Things That Make You Cringe!

Cringe

Verb  \’krinj\

: to feel disgust or embarrassment and often to show this feeling by a movement of one’s face or body.

This is one of those weeks where events on a geo-political level are just too horrifying to discuss.  Domestic goings on offer little in the way of inspiration either.  So, as I beat my head against the wall trying to reorder my perspective and deliver to you, my faithful readers (both of you), something of an entertaining and informative nature, I realized that my imagination had taken refuge in a dark cave awaiting the eviction of something witnessed on a local level that is inhibiting my creativity.  Thus, to exorcise this demon, I thought I would share it with you.  Hell, if I’m going to have nightmares you might as well join me.

Karaoke Hell

We are all singers.  Voices like nightingales we have, in our heads if not in our throats.  Who among us does not belt out an accompaniment when one or our favorite tunes cues up on the car radio?  When the windows are rolled up, our vocal talents know no modesty.  There is something magical about the acoustics of our showers.  With no critics around we are Enrico Caruso, Robert Merrill, Tom Petty.  Okay, maybe we are as good as Tom Petty but the truth is most of us have very limited room to brag about our vocal aptitude.   And we know it.

That is why, when placed in the public spotlight (figuratively) we are loath to perform and if pressed do so proceed with a healthy dose of timidity.  We slur over the lyrics, keep our voices soft.  There is a cure for this gap between ego and inhibition; a good dose of vodka and a karaoke machine.  But we all know; when sober, keep your mouth shut and never sing solo.  All except for that one guy.

Wednesday I was at the gym (yeah girls, I work out) and (forgive the mental image) had just stepped into the shower area when some member in one of the stalls started singing.  Out Loud!  The volume was sort of low and I figured he’s just forgotten he wasn’t at home and the serenade would end as soon as he reacquainted himself with his whereabouts.  But then he let loose with a full-volume rendition of “Help Me Rhonda” (The Beach Boys, 1965, The Beach Boys Today!-Columbia Records) singing like he was Al Jardine.  Unfortunately for his audience, he was not Al Jardine.  And he didn’t even get the lyrics right; if you are passing familiar the song, you know there aren’t that many lyrics to remember.

This day I did not linger in the shower as is my wont.  I scrubbed up, rinsed off and toweled down in record time.  My goal was to GTFO before he finished his shower, or song, whichever came first.  I did not want to make eye contact with this impresario when he emerged from the private recording booth of his mind.

Well, that’s it.  End of story.  Go on about your business now.  Nothing else to see here.  You know, not every story has a shockingly pathetic conclusion.  I’m not Bruce Jenner, you know!