Hey ,
This was a big week for me because I, along with two partners, launched a live storytelling event here in Lansing called 517 Story Project. The format borrows heavily from The Moth (which, if you haven't heard, is a worldwide live storytelling project) with ten speakers telling a story with no notes, no props, and no ventriloquist dummies (those things scare me).
It went better than I could have hoped for it to go. No bar fight, no one fell off a bar stool, and only one car drove into the side of the building. That is to say, it was fun, and we're going to do it again. So if you're in the Lansing area on the second Tuesday of the month (November 10th) come to The Green Door on Michigan Avenue at 7:00 pm. It'll be a hoot.
I told a story at the event about whistling. My whistling, to be exact. If you don't know it, I'm a decent whistler, but that wasn't always the case. And whistling has gotten me into some serious trouble*.
There are three main forms of whistling: bird call, melodic, and wolf.
Bird call whistling is not my strong suit. Every day, when I take the dogs outside during my mid-morning break, I whistle to the birds while I pick up poop. It's partially for the joy of whistling, but mostly to take my mind off the fact that I have a handful of poop.
There are a couple of bird whistles I can mimic and I often get into a call and response with the bird. They sing out, I whistle back, and we loop around like that. I don't even know what kind of bird it is, or if it actually hears me. It's possible the bird is just singing, and ignores me entirely, but I like to think it's happy to hear his song played back beautifully by me.
I sometimes worry that it's not a bird that I hear, but another work-from-home guy who's in his backyard during his mid-morning break picking up dog poop and whistling to distract himself. That wouldn't be the worst thing in the world, but I'd rather not know if that's the case.
The melodic form is when you whistle a melody. I often find myself whistling the theme to The Brady Bunch, or Gilligan's Island, or some other TV show. Sometimes it's the melody to a song stuck in my brain. Other times it's music in my head that I don't think exists anywhere else, and I wonder if I'm a musical genius, like Mozart or Bach, creating beautiful, original songs.
Most likely the songs I'm whistling are puerile and under-developed, lacking any sense of form, motivic development, and wholly without counterpoint.**
Finally, the wolf whistle is the loud, obnoxious scream one makes by jamming their fingers in their mouth to get the attention of a passing woman (not cool ever, and now abhorrent) or to cheer on a performance (sports, theatre, heavy drinking).
I'm quite good at the wolf whistle, and can execute quite an obnoxious one without fingers in my mouth. Just lips, tongue, and a lot of confidence (like with sex).
As with sex, I taught myself how to whistle. People often quote the Lauren Bacall line about whistling ("Just put your lips together and blow") but that doesn't work for whistling and it doesn't do much for sex, either. There's way more to it, no matter which form of whistling you choose.
I was called to learn the wolf whistle watching a softball game at a tournament in 1975. The game was being played at two o'clock in the morning and we were there to cheer on some of the local boys who were hoping to become World Champion. But they were in the loser's bracket and getting slaughtered. The second baseman, in a unhinged attempt to cheer on his teammates, whistled continuously-lips, tongue, and confidence-until the game ended in defeat at three-thirty a.m.
The next day I started trying to figure it out. When school started a week later, I was still taking every opportunity to figure out that wolf whistle. Moving my tongue, stretching the lips, blowing softer, then harder, then harder still.
I caught a break when the band director realized I had regressed in my already sad ability to play the clarinet, and assigned me to tenor saxophone. I'm not sure what the logic was there because the tenor sax fingering is different than the clarinet, and I had no lessons or direction.
The band director never complained about my playing because I didn't play. I'd go through the motion of wetting the reed, adjusting the mouthpiece, and sticking it in my mouth, but I never bothered to blow into it. Instead, I'd practice whistling, my sad sound of air escaping a balloon hidden by the many instruments of the orchestra.
For the next two months, I spent about an hour a day practicing that whistle until, finally, during a rousing rendition of John Phillip Sousa's Hands Across the Sea, I made my first wolf whistle sound. It was weak, brief, and a little shrill, but it was absolutely a whistle.
By the end of the semester, when I officially quit band, I could god damn wolf whistle with just my lips and tongue.
A few weeks ago, my wife and I went to Meijer Gardens in Grand Rapids. It's a huge place, and one of the (many) gardens there is a Japanese garden. As often happens, my wife and I wandered apart and became separated, so I let loose with the particular whistle I use to contact my wife.
If you ask my wife about it, she'd unleash a barrage of vitriol because it seems demeaning to her that I whistle for her. The thing is, when you're in a strange place with lots of people and various nooks where one of us is hidden, a loud whistle works to gain her attention.
It's not like I'm calling my dog. It's more like we went on an ocean-going cruise but hit an iceberg and abandoned ship. While floating alone in the dark on the ocean, I just want to find my beloved. So I whistle into the void…
Anyway, she hates it.
The moment I whistled, a 12-year old boy comes up, fascinated by what I'd just done. Apparently, he'd never heard or seen anyone whistle with just their lips, tongue, and confidence, as I do.
He asked how I did it, so I showed him.
It was right around the moment of demonstrating how the tip of the tongue needs to flick against the lower edge of the upper incisors as the lips pull tightly across the teeth that the boy's mother walked up. She seemed about as pleased to see me offering my oral acrobatics to her son as my wife is pleased to hear my whistle.
I forged ahead. The boy paid attention. I told him to practice every day, and assigned him a unique wolf whistle to listen for.
His mom liked that even less.
A couple of hours later, as we left the gardens for the day, I saw the boy and his mother in the distance. So I unleashed the whistle I'd assigned to the boy.
He turned and waved, smiling. His mother, however, did not smile.
Mickey Recipicayune
I learned how to make Bavarian style sauerkraut, and you should too. Start with cooking onions almost to the point of caramelizing; do this in a large pan. Take some nice crunchy sauerkraut, squeeze out the juices, dump it in the pan and heat it up with the onions. Mix white wine with apple cider vinegar (1/4 cup each) and a couple of scoops of brown sugar. Dump that on the onions and kraut and simmer until it all the wetness boils away. Add bacon or sausage to what's left, and eat it before anyone else gets home because it so damn good you won't want to share.
Meanwhile, at My Writing Desk...
I chipped away at my new novel a bit, discovering a storyline that needs to be written. But the 517 Story Project took up a lot of prep to launch the show. I'm hoping that, having done the show once, I won't worry so much now, and can put a bit more time into the novel.
Maybe You'd Like
I'm swapping book giveaways with three authors, so behold these covers and click what tickles your fancy!
Return of the Star Lords
https://storyoriginapp.com/swaps/01a10c95-cc1b-73b4-ab49-954b877d4e54
Wildflower
https://storyoriginapp.com/swaps/01a0fece-d148-7262-9a09-9307d00d84c9
Cartography of Stars
https://storyoriginapp.com/swaps/01a0de7a-0acc-7bf0-ada0-87354965e833
Next Picayune
I'll be back in a few weeks with another edition. Until then, thanks for reading the Mickey Picayune.
All the best,
Mickey
* Not really serious trouble. I just wanted you to look forward to some excitement in the Picayune.
** I'm riffing on Wednesday Addams's insult to the camp counselors in Addams Family Values, one of the best movies ever made.
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