QotD: You can whistle and steam can whistle, so why do you sing in the shower? (3 hrs early due to unforeseeable circumstances)

Steam needs a whistle to whistle, as do I. Without a whistle, steam is nothing but a cloud. This reminds me of a riddle I heard: how do you suspend 500,000 pounds of water in the air without visible support? The answer, as you have probably guessed, is to make a cloud.

Whistling is overrated. Men have whistled at me, and while this is subtly flattering (especially since I passed 50), I can’t imagine dating somebody who whistled before we were properly introduced. This reminds me of the movie “Outrageous Fortune,” wherein a truckload of Mexican workers whistles at Shelley Long and Bette Midler. Long turns to Midler and asks if they really think that will ever work—has there ever been a woman anywhere who responded to a truckload of whistling men by saying, “Yes! Please take me…” Then, of course, three minutes later they’re chasing the workers’ truck, begging to be taken aboard (to escape the nasty guy).

Singing is wonderful. This reminds me of the days when I was in the elite Chamber Singers in High School, got to wear a formal to countless performances, went on a tour, etc. (The 18 of us in the group sort of had a tradition of grabbing something to eat after every performance, which now and again sent us to a nice restaurant, but due to the finite nature of funds, usually sent us to McDonald’s. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen nine beautiful women in formals on the arms of nine guys in tuxes harmonizing as they give their order to one of Ronald McDonald’s minions.) Later I became the town soprano in a small municipality, singing for funerals and such at my church (and being borrowed, along with my alto partner, by several other denominations in town for similar tasks). The goal at a funeral is to make everybody cry (cathartic release) without crying yourself.

Singing in the shower reminds me of singing in the rain, which, as you must assuredly know, has a long and lustrous tradition. Gene Kelly, I love you and your gorgeous muscles, which you use with such delightful vigor. Debbie Reynolds, you’re as cute as a button and I’m sorry they didn’t let you sing “Boop boop de doop” the first time you faced movie cameras. What were they thinking? Donald O’Connor, you are a riot, and those who haven’t seen your rendition of “Make ‘Em Laugh” are impoverished and sad and have no idea how deep the well of humor goes.

Why sing in the shower? This reminds me of the scientific reason: the sound of falling water encompasses all known notes and harmonies. It is the perfect accompaniment for singing, supplying the proper background whatever you sing. This even works for people who are terrible singers, as it follows right along, delivering the same notes and all possible harmonies. Some have surmised that this is why God’s voice “is as the sound of rushing waters.” It comprises all notes and harmonies. It follows then, that when you sing in the shower, you’re warbling a duet with God. Unless you have a buddy in the shower with you, in which case you’ve got a trio.

You can whistle in the shower if you like, although if you whistle for the dog you may regret it. This reminds me of times and places you always heard a whistle before a shower, because you had to heat water in the teakettle to warm up the barrel of water someone else poured over your head. It also reminds me of the M*A*S*H* episode where they rigged the shower tent walls to fall when Hot Lips was in there. Much applause and whistling followed.

You can get steamed without a shower, of course, but someone may drag you into a cold shower to cool you down. This reminds me of someone who got nasty on Zoe and received a shower of pointed protests. My advice is to get steamed in private. Rant and rave until you get it out of your system and then quietly plan your revenge.

You can have a steamy shower, which either makes shaving or putting on makeup difficult, or allows you to write love notes on the mirror. This reminds me of a horror movie (well, more than one, actually) where the ghost, demon, maniac, homicidal split personality, etc., writes notes on the mirror to scare the bejeebers out of someone (though usually not the audience—we’ve become jaded).

You can indulge in steamy singing. This reminds me of Michelle Pfeiffer in her slinky red dress, sprawled on the grand piano and blatantly seducing every male in the vicinity and most of the females, too, in “Fabulous Baker Boys.” That’s her really singing, by the way. No dubbing.

My high school singing teacher said anyone who could talk could sing. This reminds me that I pretty much believed him until my friend Jenny tried to sing with me one day as we were playing Monopoly. She couldn’t carry a note in a tin bucket.

This whole thing reminds me of the ramblings of someone whose doctor just added new meds and has spent a day feeling woozy and wobbly and…

I should go now.