew up too quickly, as they all do, and he joined a few bands as their lead. I won't even be nice about it. The boy can't sing. I didn't say he didn't sing, no, he sings all the time - I remember having to run to the other side of the house, turning on the dishwasher and the garbage disposal to drown out what was coming full blast out of the bathroom. Why the man thinks anyone would be interested is beyond me. He's at least a good entertainer - I'll give him that. When you think about it, he may have something - but I'm not sure I'd pay to hear it, that's all. The CD better be autographed, and it better be in my Christmas stocking, because my hard-earned cash won't be exchanged for what I try to avoid.

Look at the star on his head - always the quintessential American. I had to give him a really bad time and remind him that TEXAS is the Lone Star state - That bandanna was probably burned in effigy! The boy is Sooner born, Sooner bred, and yes, when he dies - the plot closest to the Norman campus is already paid for. I wouldn't be surprised if he hadn't already paid for the monument with something like "Damn, I can't see the game from here" written on the stone! One thing about the fact that my boy sings is this: at least he's not drinking when he's singing, and he's not chasing women, he's just up there pounding his head against the wall, body-bumping the guitarist, head-banging the air to the point that even the Army has to question if they made the right decision allowing him to sign - but he's always, and I mean always - unpredictably entertaining - which, I suppose is the point.

God only told us to make a joyful noise - and, well - Reuben does that well.

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