We all have at least one in our life. Maybe it’s the former musical theater major in your office who finds his way to center stage at every birthday or cake-related celebration and harmonizes (with himself) or perhaps it’s just a friend riding shotgun, head turned permanently out the window, face wincing constantly. Trust me, you know at least one Key Snob.
I have two Key Snobs in my life- Spouse and Boy- and they are raging Key Snobs. Key Snobs: you know, people who won’t come out and insist that only those who sing “on key” should sing out loud or in public, but man, they surely give you the stinkeye when you don’t. Heck, I can sing loud and without warning but you don’t hear me bragging about it.
Meanwhile, the only perfect pitch I’ve ever come close to was during an Oneonta Yankees game and that was nine innings of awesome. (Plus nachos with pump cheese, AKA: liquid awesome.)
So Key Snobs think that my son should have a less than happy birthday because I was born with an affliction? My parents can’t hold a note between them and never, not once, did it stop them from ruining Friday nights around the TV watching “Name that Tune.” Absolute hell. I still have nightmares whenever I hear “Wichita Lineman” by Glen Campbell- thanks Mom, thanks Dad. Happy Birthday Boy.
Listen: I’d rather be flat, sharp, formaggio, whatever, and singing my guts out in a car (windows down/Elvis Costello’s “Alison” turned up) alone, than actually hearing Elvis Costello perform “Alison” live with you and feeling so intimidated that I can’t sing the “I know this world is killing you” part with the heart-wrenchingness it deserves. Yes, heart-wrenchingness.
And I’m not writing this because I just got yelled at for destroying the background vocals on “Back in the USSR.”
Because I killed.
Or at least it sounded like something was dying.
Fresh Air and Sarcasm 
Best title yet. Other favorite part: Formaggio.