Last night I went out to a Karaoke bar called Paoli's near my place. I do this about once a week, to mine my extensive knowledge of pop songs and show off my surprisingly good singing voice. It's odd too, because its a bar. I don't drink, and being married I'm not there to pick up chicks. It's an evening of counter-intuitive fun.
Even though I don't drink, I must admit that I have all kinds of fun watching other people get drunk. Maybe it's nostalgia for my dad, who drank himself to death the year that Star Wars came out. Maybe it's the smug feeling of superiority. Whatever, I love being around drunk folks. And last night, my ideal drunk person came out. She was beautiful, she had enormous breasts, disproportionately large lips, she dressed cheap and craved attention. The way she was acting you'd think someone had slipped her a roofie, but clearly she had brought her own roofies. She talked me into singing a couple of duets with her, allowed me to cop a feel (and my god, they are genuine!) and even invited me back to her place! Along with about 5 other guys, including the long-suffering boyfriend who brought her.
The other 4 went.
It's amazing that my lovely wife lets me go out to bars like this alone, but she knows how truly harmless a guy I am. I'm only there to sing, and to observe, and occasionally argue with Allen, the British guy with the C. Everett Koop beard and the Buddy Holly fetish, about who is the most attractive girl in the place. I swear, Karaoke is the best hobby ever.
I think somewhere on the Livejournal version of this blog is another account of the time I met a sloshed TV news reporter at Paoli's and he kept giving me advice on how to get chicks. If I find it I'll link to it here.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
BYOR
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2 comments:
Dan:
This is the most psychologically rich article yet, much more so than your "Suicide is for chumps" one. Seriously, a shrink could mine it for hours and come up with all sorts of little nuggets about your inner life.
Just for starters: "BYOR" was a treatise about control. You essayed an evening of activities you carefully carefully monitored to fall within a set of self-defined limitations. Sprinkled throughout are warning signs of what MIGHT happen if your control lapses or your limits are compromised (Roofies, drinking, dead dad, etc.) And this aspect is just scratching the surface.
Is this an attempt to box in ol' Dark Meat? I remember an article in the old SPY magazine, an article written by a semiologist. He once tried to interview an A-List celebrity (let's say it was Tom Cruise) and was refused. The publicist said he would rather talk to the "dumb" press: A semantically-oriented interview would "define" the celeb. A bad thing, I guess.
--Skot
Oh how I miss SPY. Like Marilyn Monroe and Betamax, it was too good to live.
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