People ask me what it’s like to be back in America/Los Angeles.
Usually I tell them about how I spend my unemployment watching movies about
Amish people on Netflix. Often I talk about how totally hollow Episcopalians
are. Sometimes I mention both.
But I should probably mention how great it is to have music again.
And by music I mean a car.I should probably back up and explain to foreigners and less fortunate Americans that Angelenos have quite a car culture. Everything is so spread out, and you have to drive everywhere. Last week, during my quest to find a kiddie pool at Toys R Us (I want to vomit just writing that name), I ended up on a trek across the parking lot that took longer than did my walk from my flat in Oxford to the city center, which was in a different zip code.
Granted, I had parked on the edge of the parking lot because it was
full—for some reason everyone decided to congregate at Toys R Us at 2 p.m. on a workday. I mean, I know
why I have nothing better to do with my life, but what is
the rest of Los Angeles’ excuse? Are we ALL unemployed? This parking lot the
size of Oxfordshire is full, and Holy Hank there are cars all over the road.
Traffic everywhere. Good God, is the recession so bad that about 50% of all
Angelenos at any given moment are loitering, and loitering in a moving vehicle?
Anyway, my point is that I am in the car a lot. Usually marveling
at the traffic and screaming at no one in particular, “WHERE THE FUCK ARE ALL
THESE PEOPLE GOING AT 11 A.M. ON A WEDNESDAY?!”
When I’m not screaming at the world to get a job and get off the
road, I sing. Really loudly. You might know that I do not sing in front of
other people, even when others are singing, instead preferring to lip sync or
stand in rigid silence like a small child wanting to stay up after her bedtime:
“Maybe if I stand still enough they’ll forget I’m here.” Fair enough, I can
think of two notable exceptions:
1)
In elementary school I joined the
choir. Not because I wanted to sing, but because my friends could sing and I
didn’t want to be alone at lunch when they rehearsed. I lip synced at all the
concerts and rehearsals, except when we did “The Lion Sleeps Tonight.”
My God
did I get into that song. 11 year old Sam felt born to sing that song—heck, I
STILL feel born to sing that song. So into that song was I that I tried to do
not only the a-wee-mo-weh parts but also the high pitched howl, even when the
two were supposed to be sung simultaneously by different people. “Fuck you,” 11
year old Sam said to the rest of the choir through her singing, “I got this one.”
2)
Then there was the kibbutz laundry
room. I’ve mentioned it a million times before, but in case you didn’t know, I
once spent half a year of my life folding towels in a laundry room in Israel. When
I wasn’t folding towels I was accidentally getting parts of my body (namely my
chest) burned by the industrial iron, having my fingerprints seared off by freshly
laundered tablecloths that seemed to come straight from the fire pits of Hell,
and (most frequently) finding elaborate ways to avoid having to fold my Hebrew
classmates’ underpants.
Anyway, my coworkers (the Women of the Wash), whom I hated and
still hate with a fiery passion on account of which I am perfectly willing to go
to Hell, would frequently sing along to the radio. And, this being Israel and
the land of Ben Yehuda, obviously most of the songs were in English. And
horribly dated. So, to them, the first two lines of “St. Elmo’s Fire” would,
instead of “Growin' up / You don't
see the writin' on the wall,” be a melodically
daring interpretation of the lyrics “Gerrn op / You doesee a wraton a oll.” Or something.
As the only native English speaker in the room, several months of nonsensical
lyrics from a random assortment of 80s, 90s and occasionally medieval songs
started to wear on me.
Finally I could bear it no longer. Neil Sedaka’s “Breakin’ Up
Is Hard To Do” came on the radio, probably right after Nirvana’s “Smells Like
Teen Spirit.”
And as I sat there folding yet another dishtowel, I decided I
needed to show the Women of the Wash how it’s done. THIS is how we sing
English, you kibbutznik bitches. So I went big. I sang along with Neil as
loudly as I possibly could, hoping even the Jordanians could hear my crackling
voice. They’d think to themselves, “Well, I can tell the lyrics are Sedaka, but
the tune is unlike anything we’ve ever heard…” Who cares though--my musical
ability wasn’t what I was trying to prove, but rather my ability to speak
English. See how clearly I enunciate the lyrics? See how I indisputably know
how each sound I sing fits within the boundaries of a coherent, English word? Enjoy
the free English lesson in this one-woman concert, you rancid communists.
Anyway, my point is that with these two exceptions (and a few
others over the years, like the time in senior year when I was driving a
freshman to school, forgot she was in the car, and ended up performing a noisy
duet with Elton John), I don’t sing.
Except when I’m by myself in the car. When I got back in my car on
August 1, there was eight months of pent-up diva that needed to be released. I’ve
since then driven hundreds of miles around LA, singing at the top of my lungs.
Car song of the moment?
