FLUTE SALAD

There are way more annoying instruments than the flute. When one thinks about the flute, one is bound to imagine delicately flowing waterfalls, or infomercials for the Time Life Zamphir: Master of the Pan Flute collection.

But imagine my surprise when a flute player moves in under my girlfriend's apartment, and it's thoroughly irritating. Imagine my further shock to discover that said flutist, when not enjoying a good flute riff, prefers hardcore gangster rap and terrible, shitty dance music to salve her shredded flute-playing nerves. Imagine my further surprise to discover that yet another flute virtuoso has moved in above MY apartment, resulting in a weird "just can't get away from that flute" scenario whether at my house or the lady's.

It's almost too much to bear. Sure, they could be practicing "Sunshine of Your Love" on the tuba, cracking some wicked zither rhythms, or playing off a fallen comrade on with a stirring Scottish bag pipe solo. But somehow, when renting walls from a financially higher power, it seems like instrument practicing should be kept to a minimum. And by minimum, of course I mean sequestered off-site in a government holding facility where bag pipers, flutists, and opera singers can practice to their hearts content and become the world's greatest bag piper/futist/opera singer in a motivational "Fame"-type situation where only the strong survive.

All's I know is... I've had not one, but TWO accordions sitting here, just begging to play "Roll Out the Barrel" for the last two years, and now that I have flute-related competition in two separate dwellings, I finally have the appropriate intestinal gusto to let those damned barrels roll.

Once I fix my "A" button, you flutes are toast.