Suzuki Camp, part 2, my husband's take

Warning/ Disclaimer

I asked my husband to write a blog on being a Suzuki parent. As he is a writer, I should have realized he would completely ignore my directions and come up with the following post. Readers beware--he uses words I don't. 

He did send a great picture, however.  My kid's the one in the middle. The other two are his buddies: Connor and Brennan. 

Father / Son music camp.

Look, this is my wife’s thing, okay?  When my son started Suzuki violin lessons I was supportive.  Under one condition: my son was taking violin lessons.  Not me.  I have a PhD in English.  I’ve learned all I ever want to learn.  I am NOT interested in learning ANYTHING else.  FUCK MORE KNOWLEDGE.

I digress.

The point is that I was asked to take my son to a Suzuki music camp in Dallas because my wife is so selfish that she insisted on teaching in the summer.  As if.

The guy at the rental car place knew us.  We got a mini SUV for the price of an intermediate car.  We drove west.  Vrroooom.

We stopped at Buc ee’s (http://www.buc-ees.com/index.php) which obviously needs no explanation.  T-shirts and a coffee mug.  Then we met up with friends for a professional baseball game in Rangers Stadium.  The Rangers got their asses kicked 9 to 2.  But it was fun.  Hot dogs and popcorn for the boy.  Beer for me.  Good times.

The camp started the next day and this was the worst day of the summer so far.   Running around trying to find the right room, and by the way my son had NO FUCKING IDEA what a “polished” violin piece meant.  He might as well be playing the kazoo.  Holy fucking shit all that money on lessons and he just sucked.  Seriously, he might as well as well have been playing the trombone from his ass.  The “master class professor” implied as much.  After the first day I wanted to kill everyone.

We practiced.  We paid attention.  To my surprise this worked.  The boy got better.  I didn’t have to beat him with a stick.

The boy’s master class teacher was the best in that he didn’t tolerate jacking around.  He was like the grad school professors we all claim to love – tough and inspiring and tough.

My son’s “polished violin piece” was super steaming crap.  But it became polished by the end of the camp.  Which is to say the camp was not total bullshit.  Somebody at least took it seriously and my son was the better for it.

Sure.

I’d rather go to another Rangers game.