Well That's Encouraging...

I am religious with my music. Most everyday I go outside and walk for awhile with my tunes, I would go absolutely insane without the practice, seriously. I’ll brave snow storms and duct tape an antenna to my head if I have to. Even when I’m driving I’m either listening to the radio or plugged in with one of those righteous cassette adaptors.

Those who know me and have been equally unfortunate enough to drive with me, will at some point ask me why I sing along rather softly. I’m no Madonna, but I’m most certainly not Sanjaya either. Most of the time my excuse for cranking my music so loud, like the ignorant teenager I am, is so that people can’t hear me when I sing. In conjunction with that, if I give you the gift of not having to tolerate my singing, its considered courteous to return the favor. But hey, its not like I'm one of those wieners who are totally in the zone with their air drums at every red light.

For those fantasy rock stars I know, you’re not wieners. Just special.

However, there is no mercy for those who talk during good songs. If you try to start a deep conversation during Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Freebird guitar solo, you will receive one Judo chop (or more, as necessary) to the throat.

A few days ago I was sitting in my room with Bagheera, playing music on my laptop. Assuming Lisa was still asleep and that my walls were thicker, I started to sing to ABBA’s Dancing Queen. Yes. Don’t judge.

Without warning, she burst into my room wide eyed, staring at me cautiously for a moment.

“Were you singing?”

“Uh… yes,” I pointed to my laptop “Dancing Queen.”

“Oh, okay. I thought you were chanting some Indian voodoo hex on my dog!” she laughed.

…

I don’t care how nice you claim my voice is, Steve, I’m not singing out loud again.

And I should hex that damn dog…