Who Wants to Know?

When I karaoke (which is rare these days), I usually only choose songs I'm familiar with and know I won't embarrass myself on. But tonight, I saw RAY, JIMMY - ARE YOU JIMMY RAY? in the book and I got super excited and chose it on an impulse.

I pride myself on my 90s nostalgia, but "Are You Jimmy Ray?" is definitely one I've forgotten over the years. I don't know how I let it happen because it is so perfectly campy. Granted, I had trouble singing the song because I didn't remember the cadence other than the chorus, but it was worth it to have it reintroduced to my life.

My favorite lyric is "I've gotta let it out, something in my genes [pun alert!], ya come and take a walk with me if you're feeling dane-ja-rus", but obviously the backup vocalists trying to guess his name over and over is the bread and butter… surely, it's hard to miss the irony that people can't remember the name of this would-be one-hit-wonder.

Who wants to know, indeed! Well, actually, I want to know, as I'm kind of newly obsessed. Who IS Jimmy Ray, this gangly man with an oversized belt buckle I see in the video? According to Wikipedia, "The video juxtaposed Ray's rockabilly image with a trailer park setting as stereotypical "rap video" women in sports jerseys and football shorts danced provocatively behind him." That might be poorer writing than the song itself!

At 3am, I thought it would be a good idea to find Jimmy Ray on Twitter because he seems like someone who would be neglected enough to respond back to some cheeky comment I make, but alas, I could not find him. Rest assured, however, that I will be asking all strangers I encounter whether or not they are Jimmy Ray until I finally locate the man.

In Defense of Heejun

I rarely vote for American Idol contestants, but I voted for Heejun nearly 100 times last night. Make no mistake, Heejun is the worst singer on American Idol, but his sense of humor makes him the most entertaining. And as a supporter of VoteForTheWorst, that’s right up my alley.

Look, I think pretty much all of the finalists are good this year, but they all stand up there and perform boring ballads, do what they’re told, and allow themselves to be commodified. Sing like this! Dress like this! The way Heejun met with Tommy Hilfiger, didn’t take him seriously, and then wore an ugly t-shirt anyway is commendable.

What really motivated me to vote was Steven Tyler’s critique. Though Tyler is paid to be a “judge”, he never gives any negative feedback, even when someone royally sucks, so the fact that he was so angry at Heejun for putting on a joke act is telling. It’s clear the producers are tired of his comic relief, and that’s all the more reason to keep him. And for the record, Steven Tyler, Heejun is not “taking a piss out of the song” by giving it an I-don’t-care-I’m-going-to-be-me performance, he was actually honoring the song’s meaning. (If you want to get up in arms about a singer misinterpreting a song, how about that probably gay long-haired kid singing “Only the Good Die Young” without any of the authority of a guy trying to pressure a religious girl into having sex?) But yeah, Heejun is taking a piss out of the show. Maybe if Tyler weren’t so busy getting loopier than Paula Abdul and hitting on underage girls, he’d realize that he’s one of the show’s biggest jokes of all.

(Side note: one time at Katy’s birthday party, Maddy and I stopped the festivities to serenade her with our duet of “My Life”. We hadn’t really thought about the lyrical content first, so there was a lot of cringing from her friends and family as we sang lines like “Go ahead with your own life, and leave me alone”, but to her credit, Katy just fake smiled and clapped as if it weren’t insulting.)

Tonight, Heejun barely squeaked by in the results show. (My votes mattered!) The judges really read him the riot act for his antics, and I hope it doesn’t crush his sarcasm and make him try anything earnest next week. Heejun has a way better chance of leaving this show a comedian instead of a singer, so I hope he continues playing to his strengths. Whether he’s giving celebrity guests photos of himself, baffling Ryan Seacrest with his witty one-liners, flinging his microphone around haphazardly, or tweeting embarrassing photos, I want to see more of it. If he keeps treating this show like the joke that it is, I’ll keep hitting the redial button on my way to dodgeball.

On a side note, I can't believe Idol did a whole night dedicated to Billy Joel, and no one sang his best song (also the best Disney song ever): "Why Should I Worry" from Oliver & Company. This song is still totally my jam.

Monkeying Around

On Saturday, I volunteered at the Tour de Fat cycling event. If bicycles and Mardi Gras were to have a baby (and you KNOW Mardi Gras would sleep with anyone), it would look kind of like the Tour de Fat. Music, costumes, drinking, and cycling: not a bad day, so I donned my famous monkey costume and headed over.

