I have a friend on Facebook who reads my blog here but doesn’t comment. I’m fine with that; especially since I don’t link my blog to my Facebook account. But he remembers when we were back in high school (20 odd years ago now) and I could take a single topic and just craft some silly nonsensical story around it. So he gave me a topic on Sunday. And I always managed to include a reference to a Hollywood movie (and a quote from the movie) in the story. So today, I give you what he asked for. Sorry for wasting your time with my rampant misuse of time, imagination, creativity, and Microsoft Word.
My parents gave my sisters and I every opportunity to succeed growing up. We were always encouraged to take part in extra-curricular activities and we did. I still play football (soccer) and write. My older sister graduated from the weird horse shows down in Tijuana, Mexico and still rides horses today! She’ll kill me if she ever learns to read and realizes what I just put there. Lol. My little sister, devoid of any real passion for anything except punching me in the nuts and being bossy, still is bossy but we love her anyway. Anyway, let’s get back to me.
My parents always wanted to see me successful. They saw me as the only hope in the family I suppose. It’s hard living with such a burden on your shoulders but I turned out okay I think. But it could have been so much different for me if the choices I made many years ago would have been different…
I’m not sure exactly when my father realized I had such a gift, such a world-class talent, but he recognized it and spent months agonizing over the decision with my mom. My mom didn’t want to see her little boy go anywhere, but dad held firm to his belief that I could have a better life away from the family home and so I left. They put me on a plane to Europe, and when I finally touched down in Vienna, just a scared teenager, my life really blossomed.
Quite how my dad found out about the Vienna School of Yodeling and Whistling I will never know. But he did. And somehow he saw in me the ability to purse my lips and blow a tune or two, with minimal amounts of spray, and that encouraged him to pay the hefty fees to have his only son thousands of miles away. I didn’t have time to miss them.
When my instructor and future mentor, the genius Gangwolf Amodeus Lippchspucker first walked into the room, his over sized jacket trailing behind him, his ghost white hair flowing in an orchestra of purity, I could not take my eyes off the man. I had not heard his legend then, but soon was to become part of it. For 6 years we lived, breathed, and bathed with his greatness. High altitude training nearly killed us, and several quit, becoming Whistling School dropouts. Several of those, I am reluctant to admit, couldn’t handle the shame of their actions and are no longer with us; including my first love, the Teutonic babe Ingrid Slippinsider. She knew just how good I was with my lips I guess…
I graduated top of my class, Professor Lippchspucker claiming me to be his long lost son and the future of whistling. I had done what I thought was the hard bit, but I was sadly mistaken. During my time learning to be a whistler, striving towards my childhood dream of being a professional whistler, I found a love of writing as well. What started out as letters home and to prisoners serving hard time around Europe’s most brutal prisons soon blossomed into penning my own opus, or opis (plural – just made it up – pronounce it with “eyes” at the end). In fact, before graduation we all had to present our own piece. I wowed the standing room only audience (in attendance were no less than the late Princess Diana, Diana Ross, and even Pele, having heard that I was the Pele of whistling), with my remaking of War and Peace. Life was good. So good in fact that my female classmates were all in a war trying to get their own little piece.
Naturally, as a professional whistler, the nightlife was second to none. As the years rolled by and my talents took me far and wide, I would only stop touring to visit local STD clinics. Charlie Sheen had me on speed dial, and I never had the heart to tell him that I would get freebies while he paid for all of his. Rolling Stone magazine wanted me to write a monthly feature for them but I declined, not wanting to be one of those stars that dabbled in everything because my name would sell something. A clothing line was offered, and my own scent, but again I declined. I dramatically lost out on a lip modeling contract to Steven Tyler, lead singer of Aerosmith, but soon got my own back when I promised his little girl Liv would return from prom the same sweet young innocent girl that went to it.
Celebrities came and went in my latter years, and even though I was shut out at the Grammy’s every year I was nominated (fuck Kenny G and Zamfir and his stupid pan flute), I never lost belief in the music. This wasn’t about the awards; this was about one man and his vision to bring whistling to those who couldn’t. Why should only hot girls with long legs, short skirts, and high-heels get whistles on New York City streets? My whistling was for the masses.
You haven’t seen an album from me in years now have you? I can still whistle, don’t fret my friends, but I have moved on. I was in Africa, in Madagascar to be precise and was deep in conversations with King Julien, a funny little guy who liked to “move it” whenever he could and his people loved him. One night, long after the masses had drifted off to sleep we started talking about dreams. He asked me if I was living mine and I said no. My dream of being a whistler had died. I said I didn’t have a dream anymore. Ever since I found out that Milli Vanilli were frauds it all seemed to not matter. King Julien smiled at me, rolled over on his back and told me he envied me. He said he always wanted to be a professional whistler. He was pretty amazing now but would like to get better. He gave me an impromptu performance and his talent was obvious. He then told me what I should do next, now that I had no “dreams” of my own anymore. He said if he was me he “would invade a neighbouring country and impose my ideologies on them; even if they didn’t want them.”
I thought about what he said all that night. Could I do as King Julien had said, and had done? Alas, I couldn’t. I turned my back on whistling, King Julien, Charlie Sheen, et al, and now live a quiet life in the Middle East. It’s good for me here. All the sand in the air makes it hard to whistle.