Why no one ever mistook me for Stevie Wonder

I was given a harmonica

at the age of five-and-a-

half. Needless to say, there was

no harmony involved.

An accordion would not have

been worse. At least it would

have been saliva-free.

I’d take a thousand

Walter Ostaneks

any day. The shrill of my

dentist’s drill, boring into my

teeth while I listen

front-row-centre.

The screech of Yoko Ono—

well, let me get back to you

on that.

I’ve digressed. There’s nothing

worse than dissonance fused

with spit. Your DNA

that’s launched into the ether—

with the squeal of a braking train.

I’d rather hear the nails-on-

blackboard symphony,

in a sold-out Carnegie Hall,

with the jackhammer

orchestra to open.

What makes this thing an

instrument forged in Hades

is the fact it’s double-sided.

You can mimic the screams of

the damned from left-to-right,

then again but vice versa.

There's not a greater

deterrent to perdition

than a harmonica

in a neophyte’s hand.

I’d never be a drunken

gadabout; would give everything

I owned to feed the poor—

except that which was gifted

long ago. The destitute have

suffered enough.

It was more than enough

when the Sally Ann paraded

through their shanties,

tubas blasting the

pall to smithereens.

Andreas Gripp

January 11, 2026

RF Photo