Spend enough time alone with nothing but the voice in your head and one of two things will happen. You’ll either discover things about yourself you never knew or you’ll go insane. In my case, boredom is also a real possibility. But if you’re willing to listen the revelations will come.
These nuggets of truth also fall into two categories. It’s either a revelation of a personality flaw. You know, things like realizing you really do double-dip the salsa. And sometimes that voice shares a desire or dream of which only your subconscious was aware.
Such discoveries usually occur while doing muscle-memory tasks. That’s where your body is able to accomplish something without the benefit of your brain being engaged. It’s usually something mundane that you’ve done so many times you could do it in your sleep and often you think you have. Like when you make that commute for the millionth time and realize as you’re getting out of the car you don’t remember the last ten miles. Then you say to yourself “I don’t remember buying an autonomous car.”( OR this used to happen to me often when I had an hour commute. It’s also what makes me one of the few who doesn’t find autonomous cars frightening as I’ve already experienced it. )
No longer having a long commute, these brain conversations most often occur for me while cleaning house. Honestly, cleaning the bathroom doesn’t require any real brain power beyond knowing not to mix bleach with ammonia. It’s one of the many lessons from chemistry class that’s saved me from those “hey watch this” moments that end with a trip to the hospital…or the morgue.
My latest self-discovery was of the second variety as I already know that I’m as shallow as a teaspoon. I’m also well aware the only reason people read Meanderings is because Lewis Grizzard is dead and Dave Barry is between columns. (Yeah…right…I should be so lucky)
My latest revelation involves a dream that apparently my brain has been suppressing—either out of self-preservation or spite. With my brain I suspect the latter. Word of explanation: my brain and I don’t always see eye-to-eye.
I was going about my weekly Mr. Clean impersonation when it happened. D.J. Alexa was spinning R&B classics. All the big names were on the virtual turntable: Marvin Gaye, James Brown, Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes, and of course the Rev. Al Green. I was singing along doubling the lead vocal as always. Then Gladys Knight and the Pips hit the stage riding that “Midnight Train to Georgia”. I just had to get on board. But when I did, I switched from lead to backing vocal and dancing some smooth steps complete with hand motions which is pretty amazing for an arrhythmic Presbyterian.
I was simultaneously ultra-cool and confused. Why had I no desire to sing lead with Gladys? Then it hit me. The truth that had been alluding me since I heard my first Top-40 tune on that tiny transistor radio I received on my tenth birthday.
I’ve always wanted to have a career in music but I was never able to pin down the form it should take. I took classical piano for eight years. Despite doing well in a few competitions, I just didn’t have the chops to do the Schroder thing. Rock star sounded good too, but outside of that song by Chuck Berry, there’s not much call for a Beethoven background in rock music.
I couldn’t “Crocodile Rock” like Elton, but I could play a record with the best of them. Having a mouth that lacked shyness and loved to talk in twenty second bursts, radio became my destination.
But while Gladys sang about her train, I was hit by a big locomotive loaded with truth: I am in the wrong profession.
I thought I had choosen properly. I was sure headphones and a mic were my destination. But in that moment, I realized I had gotten off at the wrong station. My brain finally revealed the truth—be it nearly four decades too late—I want to be a Pip.
There it’s out. I want to be a Pip. It feels good to finally to know where I should be. Why not? Bubba Knight, Edward Patton, and William Guest were the smoothest, coolest cats around. They were more than a back-up group. They were perfection. The spins, the slides, the pivots, hand motions and vocals were the perfect frame for Gladys’ soulful voice.
Thanks to my spiteful brain--which is laughing about this no doubt--the train left the station without me. The Pips retired in 1989 and Gladys went solo. But if she ever wants to add “and the Pips” back to her name, I hope she knows I’m ready. I know the songs and the moves.
All I need is an audition.
