--from "Mr. Tanner," by Harry Chapin

Before I get to the main part of this entry, I have a clarification:

Sara and Columbine have both informed me that, in fact, the Annie lyric I referred to yesterday has always been "Their one mistake / Was giving up me."

Now that I think about it, this fits Annie's character better, and flows more smoothly. At the same time, I still feel a bit disillusioned. I liked my version of the line better. It was more poignant that way.

I have claimed in the past that my two passions in life are for the written word, and for music. And, the fact is, the only reason I've found myself focusing on the former is that I'm lazy, and it was the path of least resistance. You can hardly go through life in the United States without writing; you can easily go through life without playing an instrument. Furthermore, you can practice your writing in the waiting room of the doctor; just try that with the slide trombone.

As a child, I spent hours imagining myself as a concert pianist. In my mind, I could hear the fluid runs of music, the harmonies, the flourishes. And eventually, I got an electronic keyboard. I was pretty good at playing melodies by ear, but I never got much further than that. I have a rudimentary grasp of musical notation, but not enough to do very much. And I never really practiced, after the initial burst of enthusiasm.

I sometimes wonder what would have happened had I gotten lessons. But I probably would have hated them, so I'm not really complaining. Especially as the real problem is my own lack of discipline.

So he can play the guitar, while the only instrument I'm proficient at is the kazoo. This despite the fact that I have a better ear for music than he does. We had a bit of a symbiotic relationship at one point, in fact; I'd figure out chords for him, then he'd play the thing, and I'd tell him when he was going off.

Anyway, I play a mean kazoo. I can still peck out tunes on the piano. And I had a brief fling with the drums a few summers back, thus fulfilling a dream of mine, but my set's been gathering dust since, for the simple reason that it is impossible to practice the drums at one in the morning. And while I might be able to make some time during the day now, I don't think my landlords would appreciate it, and I haven't had the nerve to ask. I don't even play my stereo any more loudly than I can avoid.

So we were the only ones in the hallway, and we were slowly walking down it, zigzagging from side to side, so she could peer into each window to see if her friend was inside. And surrounding us, from seemingly nowhere, came the sound of various instruments, each playing their own thing, but magically blending together, with the emphasis shifting to different instruments as we made our way down the hall. And all I could think was, "Y'know, it feels like we're in a movie!"

Well, that was the reaction I said out loud at the time, anyway. The other reaction was that these people were practicing music, and, boy, was I jealous.

Oh, and I wondered whether I could possibly use one of those rooms to practice my kazoo playing. Again, I can't do it in my apartment, on grounds of cruelty to the landlords, but I really do need to practice. It's like any other form of vocal training; I generally kazoo falsetto, and unless I keep my voice in shape, I lose a few of the high notes. These days, though, about the only time I play the thing is at weddings, which I've been going into cold.

I assume, however, that the answer is "no." You probably need to be a music major or something, I figure.

I don't have a very high opinion of my voice. In fact, whenever I even come close to singing, I virtually always preface it with a self-deprecating comment about how much pain I'm about to inflict on the listener.

In point of fact, this is very much a defense mechanism. In point of fact, one of my most cherished dreams is to be told that I have a good voice, and sing well. In point of fact, I know that's not going to happen; hence the defense mechanism, which, you'll note, is being activated in this very sentence.

One of my most cherished compliments of all time came a few summers back. It was on a bus ride in The Campers' Paradise. As was my wont, I was singing at the top of my lungs, a camp bus being one of the few places one can get away with that. And the little boy next to me said, "Wow; you've got a great voice!"

He had no idea how much that meant to me.

And the friend, in all seriousness, was surprised that those were my reasons; he'd thought that the fact that I couldn't sing would have disqualified me anyway. And despite being aware that the friend in question is pretty close to being tone-deaf, the fact remains that it felt as if he'd driven a dagger through my heart.

He doesn't know this, of course; he almost certainly doesn't even remember the conversation. At the time, I just smiled weakly, granted the point, and moved on. But it still hurts.

Of course, he had no way of knowing I cared. Nobody would. Remember, I've always downplayed my own feelings on the matter, if only because I figure that if people knew I cared about this, if I ever did get a compliment on my singing, I'd never know if it was sincere or not. All of you readers, for instance, are now disqualified. Knowing how I feel about the matter, I figure you'd be nice to me even if I sounded horrible. Which I probably do. (There I go again.)

But in another universe, I'm a musician. In that universe, I took a different path as a child, becoming proficient at the piano and drums and maybe a few more instuments. Perhaps I had some vocal training. I've definitely done some composing and arranging. Perhaps I've cut an album. Perhaps I'm part of a band, or an orchestra. Perhaps I'm just a waiter.

I wonder if I'm happier there.