Wednesday, January 22, 2003

There is some truly awful singing going on in here right now.

It's wafting up from a few cubes over. Kind of high pitched, squeaky, singing-along-with-the-radio singing. The kind of singing that you can tell the singer doesn't know the song in even the vaguest way, where they just join in at the end of each line with what are basically just throat noises, calling to mind the plaintive cries of a pterodactyl.

I'm a car singer myself. I can't stop it. I play the music in the Kafkamobile pretty loud, so I don't have to hear myself butchering songs. I'll even sing at stoplights, though I usually try to rein in the grooving while the car is motionless. For some reason it seems to be OK for me to be howling away like an injured farmcat as long as the car's moving, but as soon as I hit the red light and there are other cars around me, silence takes over. No-one must know that mere seconds earlier I was shrieking along to "The Passenger" for all I was worth*.

At least I'm not one of those car-dancing people. Freaks.

* I challenge you to listen to "The Passenger" without singing, though. For my own part, I prefer the Iggy Pop version, though the Siouxsie version is not without its merits.


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