Stationed at the beer tent, I was tasked with pouring all of the Ranger beer and keeping ahead of the demand. It flowed from a spigot from a truck, but every cup I filled was way too heady. No matter what tricks I tried, my beers were at least half foam, which was pretty embarrassing as I watched the others pour effortlessly.

Naturally, I felt incompetent. I assumed the problem was me, since I’m easily the dumbest smart person I know. Considering I can foul up the most menial of tasks, I wanted to quit so I didn’t keep delaying the beer line. The other volunteers, some dressed as Superman, Sweet Dee, and a gender-bending tooth fairy, though friendly, kept critiquing my style because they “knew” what the problem was. The quickest way to get them to shut up was to let them take a turn at pouring and realizing that they couldn’t do it much better.

For once in my life, the problem wasn’t me! Apparently, this kind of beer and overheated and would just be interminably foamy no matter what, so I just had to do the best I could with it. It kept me busy, anyway. My solution was to shake out the foam and combine the liquid from a few cups into a single cup that would have an adequate amount. Essentially, I was pouring three beers for every one that got served.

In my haste, I spilled a lot of beer on myself, making me grossly sticky. I was also getting drunk. We were not allowed to drink on shift, but if we were to randomly step away with a beer for a few minutes and return without explanation, that was okay, wink wink.

While pouring foam out into the grass toward the end of the day, a pair of people approached me, saying they knew me from somewhere. Not recognizing them, I figured they must be mistaken, explaining that I wasn’t normally dressed as a monkey and covered in beer. After guessing a bit, one pinpointed how he remembered me (the real context is too embarrassing to share, so we will henceforth refer to it as “art class.”) Then I joined them and like ten other people in a port-a-potty for karaoke. It was a handicapped stall, so roomier than your average transportable toilet, but as a dozen people flailed around singing and dancing to “Love Shack,” I was concerned that we might end up tipping the port-a-potty over.

As much as I’d like to say I rushed home to shower after these unhygienic experiences, I ended up spending the next ten hours barhopping with these near-strangers. Well, considering I just took one person’s word for it that he knew me even though I had no recognition of him, I guess it’s fair to call them complete strangers. Not only did they not judge me for lugging around a monkey costume all night and having hands so sticky that people recoiled when they shook my hand, these strangers also didn’t rape and murder me. So, like, new friends!

Respect the Men in Wheelchairs: NO DANCING!

Last week, I went to the ig-Bay ish-Fay* Bar & Grill to see my roommate perform standup comedy and it was hilarious. Not so much the show, but the bar. It's a trashy place in the middle of nowhere in Glendale and there is no "Grill" aspect to it. They just call it that because... well, I dare you to question their methods.

The patrons were almost exclusively crazy old men. They were kind of like veterans, but I doubt any of them had served in a war. Their PTSD probably stemmed from life in bum-fuck Glendale and perhaps meth addiction. Aside from stopping to occasionally heckle, none of them paid attention to the comedy as they were too busy throwing darts, shooting pool, and swearing loudly at each other to care about the funny twenty-somethings on stage, making it a miserably uncomfortable show to sit through.

The bartender - who it seems unfair to call toothless considering he still had some - wore an orange construction vest as a top and did his best to ignore everyone but his regular customers. When he finally agreed to serve us, he basically told Jessica that she was stupid for almost ordering a more expensive drink, and we were left wondering whether we should even bother tipping after the rudeness and given that he seemed so concerned about us saving money. Later in the night, he screamed "Fuck this, I'm getting a cigarette!" and disappeared outside, leaving the bar unmanned for twenty minutes.

The bar was decorated with fishing trophies and musty paperback novels that no one there would ever want to read even if they could. My eyes were drawn to two signs in particular. One simply said, "NO DANCING," which I think pretty accurately summed up the bar's atmosphere. I love that that's a rule; part of me wanted to break it to see what would happen, but part of me agreed that dancing is for youngin's and sissies and should not be tolerated in a serious drinking establishment.

The other sign was this on the door of the women's restroom.

I don't know why the need for such clarification: any man who can't stand up isn't really a man anyway. Also, I want this sign for my own bathroom.

