"I don't sing because I'm happy; I'm happy because I sing"

An experience.

On the 1 train to Target in the Bronx. Big, rough black man with sunglasses and huge earphones (or “cans”) on. He’s standing right in front of the subway train door, rocking and swaying to the music flowing into his ears. And singing along.
Not just singing. Not just a mild humming or quiet rendition of his music. This is a Wolfman Jack version of the song. A wild yaowling, explosive and powerfully jarring cover. His voice fills the train cab. Some people move from where they are to a different train. Most of us sit with eyes glued to our books or pocket video games, some pushing their earbuds further into their ear cannals. All the while, we listen with eyebrows raised.

I can tell he’s listening to modern rock music – something like “Black Hole Sun” or it’s equivalent. But he’s repeating lyrics beyond the original version. Screams of the same three-word phrase over and over. I recognize the song but didn’t write it down. He’s obviously enjoying himself, but the sound eminating from him is so violent that it makes people uncomfortable.

Finally, he gets off the train a few stops before ours. I feel the people in the train relax, the heavy strain of his vocal prowess lifted. Then, from the other side of the train, I hear a woman say (with all sincerity and sarchasm rolled into one), “That was REAL.” We all laugh, this one man creating connective tissue between us all through a common experience.

Walking around here in NY, I feel someone needs to invent body tampons for those little places on your body which you KNOW will quickly become drenched in sweat by the end of your travels in the city. Merely walking to the A train on 190th street, my lower back started pooling with little rivulets of sweat. I guess the first line of Body Tampons – gotta figure out a better name – will include patches for the lower back, neck, both underarms, behind the knees, top of the buttocks, between the upper thighs, the lower bra line (for the ladies who sweat beneath the boobies), and maybe a small square one to put on the upper lip. Nah, scratch that. Don’t want any accusations of making people look like a sweaty Hitler.

**ADDENDUM**
My husband would like to add that the groin area for the gentlemen of New York might have an additional sweat tampon too. Oh and he things “Sweaty Hitler” would be a good band name 🙂