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Last Friday evening, after church (it was Good Friday, you dolt), Sarah and I decided it might be fun to go check out the Karaoke that our friend John runs at a hotel near our house. We met our friends Fitzy and Rece there around 9:15, grabbed some brewskis, and quickly put a few song requests in.

Karaoke, if you’ve never done (what the hell is WRONG with you?!?), is a highly amusing form of entertainment. The quality of the singers can vary from “extremely good” to “painfully embarrassing,” and it is the rare performer that thinks of him or herself as anything less than stellar, particularly some of the ladies. Friday’s performances were no exception; permit me to share some of the more shining examples:

• A nice gentleman named Gary, who had a clear preference for sexual partners of his own gender. He dedicated a song to some woman that may or may not have actually been present, and immediately launched into “Vacation,” by the Gogos. Here’s the thing, though: the guy sounded exactly like Belinda Carlisle. Exactly. As Fitzy put it, “That’s just recockulous.” (I don’t know what that means, but I could not possibly agree more.)

  As an added bonus, Gary threw in some interesting dance moves that could best be described as “The Dance Moves That Buffalo Bill aka James Gumm Did In Front Of His Video Camera In The Basement After He Tucks His Package Back Behind His Squeezed-Together Thighs Just Before The Fat Senator’s Daughter Knocked Precious Into The Pit.” I can honestly say I have never seen anything like it, and I commend Gary on his showmanship.

• 300 goth wannabes who sang songs from Syndrome Of A Down, or Hoobasuck, or Lamey Lee And Crapinescence, or some other such seizure-inducing screaming dreck. The first song of that ilk, I usually enjoy, but after the 17th straight song featuring some ham-fisted nutjob strumming an E-minor chord with his wang, through an amplifier with a volume dial permanently soldered to 11, I realized I was going to need a LOT more gin. And girls, if you have a voice like Joni Mitchell, Amy Lee songs are probably not the best selections for you. “Bring Me To Life” is not intended to sound like a Dan Fogelberg original.
• One enterprising older woman who seemed to have kneepads permanently stitched onto her jeans invited us to, I think, remember the fact that it was Good Friday and we should be singing songs commemorating Jesus’ passion and death. It was hard to understand her because she was drunk to the point of drooling some interestingly colored fluids onto her pendulous bosom. She then sang “Iris” by the Goo Goo Dolls.
• Yours truly got up around 10pm and did a rousing performance of “How Am I Doin'” by Dierks Bentley during which I realized I am as stiff as a board when singing unless I’m told to move. It’s very odd. I desperately needed a guitar to hold onto so I didn’t look like an idiot. Luckily, by the time my next song (“The Way You Look Tonight” as performed by Francis Sinatra) came up, I had had a few martinis (HearnWife was driving), so I was somewhat looser. I may have removed my pants to amuse the ladies in the crowd. It’s happened many times before.
• The gentleman that took the cake (and rubbed it all over his naked, hairy body, metaphorically and metaphysically speaking) was a nice African-American gentleman, of about 50 years, with severe mental disabilities of some kind. He fancied himself an Elvis impersonator, and had fashioned a “jumpsuit” from a white shirt and pants onto which he had drawn a colorful eagle-shaped thing with the blood of squirrels he decapitated with a trash can lid crayons. He carried an old, horribly broken Fender Stratocaster (stringless, and covered with duct-tape) to use as a prop, draped on his shoulders via a long piece of yarn he tied to the ends. The final accessory, which made me pee my pants a little bit every time I saw it, was some kind of souvenir boxing or wrestling belt, about 25 sizes too small for him, that he had wrapped around himself as best he could and secured in place with duct tape.

  I forget exactly which Elvis tune he sang, mainly because not one lyric that came from his mouth was coherent, and he was spending a lot more time gyrating his pelvis and periodically simulating a sex act with the body of his guitar. “Memorable” does not begin to describe this. Sadly, I did not think of snapping a picture of him with my camera phone, but apparently he’s a frequent performer. I recommend you hit the Best Western on 273 (just east of the 95 interchange) on some Friday evening and check him out. You will NOT be disappointed.