So I know this has seemed like an extended complaint about the bar, but make no mistake, this is now my favorite bar in LA. I told Jessica that this was my new dyke bar. She didn't understand why, pointing out that there were no lesbians. But you see, the appeal of the dyke bar has never been about the dykes, it's about going to a unfamiliar locale populated by people with alternative lifestyles that I am kind of scared of. Both bars are in deserted locations, both have sketchy patrons that you'd have a hard time meeting anywhere else, and both are guaranteed to leave you with stories you'll never forget.

But the best part? It has karaoke two nights a week! Needless to say, we are going back because we need to experience the disaster that will be karaoke with volitale old drunks in a place that forbids dancing.

*Pig Latined the name, because I wouldn't want them to find this post one day and kill me should they ever learn what a computer is.

Indian Reservation

Who's ready for a trail of tears?

This past week, Eric served as a judge at a downtown bar's gong karaoke contest, so he asked a few of his friends to come along for the experience. I agreed to go, but wouldn't commit to singing because I had lost my voice the previous day and my throat was sore.

We show up at the bar, but it's kind of sketch-ville, since we all got searched for weapons on our way in. You gotta let me have at least one drink before patting my crotch, scary bouncer. I know the point of the search is to make everyone feel safer, but oddly it just made me feel all the more in danger.

We assumed our positions near the stage and encountered this guy who was a total flamer. By flamer, I mean that he was a fire breather. Also, he was very gay. In the process of doing his admittedly impressive bar trick, he managed to spit alcohol into my eyes, causing the to sting. A few minutes later, he hot-boxed the photo booth in the corner of the room. What a character.

Afterward, the contest started. The prize was a huge bong, so I had even less incentive to get in on the game. The first few participants performed adequately at best, a couple getting gonged after a minute or so. Eric was clearly having fun critiquing the contestants like the true Randy Jackson he is. He almost made one poor girl cry and have an Amy Winehouse meltdown after berating her failed attempt at Amy Winehouse.

Since not too many people had signed-up and they kept begging for more singers, Stacy put her hat into the ring and performed the best song up until that point, Pat Benatar's "Heartbreaker." It looked like she might have the night's winning score, until the last judge scored her lower for not dancing to his satisfaction. This judge was performing in character as some exaggeratedly flamboyant sea captain. Though sometimes it was funny, his motivation was definitely to say something witty and give a score corresponding to his one-liner more than scoring fairly.

The next girl came on right after Stacy and stole the show with a slow oldie. She sang as well as Stacy, but also had the benefit of hearing Stacy's critique and therefore danced provocatively, caressing her genitals. After receiving the highest score of the night, she advised Stacy that she "should have grabbed [her] boobs more" in order to win. Indeed, the next guy sang terribly, but took his shirt off, so the gay sea captain predictably gave him a 10.

They were so desperate to fill up time that they weren't even gonging anyone anymore. Even though my throat still hurt, I decided the atmosphere was right to put in the funniest, shortest song I know, "Indian Reservation." It's a somewhat forgotten Paul Revere & the Raiders #1 song from 1971, and hilariously offensive. It's a first person narrative about the plight of a Cherokee (yet sung by white people, yay!) relegated to a reservation and how awful his life is now. It's simultaneously earnest and campy, and though it shows no vocal range (which I needed in this moment) I love performing it to get a rise out of people, particularly the lyric, "I'm still part redman deep inside."



Going into the song, I had two thoughts: A) it's such a short song, I could easily get through it before getting gonged and B) if I were to get gonged by the time they realize how ridiculous this song was, I would be laughing with them. So I go up and start the song, and before I'm even past the first page of lyrics on the screen, the gay admiral runs over and gongs me. I was surprised and a little bit embarrassed since I hadn't even got to a funny part yet, so I just looked stupid. The captain screamed, "I don't want to hear a Cher song!" even though it's not a Cher song, which I tried to explain, but it was too late, my turn was over. At least the host made me feel better when he said, "I have never heard of that song before, but I was really starting to enjoy it."

So yeah, it kind of sucked to be gonged quicker than anyone else all night, especially when there were some legitimately awful people singing, but at the same time it was pretty easy to laugh off - as everyone should do at a gong karaoke contest - when I failed explicitly because some guy that looked like a dumb semen seaman tried to make a failed pop culture reference. If there was a Cher comment to be made, it was that the judge's costume made him look like an extra in Cher's "If I Could Turn Back Time" music video. Besides, I've won hundreds of dollars in a karaoke contest before, so I'm not going to sweat losing some ceramic bong to a girl who degraded herself for it.

