“You’ve got to hear this song, it’s beautiful,” said my Dad and I immediately new, trapped in the passenger seat of his car, that I was going to be subject to some totally gay music. “This is Barbra Streisand’s duets album. She sings songs with other artists.” I bit my tongue not to say, “No shit, pops, so that’s what a duet is?” The taste of blood in my mouth reminded me of the last time I went down on a girl while she was having her period. Immediately afterwards I had gone to the all-night Korean deli to pick up a snack and they called the police, thinking I must have killed someone, as my face was covered with blood. It took me a half-hour to explain to the cops that, in Vietnam lingo, I had merely been crawling in a Gook hole and had a mine blow up in my face before they let me go.
While I am somewhat of an anarchist, for the most part I do believe in the sanctity of “Driver is D.J.” and didn’t want to mess with that basic rule of quantum physics. I did my best not to rip into Mecha-Streisand and the best I could come up with was, “I’m not really a fan of Barbra Streisand.”
The song happened to be “You Don’t Bring Me Flowers” sung with Neil Diamond and all I could do was ignore the running commentary by my father which consisted of, “Sad, huh?” and “Beautiful, no?” Even our CIA has the decency to torture its captives with waterboarding and not this agony! I was wishing for his sudden death and trying to figure out how I would grab the wheel, open his door and throw him and that shitty CD into traffic.
[http://www.southparkstudios.com/clips/150168]
I considered saying, “Dad, totally not into it,” but figured the old man wanted to share this faggy song and why should I rain on his parade. Being audible was more than I desired but the volume my old man had it on was one click louder than torturous, which put me in that state of squirm-in-your-seat discomfort right before uncontrollably shouting at the top of your lungs, “FOR GOD’S SAKE, MAN, SHUT IT OFF!” I considered turning down the volume to a decibel level that would make it so I wouldn’t experience a convulsive twitch but thought that would make him know that he was the only one getting wood from Babs’ screeching and I chose not to take the baton out of his bandleader hand, despite how much I wanted to shove it up his ass.
When the song ended, my Dad said, “Beautiful, huh?” and I thought about for once in my life being the good son and saying, “Yes, it was really nice.” But my brother’s the good son. He would probably say, “Dad, why don’t you play me another song you enjoy for me and I will continue to jerk you off.” I’m the pain-in-the-ass son and the mildest thing I could come up with was, “It was okay but I’m not a big fan of Barbra Streisand.”
My Dad turned to me and I thought a tear might well up in his eye until he said, “Get the fuck out of the car, you little bastard!” I tuck and rolled and somehow made it to the side of the highway still alive. I was pissed off. Why didn’t he kick me out before having me listen to that GargantuShnoz monster’s shrill shrieking?
[http://www.southparkstudios.com/clips/103727]
On my long walk home, in between getting splashed by cars intentionally driving through the puddles of water and oil that had accumulated on the side of the highway, breathing car exhaust and dodging beer and soda cans and other assorted garbage that people threw at me as their cars passed, I had a lot of time to think. I questioned why it is that we all feel the need to share our opinions when more often than not the result is disharmony with another instead of union.
The majority of our sharing of opinions comes either as a put-down, “You’re an idiot,” an expression of arrogance, “I am a genius,” or as preaching to the choir, “I am going to repeat what you said in a different way.” What’s the point? Does it bring us any closer together? If my voiced opinion comes in the form of, “You’re an idiot for thinking that way,” it pushes you down and increases the distance between us. If it comes in the form of, “I am a genius,” it raises me up on the false levity of helium and also increases the distance between us. If it amounts to my impression of a parrot, you may interpret this is a coming together but really it is me painting over the beautiful artwork you have shared with me because somehow I feel the need to add my coloring to the picture you have painted. Who died and made me Picasso? Why can’t I just look at your masterpiece, take a deep inhale and let out a sigh of, “Ah”?
Perhaps I could have shut my trap and listened to that horrible creature singing her horrible song without any addition of my noise. Perhaps that would have allowed my father to enjoy her suicide-inducing croaking without disturbance. Instead even my subtle words, which most would justify as, “Just offering your opinion” or even more nauseatingly spiritually correct with, “Saying your truth,” pissed in his lemonade. And whether the subtle taste of urine was detectable by my Dad’s deadened taste buds or not, it is still a pissy way to be, regardless of how invasive a Babs smear may feel to my vaginal ears.
Go to any New Age, yoga or raw food event and you will be inundated with people telling you about how they’re torturing themselves through starvation, gymnastics, holding their semen (I tried that for a week but after awhile it started to leak out of my hand) and putting themselves into pretzel-like positions. What I consider a waste of time they call “discipline.” What I call the action of a slow person, they call “fasting.” What I call the subtle tricks of the ego to represent itself in a more subtle way so that these dopes don’t recognize him, they call “spiritual.”
I’m waiting for the day when these jackasses take a fast from offering their opinions or sharing their egotistical adventures, not only because I’m “totally not interested” but because then maybe we could start to connect in the silence, just two beings existing, instead of one being thinking her accomplishments makes her great and the other thinking, “I hope she goes into Samadhi, just so she’ll finally shut the fuck up already. I rather hear that horrible woman Barbra Streisand sing that listen to another minute of this idiot babbling!”
ADDENDUM: A couple of days later, my parents got us tickets to a lame production of the musical “Carnival.” During one well-known song by no one but theater fags called “If I Loved You,” my Dad leaned over to me and said quietly, “You should hear Barbra Streisand sing this.” And while even the name of that horrible singer usually causes me to dry heave, even I had to smile when he said this. 
Silence is a scary place for a lot of people (probably most). Committing silence is frequently a difficult lesson. I think that even in practices where silence is expected, it isn’t uncommon for a part of what is going on to be for the participants to be waiting for the next thing.
My son was yanking my chain about getting a motorcycle, trying to get a reaction. He asked what I thought about it. I said “Why do you ask me that? You are going to do whatever it is you choose. Why should I waste breath and time telling you my opinion? It doesn’t matter.”
He was shocked that I didn’t want to engage in the argument.
Coworkers babble their lives, looking for “support” in their choices, claiming to want input. What they want is agreement/validation for what they have already chosen. They give me a double take when I say “Why are you asking for an opinion? You have already decided to do (whatever).”
Mostly, I shut up. My input isn’t going to make a difference and I prefer to think my own thoughts or listen to the music in my head.
I’m not sure that even said anything worthwhile.
Hopefully the music in your head is not Barbra Streisand!