The Hills Are Alive with Music
I’ve been glum for the past few days, and as a sign of relief, a stream of light peered from the heavens to lighten my heart.
One such glorious beam appeared yesterday at the workplace. I wouldn’t say that America has talent, but I know of one clever soul in my office that does. I walked into the men’s restroom to relieve my body of the morning’s intake of two cups of coffee, two glasses of iced tea, and one Dr. Pepper. I was alone until a man of mystery walked in and took a nearby stall. I don’t know who he was, but he must have intuitively known that I was feeling down because he broke into song. He didn’t sing, per se. When I say broke, I mean wind. When I say song, I mean - well, let me describe the moment. He farted. But not just any fart. It sounded like a lazy trombone. And this magical horn played - I’m serious! - the first four perfect notes of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” I was enchanted. Forget the no-talented morons that can belch the ABC’s. This man, whoever he was, if he had it in him could have played the first stanza of the song if he had enough intestinal chutzpa. But he delighted me with a sample, and my heart was made glad.
All day that song was in my head as a result of his short musical stint. I never got to meet the man for he had the sudden urge to take his song to a new level and dole out a different performance that I had no intention of attending. But I would have shaken his hand for cheering me the fuck up.
Thank you man of mystery! I owe you one.
One such glorious beam appeared yesterday at the workplace. I wouldn’t say that America has talent, but I know of one clever soul in my office that does. I walked into the men’s restroom to relieve my body of the morning’s intake of two cups of coffee, two glasses of iced tea, and one Dr. Pepper. I was alone until a man of mystery walked in and took a nearby stall. I don’t know who he was, but he must have intuitively known that I was feeling down because he broke into song. He didn’t sing, per se. When I say broke, I mean wind. When I say song, I mean - well, let me describe the moment. He farted. But not just any fart. It sounded like a lazy trombone. And this magical horn played - I’m serious! - the first four perfect notes of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” I was enchanted. Forget the no-talented morons that can belch the ABC’s. This man, whoever he was, if he had it in him could have played the first stanza of the song if he had enough intestinal chutzpa. But he delighted me with a sample, and my heart was made glad.
All day that song was in my head as a result of his short musical stint. I never got to meet the man for he had the sudden urge to take his song to a new level and dole out a different performance that I had no intention of attending. But I would have shaken his hand for cheering me the fuck up.
Thank you man of mystery! I owe you one.