A mere 24 hours later--after a day of singing rivaling Yoko Ono--Linda was ready for a new week. "Okay, you need to be quiet. Just don't talk for a bit. Okay?"
I'm so annoying I annoy myself. Can't wait to play poker with the guys Thursday night.
It started so well. I sang to Daniel all morning as he got ready for school. Linda sang along throughout the morning. We were living a Broadway musical, without the dancing, production values, or, really, the skill. Even boring sentences come to life when sung. For example (sung to "Oklahoma") "Ooookay, what should we do now? Doooo you want me to make you lunch?"
I thought I'd invented a cure for depression; it's impossible to be unhappy when you have to sing everything you want to say.
I sensed things were turning when Linda didn't exactly come back quickly from a short errand. Or when my parents called, and I sang them my week's plan, my mom sang back, "Okay, then we'll call you back next weeeeeek."
Kids never tire of it, however. I was briefly babysitting a friend's 4-year-old and we sang, "Take Me Out To The Ballgame" 11 times. I thought it was great parenting that the kid knew the song, until he sang, "So it's root, root, root for the Yankees..." Root for the Yankees? Who does that to a child?
Daniel played along all day, often singing right back. Me, to the tune of "Mary Had a Little Lamb": "Can I watch the ballgame now, ballgame now, ballgame now?" Daniel: "Watch it in the other room, other room, other room."
Of course, the other room was where Linda was hiding. I can't blame her. If I was in a band, they'd turn off my microphone. They probably wouldn't even give me one in the first place.
But it will all be over soon, over soon, over soon. It will all be over soon, just six more days to goooooo.....
Day 2
American Idol's appeal is rooted in the common belief that we're all undiscovered singing sensations. We're all Whitney Houston or Robert Plant when we play Car Karaoke; if we lowered the volume on the radio, we'd find we're American Idol flop William Hung.
Today, I had the chance to play Simon Cowell. While Linda was singing her replies to my singing questions, I realized she was attempting to sound like Maria, Julie Andrews's character from The Sound of Music.
Wanting to keep her dream alive--and also realizing that Ozzy Osbourne sounds like Sinatra compared to me--I had a dilemma. Do I tell her she's no Julie Andrews? Do I call her out on the impersonation? How do you solve a problem like Maria?
I took the bait, singing the question to the tune of "My Favorite Things": "Do you think that you sound just like Maria?"
"I actually do think I sound good," she said, answering as earnestly as if she were being interviewed by Oprah. "I really do."
She then proceeded to a hit few more Maria high notes while I kept an eye on our glassware. I left her happily delusional as she got up to leave for a meeting. As she walked to the door, I was "treated" to another hit from The Sound of Music, "So Long, Farewell."
Holding the front door handle, Linda sang, "So long, farewell/auf Wiedersehen, Goodnight/I flit, I float/I fleetly flee I fly"--and gracefully tried to exit by ramming into the locked glass front door.
"She leaves, I heave/A sigh and say good-bye."
Day 3
There are places where my singing is appropriate, and places where it's not. Appropriate: the shower. Not: when I sang my order to the waitress at dinner the other night. Linda barely contained her laughter, but I wonder if my meal came with a little something extra, compliments of the waitress.
While it may not be appropriate, I enjoy singing to people who call us. I have a selection of lyrics I consider when I answer the phone, including:
"Hello, is it me you're looking for?" from Lionel Richie
"Hello, it's me," from Todd Rundgren
"Hello, my friend, hello" from Neil Diamond
and, for a select few, "Hello, I love you, won't you tell me your name," from the Doors.
When the call's over, I opt from among:
"Goodbye to you," from '80s group Scandal
"So long, farewell," from The Sound of Music
"You say good-bye," from the Beatles
and, again, for a select few, "Bye, bye love," from the Cars.
Not surprisingly, I think our friends are calling less frequently this week. Or, as one so politely put it, "I can't imagine how sick of this Linda must be. Is this week over yet?" I guess someone won't be getting a "Hello, I love you" next time.
