The Sing Thing

This will not be the first time that I state loudly and proudly my love of music. It is a love that cannot be contained any more than levees can keep a mighty river from overflowing its banks from time to time. As I leave my home, I put on my sunglasses and insert the earbuds of my shuffle. I press the button and start the music, and off I go with a sawbuck in my pocket and a song in my heart. Neither thing is to stay in its place for terribly long.

I can't help but sing. Maybe it starts when I'm walking in front of my building down my neighborhood street. It is short and relatively lightly trafficked, so I can imagine plenty of people giving voice to the spirit which consumes them when their favorite song comes on. Then I take a turn and find myself on the neighborhood's major artery running north and south, but I don't stop. If I'm in mid-song and have been singing aloud lustily to that point, it just seems wrong to not go on to the end.

Sometimes I whistle. The conditions have to be just right. If I'm just as content as can be, above and beyond the levels which get me singing, it's possible. Even then, my lips must be in rare form. If I realize that they're in adequate condition for doing justice to a favorite tune by means of whistling, I'll do it anywhere, at any time. If that's in front of dozens outside of the coffee shop by my place, then that is fine by me.

So far I have not been made to understand that this is unacceptable. I guess that during daylight hours it's all right. I can imagine there being trouble at night. Whether or not my singing is entirely welcome is uncertain. I know that I have received praise from some strangers within earshot, but just how genuine it was I cannot say. It may well have been sarcastic. I don't know which I want it to be. I do know that if someone empowered to make decisions on behalf of a record label were to hear me singing and be favorably impressed enough to pluck me from obscurity and make me a star, I would be amenable to that.