Jan. 4, 2010
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Whistling leads to a bitter betrayal of trust
The Family Guy Early one afternoon while meandering through the Columbus Public Library, I was overcome by the joy of Christmas. Perhaps it was because I was going shopping or that I'd had one too many cups of coffee, but whatever the reason I went with it. I started whistling – “The First Noel,” I believe. But the cops patrolling the inner sanctum of the library frown upon such outbursts of revelry and sought to stifle my joyful expression, either with an authoritative tone and a raised eyebrow or tasers. And I confess to having run-ins with this one cop before, only that time it was for whistling “I Kissed a Girl” – and really who could blame her for being outraged? This cop, who wears sunglasses indoors, looks like the love child of Huggy Bear and the teacher from “Welcome Back Kotter”, has long had it in for me. But Officer Joyless is but a minor character in this drama. The true villain, and it pains me to say this, is My Lovely Wife. Moments after being busted for whistling, my cell phone rang (oddly enough, while a lips-inspired Christmas tune is apparently illegal, a ring tone blaring “Crazy Train” is perfectly acceptable). My ire still raised, I explained my frustrations to My Lovely Wife. It was at this precise moment that she dropped her emotional bombshell. “But you don't whistle,” she said. I was aghast! Aghast, I say – to the point where I had to physically stop mid-perusal of the audio fiction section and catch my breath. “Huh?” I answered. “What are you talking about? I totally whistle all the time.” “No, honey, you really don't,” she said. “You sing weird stuff, but I don't think I've ever heard you whistle.” It was as if I'd been captured by the Pod People and whisked back to Bizzarro World, where everything is opposite from the way it's supposed to be: a cruel land where up is down, black is white, eight-tracks are cutting edge, and I don't whistle. I love to whistle, but either my wife has turned a deaf ear to my musical stylings or she doesn't know me at all. A wonderfully gifted singer and community theater actress, My Lovely Wife can recognize talent. Though her tastes in music can be disturbing (she prefers the “I Wanna Hold Your Hand”-era Beatles to the psychedelic “Helter Skelter” version), I generally value her opinion on such matters. This could only mean that somehow my gift of mouth music had somehow drifted below her sonic radar. But seeing as this is my column and only my voice shall be heard, allow me the opportunity to clear this up. I whistle constantly. Here is a brief list of some of my favorite whistle tunes: “Smoke on the Water,” by Deep Purple, Beyoncé's “Single Ladies (Put a Ring on it”), “The Final Countdown” by Europe, anything from Little Shop of Horrors or Star Wars and Bon Jovi's “Wanted Dead or Alive.” And yet the more I pled my case, the more My Lovely Wife denied that I whistled, even going so far as calling me childish for continuing the argument. It was like she'd taken all my love, balled it up into a fist and punched me square in the mouth. Now, whenever I whistle, which is all the time, it's like I'm doing it to prove some imaginary point. Brett Buckner is an award-winning former columnist for the Anniston Star. He lives in Columbus, Ga. with his wife, daughter and stepdaughter. His humor column appears regularly in The Post. Contract Brett at brett.buckner@yahoo.com. |