What the Cat Heard?

“Para bailar La Bamba - Para bailar La Bamba . . .”

If you’re reading this post you may recognize the lyrics to the adaptation of the Mexican folk song, La Bamba, released October 18, 1958, by Richie Valens. I’m certain, listening to this tune played on the guitar you would quickly find yourself tapping your toe to the beat. And doing your best to sing along.

Me, I’m still wondering what the cat heard?

Cat lovers out there maybe you can provide some insight.

While playing the introduction to La Bamba, my cat (Junior), jumps to my shoulders, needles a little, settles in, and meows in my ear. I suppose if he could talk he would say: “Dude, how many times do you have to repeat the same segment to get it right?”

No doubt, his comments might be a lot more entertaining than listening to me attempt this catchy tune on my guitar.

Allow met to set the stage. Every morning I strap on my guitar, check the tuning, and begin to practice. For flexibility, first its a series of warmup finger exercises: gliding across frets through all six strings, up and down the neck. Then the pentatonic scales, major and minor chords (E-F-C-Am-D). Next sliding up and down the neck attempting to repeat the chords with barre chords. Now granted, I’m not as efficient with barre chords yet but with the light touch of the Tele, I’m making excellent progress.

Well, about the time I break off to play the intro to this song Jr. decides he’s not getting enough attention and jumps to my shoulders. He shifts positions a couple of times then settles with his head against my right ear and wants to be petted.

“Ok, ok, I’ll scratch behind your ear, just sit still please.”

All the while his tail whipping back and forth slapping me up-side the head as if in rhythm to what I’m playing.

This goes on until I shift positions to flip the page on the music stand. Then Jr. jumps down, sits on my keyboard, and proceeds to stare directly at me as if to say, “Have you settled down yet?”

I relent, tip my shoulder a little and he immediately resumes his position on my shoulders, purring in my right ear.

Now for those of you learning guitar, I really do not recommend the technique of having a 15-pound cat on your shoulders as you practice.

Granted, over the past three years, Jr. has heard me butcher many tunes I’ve attempted to play.

So, I guess I’m still wondering, “What the cat heard?”

This is Patrick Ball, thanks for listening, see you in the next episode.

Comments

A B+ Kind of Life

Welcome back to this week's On the Fly . Retirement has taught me something unexpected: life gets a lot more enjoyable when you stop chasing perfection. Lately, I've been having an absolute blast playing executive par-3 courses like Rancho Carlsbad . A short iron, a sunny morning, and nowhere to be except the next tee—that's my kind of day. This Thursday, though, I'm raising the stakes. I'm heading to The Links at Lakehouse in San Marcos, a full-size par-71 course with enough water hazards to keep the local fish well-stocked with my golf balls. After shooting a 64 on a par-3 course, I've set myself a new goal: shoot an 89 before my birthday next August. Why 89? Because on a par-71 course, that's bogey golf—one extra stroke per hole. For non-golfers, think of it this way: par is like earning 100% on a final exam. Bogey golf is a solid B+. You got the job done, learned something, and probably had a lot more fun getting there. The older I get, the more I appre...

Resurrecting the '90s Graphite

Let’s face it, there’s a certain danger in reading John Gierach's Trout Bum . His wit, self-deprecation, and sharp, effortless satire are entirely infectious. If you aren't careful, his words will inspire you to drop everything, wade into a freezing river, and try to outsmart a creature with a brain the size of a lentil. In my case, re-reading Gierach recently didn't send me straight to the river. It sent me digging through the dusty, spider-guarded corners of my garage. In the early 1990s, seeking a natural escape from Manhattan's concrete canyons, I decided to learn to cast a fly rod. I bought an Orvis Rocky Mountain —eight-and-a-half feet, three ounces, built for a five-weight line—and had absolutely no idea how to use it. To avoid aimlessly whipping the water like scrambling eggs, I took fly-fishing lessons from Al Cucci, co-author of Hatches , on the Delaware River. With his guidance, I fished renowned waters: the AuSable in New York and Michigan, and New Jersey...

Morning Coffee

In this episode, Morning Coffee . . . Now, I’m not saying everyone needs coffee. Some folks get by just fine on, I don’t know, sunlight and positive thinking. Me? I’m pretty sure I started drinking the stuff sometime around the Reagan administration. Reading John Gierach’s "Ode to Campfire Coffee" in Trout Bum (a book that should be required reading for anyone who sees sleeping on the ground as recreation) got me thinking about how we’ve managed to complicate something as fundamentally simple as boiling water and adding grounds. Taste, you say? Look, black coffee is an acquired taste, like tequila or cilantro. I just don’t get it. Gierach, bless his heart, mostly drinks his java streamside, probably while wearing wool socks and waders and contemplating the mysteries of the universe. As for me? My outdoor coffee experience is a bit different. Picture this: the High Sierra, where campfires are banned (to avoid agitating Smoky Bear), and I’m huddled over a Whisperlite , coax...

A Tucson Typewriter Tale

One of the great joys of wandering without much of a plan is that the universe occasionally rewards your lack of organization. During my recent visit to Tucson, AZ, Robert and I were strolling through the Annex this afternoon, doing what tourists and newly minted retirees like me have elevated to an Olympic sport: meandering. The Annex is one of those places where every few steps there's another handmade candle, artisan coffee, or vintage object someone rescued from a garage sale and convinced the rest of us was always destined to become art. Then I saw something that genuinely stopped me. A young woman standing quietly behind a manual typewriter. Not a laptop designed to look like a typewriter. Not a quirky Bluetooth keyboard. An honest-to-goodness mechanical typewriter—the sort of machine that once announced every sentence to the entire office with a satisfying clack and enough force to wake nearby pigeons. With an iPhone 16 sitting in my pocket in an age when people write novels...

On The Fly

Search This Blog