(Ok, I know the premise is approximately as plausible as, um, accidental bukkake, but indulge me.)
(Oh, and don’t believe a word that Maud said about last night. Whose word are you gonna take? Mine, or the girl who had to have extra digits removed from both hands as a child?)
So last night Maud and I agreed to meet for A (emphasis on the long a) DRINK because we hadn’t seen one another in awhile. It was still light out when we got to Enid’s, which is roughly the epicenter of the Hipster Hellmouth. She was still in her work attire, looking every bit the professional she is. I had taken a sick day yesterday, so I’d only just changed out of my so-old-it’s-nearly-transparent WFMU t-shirt and cut offs into something less…um…gamey.
Then 2 hours later we found ourselves performing karaoke. I called K and he grudgingly put down his Russian translations to come witness the spectacle. Maud’s husband, OTOH, apparently had better things to do, like work or something, and was unmoved even after I called him 17 times. Undaunted, I threw down Surrender still relatively sober. I threw in a couple of kicks, a bit of the jazz hands, but you know how it goes–I was just warming up. Maud, on the other hand, sensing this was some sort of competition, tossed back her third Singapore Sling and outdid me with an eerily heartfelt rendition of Crazy On You (an obvious nod to Heart’s Number One Fan).
Not to be outdone, I scoured the 400-page karaoke song list for my follow-up performance. The irony of offering such a large selection of songs to karaoke participants who are, by and large, drunk and thus suggestible, wasn’t lost on me. Why offer a list at all? Why not just have the DJ delegate, like, “You! Sing Total Eclipse of the Heart!”
Anyhow, I made my selection and did a highland fling onto the stage, where I performed a truly maudlin Jolene with a flaming baton routine.
Maud, meanwhile, screwed up enough gumption to storm onto the stage and sing Call Me while simultaneously drinking a glass of Everclear. I called her husband one more time and shouted “Listen!” I’m not sure if it was her pitch-perfect performance or the regurgitated-Everclear fireball she blew out of her mouth at the end (which could be appreciated even over the phone) or the power of Christ, but he was on the next B43 to Enid’s. Success! No sooner had he marched in the door he was up there crooning Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This).
Did I mention that K was observing our spectacle from underneath the table? Honestly, some people don’t know how to have fun. I had to keep pinching him to fork over more Pink Lady money for me.
I was busy planning my third and final piece. How would I trump the fireball? (I considered those tricks with the pingpong balls I learned in Phuket, but really, that’s just silly: where does one get ping-pong balls at midnight in Willamsburg?) So I did the only thing I could do: I sang Everybody Wants You hanging from the ceiling by my hair.
I’d like to think that it was my trapeeze act that really got the audience psyched, but by the time I was back in my seat wiping off the baby oil, Maud was up there, standing on top of the monitor and belting out Black Dog wearing nothing but pasties with little propellers on them.
Fine Maud, you win–this time.
At this point, K felt moved to escort us out of the bar before a riot began. As we left, he threw his jacket over my head like I was in the McMartin Preschool Trial.
The rest is kind of a blur. At some point on the walk home K had to peel me off a lightpost, which I had climbed to sing Pinball Wizard at a higher-than-street-level altitude.
Stroke me.
