I Can’t Sing, But If I Could

OH, BABY, YOU KNOW I WOULD …

Serenade You Like A Dreamy Crooner.

How I’d do it.

Ladies only, okay?

We don’t want a repeat of this lesson in Curious Confessions Of An Obviously Straight Man … 

But I can’t.

FUN FACT CONFESSION #1

As The Inept Vessel Responsible For Delivering What Is Incontestably:

The Most Horrific Sounding Voice In The History Of Life On Earth®”

It’s an Einsteinium curiosity the whiny pitch emanating through my larynx hasn’t implored Humanitarian lobbyists to petition against me singing in all public domains and private domiciles.

Mahatma Gandhi would’ve thrown rocks stones pebbles rice water balloonsokay, rose petals – at me to shut up.

Such is the pathetic and irritating reverberations distilled in my voice box.

OF THE INFINITE UNKNOWABLE TALENTS TO ESCAPE ME

Singing Is The Greatest Of My Legion Of Inabilities And Futile Endeavors.

A joy I will never realize.

My voice is horrible.

An unforgivable atrocity beyond reproach.

Perhaps, its because I sing with my mouth.

Only my mouth.

And, I mimic noises.

Which is not singing.

Its parroting.

Also, its noise.

THE SMART SCIENCE BEHIND MY BAD VOICE

Suggests ‘Intonation’ – Pitch Accuracy – As The Reason I Sound So Pitifully Awful.

Its the high pitch – shrill of it all – giving me a sharp, derisive tone.

Fun memories of crackling verbal abominations courtesy of male puberty live on.

Distinctive, yes.

Unpleasant, exactly.

FUN FACT CONFESSION #2

Self Intervention Helped.

As I mercifully stopped singing in the shower years two weeks ago.

Even the hot water turned cold in protest.

Then the pipes froze.

Its that bad.

And, like all Recovering Lapsed Narcissists Loitering in Remission, I was courting denial.

HOW COULD I SOUND SO BAD?

I Was Under My Own Spell of Delusion – Knowing Believing Reasoning Praying – I Could Sing, Damn It!

Denial is never a good thing – unless its the big river running through North Africa – because I couldn’t resist after 300 words …

It helped nothing that I was adept at convincing myself the melodic sound of heavy water sputtering about drowned out the most offensive of noises.

When the water stopped, the imaginary harmony died.

My flirtation with delusion went with it.

ITS NOT SIMPLY THAT I CAN’T SING

I Shouldn’t Sing. 

Or, be heard vocally above a whisper.

Ever.

Anywhere.

I’ve lip-synched my way through more brutally toned-deadening, hacked renditions of Happy Birthday – having previously scared and scarred children, parents, a caterer, and a creepy ventriloquist regaled in a full molester clown make-up and costume.

But, I’ll say this:

“The smarmy-faced prick with the red nose and sticky fingers had it coming to him.”

AND, THIS POOR THING …

One very frightened Shetland pony named Bucky that lead to an ongoing PETA investigation and restraining orders from an international coalition of petting zoos.

So, what, no Goat Yoga for me is it?

Harsh penance, and ironic, considering goats bleat – an irritating cry that make colicky babies sound angelic by comparison.

An act of unforgivable future perdition, which has prompted friends and family from not inviting me to the table to join in.

“No, its okay, Mike,” said in group unison, being the most common diatribe.

Bribed:

“We’ll bring a big slice of cake to you.”

Feed him, he’ll shut up.

Not good.

DRIVING MY CAR: SANCTUARY VS SANITY

The One Lapse Of Judgement I Reserve In The Generational Battle To Cull The Madness.

A refuse to imbibe safely without fear of ridicule.

Good music – played at the appropriate volume – sufficient to drown me out.

I have reasoned, perhaps, I should sing back-up.

Still, no.

KARAOKE IS NOT A VICTIMLESS CRIME

It Hurts Even When It Doesn’t.

And, its precisely never any good.

Except when James Corden’s in the car cruising LA with his famously talented buds.

I’ll never do it.

You don’t want this.

BLAME IT ON THE BRAIN

It’s Sending The Wrong Instructions To My Voice Box.

Over and over.

Congenital Amusia = Tone Deaf.

Meaning, I’m also sufficiently stupid in addition to being untalented.

How I see it.

And, a pile of others.

So, I’ve got that going for me, too.

WHAT’S WORST THAN ENCOURAGING

A Bad Singer To Belt One Out?

Telling them practice can improve technique.

True, evidently.

But – a hard No – also.

Doing so makes one a Great Enabler of False Hope to a desperate soul.

“Is that how you’d like to be known … as a provocateur of talentless hacks?”

Perhaps, someone needs to find a less offensive pastime.

AN UNNECESSARY DIGRESSION ABOUT IDIOCY

This Is Exactly How “The Millennial Apocalypse” Started, Parents.

And, its undoable, thanks.

Can we at least get the 7 participation ribbons back from Marshall’s 5th Grade Christmas Holiday Hey, I Heard The PC Heathen’s Are Thinking Of Calling It Christmas Again (Or Not) Talent Show?

You know, the red and green one’s from 2003?

Hanging in Junior’s Trophy Room?

Don’t worry about breaking the frame you spent $167 on …

… or, if you can reuse the “special order only” Ecru-toned matting – remember when we use to call it beige (ca 1986) – made of organic hemp grown by Fair Trade farmers upholding the virtues of sustainable harvesting …

Its replaceable, mom.

And, so are Marshall’s feelings.

IF YOU CAN’T IMPROVE ON

The Blissful Divine Sound of Silence … 

It means your voice sucks.

Please do the following:

Stop.

Shut up.

Be quiet.

And, listen …

To others who can sing.

I APPRECIATE …

Talent.

And effort.

But only when there is effort with talent.

When it comes to singing.

Either you have it or … still, shut up … you don’t.

It should be obvious.

STING

May be my favorite – though I haven’t given it much thought past writing this sentence – if I was able to emulate the voice of anyone in mainstream music.

Yes, I’ve decided it’d be Mr. Sumner.  Roxanne.

Steve Perry, of course, for wailing it out of the stadium.

Freddie Mercury.  I know, right?

David Coverdale … who doesn’t love to rip out this Whitesnake anthem:

“Here I go again on my own
Goin’ down the only road I’ve ever known.
Like a drifter I was born to walk alone.
An’ I’ve made up my mind, I ain’t wasting no more time.”

BRING IT DOWN A BIT NOW …

Sam Cooke, when I feel like soulful ballads.

Marvin Gaye, because.

Raúl Malo, too.

Georgios Kyriacos Panayiotou.  Really, I never would’ve thought.

AND THIS GUY

Dean Martin.

In a skinny black tuxedo.

A little boozy, but that’s okay.

“Volare, oh oh,
Cantare, oh oh oh oh …”