What a Dumbass Way To Die

We have all heard the stories on the news of someone who exits this earth in unusual and sometimes poetic manner. There are entire book collections (the Darwin Awards) devoted to the subject. But, occasionally, we all get a glimpse of our own departures while doing something incredibly ridiculous.

I had my glimpse today.

Yesterday I was exercising on the treadmill and killing time while listening to NPR’s Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me. The show ended a few minutes before my hour was up so I put the IPOD on shuffle. The very next song was from the Music Man Album (2000 Broadway Revival Cast). This is evidence that I will put just about anything on my IPOD (Gregorian Chants, Klezmer, Rap, Show Tunes but NO Enya). Anyway, I decided that listening to the entire cast recording might make for an interesting treadmill experience even without Ron Howard, Buddy Hacket, Shirley Jones and Robert Preston of movie fame.

So, today’s treadmill featured the entire cast recording.

How could I not sing along? I grew up with this music. I remember Sundays where it played on the phonograph in the living room. We saw it on TV. I learned to harmonize singing barbershop with the School Board (they are very forgiving). Robert Preston sings in my key and range.

How could I sing along? I can keep the beat even on the treadmill (syncopation requires the adoption of a limp) but Harold Hill’s staccato attack leaves no time to breath. I was like a pearl diver at hight tide, coming up desperat efor air whenever possible. But the show most go on and lost in the pure joy of a chilhood friend come to visit, I redoubled my efforts.

The volume went up on the IPOD to cover my inadequacies. This only resulted in me belting the tunes out louder and needing to surface for air more frequently.

When Hill gets off the stage for a breather others get on. Somewhere in the dim recesses of my addled mind I had stored the shows entire book or almost all of it. I was putting on a magnificent performance – even adding a slide step or two, hand gestures and covering the treadmill from side to side in interpretive exercise. No part or song was unapproachable – I just adjusted the octave to fit.

However, the IPOD has no mercy. The songs came one after another. There was no respite – not only was I belting out the tunes but I was pounding the treadmill as well. I silently begged for appearances of Marion as her tunes were mostly ballads and I could cheat a little on the long notes and breath deeper.

And then I saw it; my demise at the foot of the treadmill comeplete with tread burns on the face.

A forensic team would be sent in to probe the death of this ruggedly handsome and fit young man who could obviously out run the treadmill. They would discover the last music played. This bit of evidence would cause them to reevaluate the gruesome look and determine that I had died in mid song, tripping on a change step while broadly gesturing and imploring Marian. My demise would be another death to be attributed to American Musical Theater.

Luckily, I survived.

Once again my diversion ended shortly before my exercise period. Once again I put the IPOD on shuffle only to hear . . . The Diva Song from Spamalot.

They say that on any night many tired performances go to Broadway to die. I’ll go back to listening to NPR tomorrow.