There’s nothing wrong with Scott Joplin’s The Entertainer. Nor the modified version, which my daughter’s been plunking out on the piano. For the last six months.
What’s wrong is that each time I hear the thing, I keep hearing the thing. The melody. The rhythm. All still in my head. Yay.
This morning, as The Entertainer pulsed from the keys, my son flumped his elbows on the dining room table. “I’m tired of the Enter-tainer,” he said. He sighed and looked toward the piano. “I just want to hear the Outer-tainer now.”