Mr. Music was at my class at college. He loved rugby, girls, and macho-man time but claimed that his love lay above and beyond in music. He spoke with a constant teeth-flashing grin while also squinting his eyes and nodding his head. So, if you didn’t make visible approval to what he was saying at least he could assure himself in some way that what he spoke was valid and humourous. He only wore sports attire to the waist and from there continued strands of loose fitting denim. This juxtaposition would allow him to spread himself across two looks, combining to create ‘Sports Cool’, a look that most men would strictly reserve for Saturday night television or an oil change.
He had one special companion that he seemed to genuinely get on well with. They would discuss recent vaginal adventures to the sounds of Journey and Ted Nugent but to the rest of the class it just looked as though they were symbolically rubbing each other’s penises. I’m pretty sure that they thought of just sweeping their laptops from the table in front of them and embracing in a lustful male moment.
To hear him speak about music was like he waved an imaginary music phallus about the room, priding in its girth and how deep it could go. What he didn’t realise was how obvious his lack of knowledge was to the rest of us. Not that we would know an encyclopedia’s worth or anything but when somebody continuously mentions the same band over and over again, and relates this band in any discussion about music, the shallowness becomes apparent all too fast.
What I could never understand is how everybody, including me, could sit there and tolerate it without ever wanting to expose him to the rest of the class. I suppose his immaturity and insecurities prevented anyone from wanting to make him feel worse about himself. I guess it can be compared to not losing patience with a child for the reason that they just don’t know any better. So, we continued to grit our teeth while he did exactly the same thing, just for totally different reasons.