Musicality is not encoded in my genes, so it’s rare that I whistle.
But not last night. Last night tortured melodies and twisted harmonies were pushed through my teeth quite enjoyably. For me, at least. My wife looked a tiny bit horrified.
It got me to thinking about The Catcher in The Rye. I haven’t read the book in thirty years, but one scene still stands out in my memory. While at boarding school Holden had a real deadbeat of a roommate. The guy exhibited no signs of intelligence or humanity as far as Holden could tell, until one day he heard whistling. It was gorgeous whistling, with the splendor and complexity of the music astonishing Holden, who was even more astonished to find the source of the magical sounds to be his crappy roommate.
Holden was left with a wonderful thought. Does everybody, no matter how awful they appear, have a hidden talent, possibly akin to being a world class whistler? Does everybody possess something pure and redeeming within?
As I ran out of breath and the impulse to whistle another though hit me, far less profound: should we call a beer The Whistler, or Whistles, or just Whistle?
Then I thought: we could have a contest featuring beer and whistling. There would be three rounds of whistling with an applause-o-meter to dictate results. The winners would all get prizes and the best whistler would appear on the label, riding a unidragon, lips puckered.
Let me leave you with a video of the world Whistling Championship and a few questions. Should beer and whistling mix? Ever? Should we orchestrate some amped up whistling nonsense? Or is this one of those ideas I should have kept to myself?