Sing Out, Louise!!

Today was a bitch of a day. The consummate sorry Monday. I'll spare you the details, but by day's end I was stressed beyond belief. This overwhelming anxiety of trying to keep on top of 50 different things was combined with an intoxicating fatigue that made me want to climb under my desk at 3 pm and indulge in a catnap. I settled for some fresh air and an espresso.

At the end of the day, I hit the gym for some kickboxing rationalizing this would raise my flagging energy and unwind the knotted balls of tension in my head. It did help to a degree but it also raised an issue of mounting aggravation. I am engaged in a psychological battle of wits with the Joshu who is dangling my next belt over my head as an enticement to train even harder. Foolish mortal. I know he never intends to give it to me yet he toys with me in order to push me to my top physical peak. Sick bastard. He is now my enemy. I shall crush him.

I left the gym at 7:30--exhausted, sweaty, grumpy and loaded down with enough bags to resemble an urban Sherpa. All I wanted to do was get home and see the backside of this day. Hollaback Girl is staying this week while she searches for an apartment to buy in Manhattan and she has been spoiling me with good wine and excellent cooking. I think about the lovely couscous and basil salad and the nice bottle of Barbera waiting at home as I skulk along like a nomad to the subway.

Once on the train, I closed my eyes and tried to "go to my happy place" when the surreal twist that is a requirement of this kind of day transpired. At Penn Station, a large man in his early 60s stumbled onto the train. He was heavy with drink and reeking. His fair skin was flush with the influence of what I speculated were a few boilermakers. He sat for a few moments before starting his cabaret act. In using this analogy, I am serious. At one time in his life he must have had an act of some kind for he threw out little bon mots and interactive audience comments between his songs like a well rehearsed veteran ("How ya doing?" and "Where are you folks from?").

I wish I could say his singing was good. He sang reasonably in tune and his phrasing was respectable. He knew all the words. But he also chose to project his singing loudly (must be the fine acoustics of the subway cars in New York) and the dude could not hit one high notes effectively. It was like a cat being strangled. Slowly.

He started us out with a jaunty version of "Chicago" at Times Square. We got "You Made Me Love You" at Lincoln Center. He then performed his Judy Garland tribute trilogy all along the Upper West Side Stops ("The Trolley Song" "Get Happy" and "The Atchinson, Topeka and the Santa Fe"). As we moved toward Columbia University, he launched in a particularly muddy version of "I'll Be Loving You Always." At this point, his fellow commuters had ceased smiling at his singing lark, realizing they would be subjected to his caterwauling until they actually disembarked.

As we pulled into Harlem, he exploded in a vigorous version of "San Francisco." He was really in the spirit of the song for at the end, the big finish, he pulled himself up uneasily on his feet and holding onto one of the commuter poles began kicking with the song like a hillbilly Rockette. I was transfixed with horror and I daresay, mildly entertained.

By the time I got off on my stop, he was reaching--screeching--for the high notes on "You'll Never Walk Alone." That glass of Barbera was going to taste good.