At the end of the night, we convened outside, and the gay sea captain came out and chatted us up. I laid into him, "You call yourself a gay? That wasn't even a Cher song!" He insisted that it was and it's called "Half Breed," so I called him a racist for assuming all songs about Native Americans are the same. He asked how many there could possibly be, and the only other tune that popped to mind was "One little, two little, three little Indians," but I still said it as if it were the most relevant point I have ever made. By now, I was actually more irritated with the fact that once out of his costume, he dressed like a typical LA scenester douche and, as my friends pointed out, probably wasn't even actually gay, making his performance all night pretty offensive. Funny how stereotypes are more easily forgiven if that's actually how you are.

It wasn't until outside that I heard the best song of the night. A dapper homeless man approached us asking for money, so Matt and I each gave him a buck. He said that earned us a song, so I asked him what he knew. He said "excerpts of Frank Sinatra, excerpts of the Temptations..." and each time he said "excerpts" I died of internal laughter at the fact that he was making it clear upfront that we weren't getting a whole song. When he said "excerpts from Sound of Music" however, I told him that was the choice, since I knew it would make Stacy happy. I was hoping for Edelweiss myself, but he did a more obscure one, "Something Good" and Stacy dueted with him, just like Julie Andrews would have; it was so beautiful that I didn't want the excerpt to end. I handed him a five as a tip because I was so impressed, and he was very gracious. He said that earned us one more "free" song, this time an original, some depressing yet musically upbeat tale of unrequited love that I merrily clapped my hands along to. At the end of the song, he said, "Since I sang you a song, would you mind helping me out?" which slightly irritated me since I've already given him more money than I ever give to a panhandler and he said I had earned that one for free, so I didn't give him anymore out of principle.

I felt a little bad about it as we walked away, but Stacy pointed out that the man was wearing two leather jackets, so how bad off could he be? I laughed a lot at that comment, and agreed. You know who had it rougher? The Cherokees. If only I could have properly paid respect to them that night.

Dancing with Dolly Parton

While Stacy sang Dolly Parton's "9 to 5" at karaoke on Saturday night, there was this obscene couple grinding against each other on the dance floor. I've chaperoned a high school dance before, so it was not the act itself that was off-putting, just the timing. The dance just did not correspond with the music. The pair was pressed against each other, the woman rigorously writhing her butt on the man's pelvis. It'd be one thing if they had already been doing this dance before the song started, but they had actually got up once the song started.

"How can they dance like that?" I asked Bianca.
"Yeah, that's just not appropriate for a Dolly song," she agreed.
I nodded and pondered the situation further. "Or maybe it's entirely appropriate," I suggested.

As I see it, Dolly Parton also probably has to dance with her ass against her partner. There's just no way she can dance face-to-face, she'd have to leave about two feet of space between them with those breasts. Those boobs might bring all the boys to the yard, but she doesn't have any room for those boys once they get there. Unless they approach her from behind. That's the only way to snuggle up close to her. Pull a reach around, if you must, but there's no other reasonable way to dance with Ms. Parton.

That probably goes for sex with Dolly, too: it's a situation most realistically approached from behind. Her boobs are a blessing and a curse. They're attractive, but more or less obstacles when it gets down to it. Imagining the difficulties, Bianca hypothesized that it would require "a lot of right angles." If you think about it (which I don't blame you if you don't want to), she's correct.

Anyway, I want to thank that inappropriately dancing couple for leading us down this enlightening line of thought.

Black Kevin

So I'm in a bar bathroom. Don't picture something skeezy, because even though it's a dumpy bar, the bathroom is disproportionately fancy and immaculate with marble, new tiling, and gold trim. Someone earlier had made a joke about having sex in the bathroom before claiming to be "too classy" to do that, but I pointed out that having sex in this bathroom would not be as gross as a scenario at another establishment since it's so well kept. Honestly, the bathroom would probably be a nicer place to hook up than a lot of the clientele's bedrooms.

But my bar bathroom story is not about sex. Or bowel movements, for that matter, sorry to disappoint. I am using the pretty porcelain urinal when the dude peeing next to me momentarily breaks Guy Code© to compliment me. Before you get the wrong idea, I performed some karaoke moments earlier, and this guy is impressed with my rendition of "Breakfast at Tiffany's." I thank him and we both resume our obligatory silence for the next ten seconds as we finish peeing. While we wash our hands at adjacent sinks, he starts the conversation again, saying that he "dig[s] my energy" while singing. I ask him if he will be singing, and he says he is looking forward to performing some Rick Astley soon. The whole time we talk, we are basically over-doing it with the hand washing. Because we are both hyper-aware of the other's actions, neither of us want to appear unhygienic so we lather to the point of excess.

