From: New Liberation News Service <nlns@igc.apc.org>
Subject: NLNS: WHY DAVEY CAN'T DRUM
Followup-To: alt.activism.d
Originator: daemon@pencil.cs.missouri.edu
Organization: ?
Date: Wed, 30 Sep 1992 19:03:07 GMT

/* Written  6:18 pm  Sep 29, 1992 by nlns in cdp:nlns.news */
/* ---------- "NLNS Packet 3.2 *** 9/28/92" ---------- */

Why Davey Can't Drum 
Dave Running Gopher McCleery, Leaves of Grass

(NLNS)--I've never liked guys who drummed. When I was in the fifth 
grade the drummer was always the kid who insulted your shirt and 
then smacked you on the arm, real hard. The drummer was the kid 
who just couldn't sit still during the slide show, the kid who was 
always caught picking his nose.
	And now I'm supposed to believe that drumming is good for 
your soul?
	Last time I went to a "men's meeting" it seemed a little too 
close to those Cub Scout meetings I dreaded when I was eleven years 
old. Meetings in which everybody pretended they were just like 
everybody else, which from the reading material they presented 
suggested that us Midwestern boys were in fact Native Americans. 
We had our own Indian name. Mine was "Running Gopher" or something 
like that. How embarassing.
	At men's meetings I went to, when they pulled out their drums, 
all I got was a headache and a sore wrist. Each guy spoke about his 
special drum, compared his drum to everybody else's, and told a cute 
little story about it. I found it hard not to just blurt out, "Just drop 
your drawers and let's settle it!" But if I did, I'm sure somebody 
would have smacked me on the shoulder and insulted my Chicago Art 
Institute t-shirt.
	I've got nothing against music, mind you. But a bunch of 
overweight middle class white guys sitting around in what had been 
a Joe's "den" twenty years ago is not my idea of a jam session. 
Anyway, most of these guys never wanted to be drummers back in 
the fifth grade and they probably wouldn't be drummers now if they 
hadn't read it on the cover of *New Age Journal*.
	I know these guys, too. They were the kids in the fifth grade 
who always had what was "in." You know, the kid with the Monkees 
lunch box even though his mother never let him watch the show. The 
kid who followed the fashion.  When I'd see him carrying the same 
box as me I knew it was time to head into the frontier. They were 
the kids who got all serious at Cub Scout meetings while Darrell 
Bernhardt and I goofed in the corner and asked their mothers rude 
questions.
	But why drum? What's the point? Why not play an accordian, or 
the bagpipes? Why not find something on your own, instead of 
jumping on every self-help shlock that comes down the media pike? 
Finding your own way is what it's about. Finding your own way is 
hard and lonely. When you find your own way there's no one around to 
approve. And approval's what these guys want.
	*I beat on the drum, and there's Joe beating on his drum, and 
Robert, and if I beat hard enough I'll fill this little soul of mine with 
something, even if it's for an evening.*
	But it doesn't work. If you take somebody's culture, say that of 
Native Americans, and put a white middle-class sheen over it, and 
call it deep and meaningful, it's like taking bologna, dipping it in 
sauce and calling it barbecue. It don't fill you up, and after a few 
months it makes you sick.
	I hope reading this might make some of those Cub Scouts think 
about their spirit instead of just playing follow the leader. And I 
know I should be saying these things to their faces, but I tried that 
in fifth grade and it didn't work then.
	I don't know what these guys can do to feel better. And if I did I 
wouldn't tell them even if they smacked me on the shoulder and 
called me a weenie. Sorry, boys, but I march to a different drummer.

Leaves of Grass is the world's only publication devoted to lawn care, 
poetry, and the human spirit! Dave can be reached at 2746 Everett, 
Lincoln, NE 68502. 

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