Monday, April 29, 2013

Speak (No?) Evil

I have laryngitis today. Yesterday I was a little hoarse (straight from my First Grade Book of Jokes) and today I open my mouth and nada…it’s so completely dead, my voice--- that it feels like one of those syndromes---where you inexplicably simply cease having some basic human facility--- like walking or speaking… it occurs to me, having spent so many hours pondering my Mom’s madness—to wonder whether it actually is psychosomatic… which could be serious-- or maybe a kind of ‘spell’ someone has cast on me.  A cranky neighbor? An ex-boyfriend? Etc.

I went to my gym to avoid household conversation—the walk in silence was nice-- and on the treadmill I concentrated on the Knicks.  But after seconds, a girl was tugging at my sleeve--- had I seen her boyfriend… a middle-height guy with long brown hair who would obviously be looking for someone?   I gestured that I had been absorbed in the play-offs, and then was finally pressed into squeaking an explanation of my condition. ‘Well,’ she says, shaking her pointed finger, ‘at least your voice is going to get better.  Like my brother has throat cancer, and he’s lost his voice for a week, and you know what that means’… then I was subjected to what amounted to a scolding, for my apparent insensitivity to her brother and my hostility because I refused to inform on her boyfriend.  I was helplessly searching the room for a trainer, but realized my handicap would only require more explanation, so I just let her vent and tried to mime little cheering motions at the TV. 

Eventually the boyfriend shows up and they get on adjacent machines right next to me, even though the room is virtually empty.. and they have a pretty audible fight that no one else notices because their headphones are cranked and they can’t be bothered—it’s Sunday, the gym is under-populated, everyone with any semblance of a life is enjoying the perfect Spring weather.

The Knicks lose, I venture out to browse a few quiet used bookshops and thrift stores, places where people don’t come to get picked up or be sociable.  It’s actually liberating, this not speaking… I sneak back into my building, refuse to answer the phone, e-update a few friends and my son of my condition, clean up, drink gallons of soup, inhale some steaming water…still nothing.  My son comes in, more NBA playoffs, the laundry, dinner… he is happily monologizing and begins to get silly.  Behind me in the elevator he begins making these sounds--- when the boys were little, we had an episode on the subway with  a Tourette's sufferer.  They never quite recovered from the near-asphyxiating laughing fit afterward and it permanently warped their sense of humor.   Tourettes is something 7-year olds can’t process.  Especially in a city subway.  So after several annoying noises and expletives, I give him ‘the look’.  ‘Oh, ‘ he says.  ‘I forgot you could hear.  You know--- dumb and deaf’?
Is that funny? Or is he really stupid? Like when babies cover their eyes and think you can’t see them?  Is his worldview so simple? Has all that hiphop and texting prevented him from thinking and making conclusions?
I’m not sure.  He gets bored trying to annoy me; his girlfriend is ignoring him, a night home is soporific…. He goes to bed.  

24 hours now-- not even a rumble.  Maybe I do have throat cancer.  I can’t remember what laryngitis is, I look it up on the internet… apparently not much I can do.  Gig tomorrow--- my guitarist will be thrilled that I can’t complain about vocals.  I’ll mouth the back-ups. 

Phone message.  It seems our drummer has ‘ear fatigue’.  The guy slams like a heavy artillery division every night of the week—practices in between… how can this be?  Maybe this is like a science fiction thing—people are losing their senses, one by one…we are being punished by some morally retributive karma for whatever we’ve abused.  My drummer for assaulting all of our ears…and me for my nasty habit of telling the cold truth lately.  I’ve been silenced, like a political prisoner.  I can’t badmouth alcoholic groupie girlfriends and ungrateful entitled kids, the conspiracy theory guy who drove me around last week convinced the Boston bombing was an FBI plot… I can’t tell my mother how much or little my grouchy old father loves her because he’s abusive and she’s demented, I can’t order my Starbucks venti... I’m feeling like an outcast…witchy and strange…

I remember this Twilight Zone episode.  For some reason these are as vivid as Alice in Wonderland in my childhood story-memory banks…In this one everyone was getting plastic surgery and the desired outcome was to have the face of a pig.  Conventional human beauty had become ‘ugly’.  I can think of several women I know who have gone under the knife recently and I have to admit they look a little porcine.  The nostrils--- the pulled skin and pinched expression.  Definitely. Pouchy silicon cheeks. 
Oink.  I can’t even laugh now.

There’s this girl at my gym… she’s a journalist/writer.  For a few weeks we gossiped and giggled; I was nice to her-- she asked if she could review my cd… and then she simply never mentioned it again.  For a week or two I worried. But I saw her today--- she wears tight little shorts and a tank top.  She’s over 40.  Way over.  Who wears this kind of outfit?  Olivia Newton John in 1972? She works out with great gusto and desperation.  Does she know she has cellulite?  Her book actually sucked… it was something about finding a man in New York City.  It was disgusting.  Why was I nice to her?  I hope she hates my album. 

Obama wasn’t really that funny last night.  I don’t like the president joking when people are dying and suffering, and the bombing victims are still in the hospital trying to adjust to the nightmare of their mutilation for no reason they can come up with.  Conan isn’t funny either.  The whole goddamn spectacle of American governmental pomp and the excessive catering.  Michelle Obama’s bangs.  They bug me.  Obamarama.  I used to believe.

This laryngitis thing is afflicting me with meanness.  Maybe that is the ‘meaning’.  I am punished…silenced.  Time will tell, I suppose.  Or I will.  Tell, that is. And for anyone who is offended by any compromising venting I’ve done… well, mum’s the word. 

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