I rocked it out in one other entirely appropriate setting Wednesday: my car on a long drive. I must be improving because I swear I sounded just like every singer on the radio. Really. Jackson Browne, Kurt Cobain, Steve Miller--I was on! And when Tone Loc started, I could feel the karmic magic: "I asked the guy/'Why you so fly?'/he said, 'Funky cold Medina.'"
I always knew I was so fly.
Day 4
Poker night revealed just how schizophrenic my friends can be, which is one reason we get along. (I agree; me too.)
They loved the idea of my singing at first, laughing at the absurdity of it. They hated my singing when they realized it wouldn't stop. "It's like a nightmare that never ends," Phil said.
They loved the idea, even coming up with ways to make it tougher: "Your song should have to be relevant to the conversation," said Brian. To which Phil sang, "I'll take that bet/You're gonna regret/'Cause I'm the best that's ever been," in his finest Charlie Daniels twang.
They loved the idea so much they started singing replies back to me. (How annoying.) They hated the idea so much they wanted to charge me a singing tax for each poker hand.
They loved that I kept it up all night: "You're still doing it--I'm impressed," said Brian. They also hated that I was still doing it: "You know, you don't have to do that anymore--it's just us,"--also said by Brian. Talk about schizophrenic!
The one constant: my singing brought out their twisted creativity regarding what I can do in
future weeks. Sneak into the World Series. Dress and rhyme like the Cat in the Hat. Make meaningless gestures. Be Rainbow Man--the guy who carried the John 3:16 sign at sporting events. And the scariest: spend the week streaking.
So, they don't want me to sing, but they want to see me streaking? That's schizo. (I agree; me too.)
Day 5
My friends are trusting types, the poor souls. They'll leave me in charge of their children, which only encourages me to act down to the kids' level. Clearly, my friends have fallen victim to one of the classic blunders. The most famous is: Never get involved in a land war in Asia, as any fan of The Princess Bride well knows.
So I took the opportunity Friday to direct a music video starring me and four excitable kids under the age of 9. I now have an appreciation of what it's like to work with Axl Rose.
My song selection: Elvis Presley's "Blue Christmas," which I can sing spectacularly well, in my own humble opinion. Linda and Caitlin are similarly glowing in their praise, raving that it's the one and only song I mumble through without butchering beyond recognition. I blush at their high praise.
Since I'm singing all week, this is the perfect chance to record my legendary vocals for posterity. And because I'm watching four kids after school, why not make them my band: Elvis & The Four Sideburns?
And why not have one of them strum a broom like a guitar while I sing into a flashlight? And why not have all of us wear long Elvis sideburns made of black construction paper taped to our faces?
Voila--a star is born! Actually, as you see in the video, I get less camera time than Mrs. Thurston Howell III. In the camera hogs' defense, they do Elvis proud, or as Sam said, "I look rockingly funny!"
Days 6 & 7
My friends spent Saturday and Sunday playing "Hide And Don't Seek." They pretended they had other obligations--weddings, family parties, a cricket match in India. I was tempted to drive by their homes to catch them, but I know from past experience that they're all pretty quick to turn out the lights when I show up.
It doesn't matter; I know the truth. All the great ones experience this type of thing at one time or another: jealousy. They're envious of my 11-octave range (I'm sure I'm better than a 10). They saw my version of "Blue Christmas" and worry that my dulcet tones could dominate any get-together. Jessica Simpson once experienced the same isolation, which is why she was forced to hang around with Tony Romo.
A similar case of jealousy occurred in high school. Our school was performing Hello, Dolly! and the director, in need of guys to be anonymous waiters and dancers, begged my friends and me to help out.
We did, and after joining the cast, our talent was quickly discovered and we were placed in key, though non-speaking, roles. Such as anonymous waiters and dancers. Dolly, as I remember, may have still had a few tiny parts, but the show was all about us.
As the ovations on closing night washed over my friends and me, I can recall how Dolly and other so-called "lead actors" received roses afterwards. I guess it was a sort of consolation prize for them. Some people will do anything to deceive themselves.
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