Fragments From Floyd

They would have me as both room and board, these opportunistic pathogens that have come to pitch camp in my lungs. This is not the three day cold I get about every other year. I've felt worse than this. But I don't think I've ever sounded any worse.

It's terrible. I can't sing. And I realize, now that the well has gone dry (as if my family couldn't have told you this) I tend to sing along with everything. Even instrumentals. Not only can I not hit the right notes, I can't even make notes of a discernable pitch, on the mark or not. A sound oscilloscope recording of my voice in song, to an unsuspecting interpreter, would probably be identified as coming from a harbour seal. How long can the Pips get along without me!

My voice is so off that, when I give the dog one of his usual commands, he turns to look dismissively in my direction, but it's clear I have no authority here and he does not answer to harbour seals.

We're supposed to meet friends in town for dinner and music Friday night. And I will go because without me, how will they maintain the proper seating sequence of "boy-girl boy-girl"? And I've been thinking this through so that the time there won't be a total loss. It can be done--to communicate without a voice. But I need the props, ala Harpo Marx: some big floppy shoes (one stomp for yes, two for no) and a big horn with the rubber bulb--OOgaOOga--to express strong emotions (in combination, of course, with the appropriate facial expressions.

And already I have this sinking feeling that guess-who is going to be the defenseless brunt of all the dinner table jokes Friday night. It that fair, guys? Stomp. Stomp. OOgaOOga (frowning malevolently).