please! Order! Everybody settle down! Order! Everybody!”
“Same vocabulary and same lack of effect as the speaker of our House of Commons,” the humorous Brit in the next classroom said to Francis.
“And I gave private piano lessons,” Rhinelander told Al.
Rhinelander mentioned that he had been responsible for producing the lower-school entertainment on annual grandparents’ day. “The chorus sang ‘Oh Happy Day,’ the solo piano played ‘Für Elise.’ The first-graders had colored boomsticks and banged them together.”
“That’s so cute!” Al said.
“Not really. Margaret West, my Godford piano teacher, used to say you’d be surprised how many children don’t have talent.”
“Psychiatric history?” asked the Intake Form. Had Mr. Rhinelander ever been in therapy?
“No. Well, yes, the time I checked myself into Bellevue, after I first moved to New York.”
Bellevue had transferred the patient to Upland State Hospital, where Dr. Lev Erwin was doing admissions. He asked the incoming patient what seemed to be the matter.
Rhinelander said, “I think I’m hearing music.”
“Aural hallucination,” the doctor penciled on his pad and said, “Hold on,” got up, and walked over to the window, where he let down the venetian blinds to block the winter sun’s horizontal rays. He came back, sat down, and said, “Where and when do you hear this music?”
“Think. I think I hear music.” Having contradicted a doctor, Rhinelander smiled and ducked his head.
“When and where do you think you hear this music?”
“All the time, everywhere.”
“Hearing the music of the spheres, are you?” joked the doctor. “What sort of music are the spheres into these days?”
“Orchestral, vocal, classical, light classical, pop, the standards, movie music, classic rock, punk, rap …”
“Dark in here, isn’t it?” The doctor got up, walked to the window, turned the plastic wand to halfway open the slats of the blinds, and came back and sat down.
The patient said, “I think I hear music in my dentist’s waiting room, my hotel, in the lobby, the elevator, the cafeteria? In the men’s room !”
“You mean Muzak,” the doctor said.
“And always—I always hear music when there’s somebody talking! This professor will be lecturing about the Cultural Revolution and I’m hearing a pentatonic chink-chink that I must be thinking is Chinese-type music, and so loud I have to strain to even catch the words? Particle physics and I think I’m hearing Philip Glass?”
“You’re talking about background music,” the doctor said.
“A man will be selling a car? I think I hear the Goldberg Variations!”
“You mean on the TV!”
“And on my little radio that I have on the chair next to my bed. This general says that making soldiers clean up after hurricanes will ruin their will to kill? I think I’m hearing Sousa.”
The alternating shadow and light that striped the top of the desk, striped the patient, irritated the doctor. He got up, walked to the window, and changed the slant of the slats of the venetian blind. “Stuffy in here, isn’t it?”
“A little,” said the patient agreeably.
The doctor opened the window an inch at the bottom, came back, and sat down. “You tell me if it gets too cold.”
“It’s fine,” the patient said.
“So. Let me ask you this,” said the doctor. “Do you ever hear any music you think might really be playing—let’s say on your TV?”
“Aha!” cried the patient. His ace in the hole (which he was going to repeat to his fellow inmates for the several weeks they kept him in the Upland facility): “Did you ever see that pretty girl who is brushing her teeth?”
“You mean the toothpaste commercial?”
“Right! And she smiles and brushes her teeth and sings ‘Brush your teeth with Physohilo, smile the Physohilo smile, oh!’? Now,” said Francis Rhinelander, “you can be brushing your teeth and be simultaneously smiling. If you think about
“Same vocabulary and same lack of effect as the speaker of our House of Commons,” the humorous Brit in the next classroom said to Francis.
“And I gave private piano lessons,” Rhinelander told Al.
Rhinelander mentioned that he had been responsible for producing the lower-school entertainment on annual grandparents’ day. “The chorus sang ‘Oh Happy Day,’ the solo piano played ‘Für Elise.’ The first-graders had colored boomsticks and banged them together.”
“That’s so cute!” Al said.
“Not really. Margaret West, my Godford piano teacher, used to say you’d be surprised how many children don’t have talent.”
“Psychiatric history?” asked the Intake Form. Had Mr. Rhinelander ever been in therapy?
“No. Well, yes, the time I checked myself into Bellevue, after I first moved to New York.”
Bellevue had transferred the patient to Upland State Hospital, where Dr. Lev Erwin was doing admissions. He asked the incoming patient what seemed to be the matter.
Rhinelander said, “I think I’m hearing music.”
“Aural hallucination,” the doctor penciled on his pad and said, “Hold on,” got up, and walked over to the window, where he let down the venetian blinds to block the winter sun’s horizontal rays. He came back, sat down, and said, “Where and when do you hear this music?”
“Think. I think I hear music.” Having contradicted a doctor, Rhinelander smiled and ducked his head.
“When and where do you think you hear this music?”
“All the time, everywhere.”
“Hearing the music of the spheres, are you?” joked the doctor. “What sort of music are the spheres into these days?”
“Orchestral, vocal, classical, light classical, pop, the standards, movie music, classic rock, punk, rap …”
“Dark in here, isn’t it?” The doctor got up, walked to the window, turned the plastic wand to halfway open the slats of the blinds, and came back and sat down.
The patient said, “I think I hear music in my dentist’s waiting room, my hotel, in the lobby, the elevator, the cafeteria? In the men’s room !”
“You mean Muzak,” the doctor said.
“And always—I always hear music when there’s somebody talking! This professor will be lecturing about the Cultural Revolution and I’m hearing a pentatonic chink-chink that I must be thinking is Chinese-type music, and so loud I have to strain to even catch the words? Particle physics and I think I’m hearing Philip Glass?”
“You’re talking about background music,” the doctor said.
“A man will be selling a car? I think I hear the Goldberg Variations!”
“You mean on the TV!”
“And on my little radio that I have on the chair next to my bed. This general says that making soldiers clean up after hurricanes will ruin their will to kill? I think I’m hearing Sousa.”
The alternating shadow and light that striped the top of the desk, striped the patient, irritated the doctor. He got up, walked to the window, and changed the slant of the slats of the venetian blind. “Stuffy in here, isn’t it?”
“A little,” said the patient agreeably.
The doctor opened the window an inch at the bottom, came back, and sat down. “You tell me if it gets too cold.”
“It’s fine,” the patient said.
“So. Let me ask you this,” said the doctor. “Do you ever hear any music you think might really be playing—let’s say on your TV?”
“Aha!” cried the patient. His ace in the hole (which he was going to repeat to his fellow inmates for the several weeks they kept him in the Upland facility): “Did you ever see that pretty girl who is brushing her teeth?”
“You mean the toothpaste commercial?”
“Right! And she smiles and brushes her teeth and sings ‘Brush your teeth with Physohilo, smile the Physohilo smile, oh!’? Now,” said Francis Rhinelander, “you can be brushing your teeth and be simultaneously smiling. If you think about
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