Finally, we both move on to the paper towels and wrap up our conversation. "Well, good to meet you," the guy says. He sticks out his hand to shake mine, but then pulls it back. "Ah, I'm sorry, that's gross, you don't want to touch the hand of someone you just met while peeing." I smile and shoot out my hand anyway. "Actually, we just watched each other scrub our hands for like a full minute. Our hands are as clean as they're ever going to be!" He agrees, so we shake rigorously while laughing. "I have never felt so confident in the cleanliness of a handshake, this is great!" I add. (In the moment, this really does seem like a remarkable accomplishment and a time to treasure, but I'll at least partially chalk this up to alcohol.)

We laugh again, and he says, "I'm sorry, Kevin." "How'd you know my name is Kevin?" I ask. "No, I was saying sorry that we hadn't introduced our names yet, and that my name is Kevin," Kevin says. "And you're Kevin, too?" "Yes, my name is Kevin, too," I tell him. "That's so funny, we have a lot in common."

All right, at this point, you readers probably think the two Kevins are becoming a little too familiar and that this story does in fact end in bathroom bar sex, but, no, it's not like that, it was just an uncharacteristically friendly moment that ended there.

At this point, I return to my friends' table and I tell them I just met a nice guy in the bathroom who has the same name as me, and I gesture at him from across the bar. "Which one?" Lena asks. "The black one," I say, adding, "He's Black Kevin."

Lena, and a couple of other friends at the table, are black, and they hastily get on my case and ask why he has to be "Black Kevin." Immediately, my liberal guilt kicks in, and I insist that they're right, that's not fair and that I should have to be referred to as "White Kevin."

I'm overly sensitive to this, perhaps, because five years ago, I was at this house party and this Asian guy looked a lot like my friend Preston who was also in attendance. We called the guy "Asian Preston," and he eagerly accepted this monicker, but I always wondered why they guy was so willing to defer to being the copy, and why he didn't counter with the suggestion that Preston should be called "Half-white/Half-Mexican Jim." Jim wasn't actually his name, I don't think we ever learned his actual name since he was so down to be called "Asian Preston," but you get my point.

So at first I'm willing to accept "White Kevin" as my nickname, but then I think better of it and deliver an impassioned speech to Lena and crew. "His friends -- his friends should call me White Kevin. That makes sense and that's only fair. But my friends should just call me Kevin. I shouldn't have to be 'White Kevin' when you don't even know this other Kevin. To you, he is 'Black Kevin' and that is that!" Just like the germ-free handshake, this issue seems very important in the moment. Fortunately, my friends agree with my stance and I earn back the distinction of just being called "Kevin" again.

As for Black Kevin... well, I don't know really know much else. But he does do an impressive baritone cover of "Never Gonna Give You Up," so I'm pleased to call him my black namesake.

The Crutch

Margarita Mondays has gotten wild as of late. Though our group used to be responsible for the antics, since our numbers have dwindled from forty to a handful, other parties have taken the helm. Recently, the restaurant began hosting karaoke on Mondays, which has brought in a whole new sloppy drunk crowd. It's hard to resist singing and strong $2 margaritas.

If you know me, you know I'm a big fan of karaoke, but it's not a good experience here. Everyone is so awful that it is unpleasant. Sure, karaoke is generally notoriously amateur, but there is really nothing redeemable about the performances. I'm glad that when I do go, we sit outside where we can't hear it.

When it got unbearably cold, however, we went indoors to finish our drinks and did our best to ignore the singers. It was hard to overlook an especially loud group of three bros, however. After performing an adequate (granted, we're grading on a curve, here) rendition of Sublime's "Santaria," I heard them become animated about something and they pushed each other with excitement. "Really? Really?! Okay! I'll do it! I'll do it! Let's go!" I figured they were discussing some questionable next karaoke song choice, but didn't stick around to see their decision.

My party went outside at that point to part ways, but not long after, the bros came sprinting from the restaurant too. "WE'RE GOING TO VEGAS!" one of them shouted. Amused, I told them to have fun. "Wanna come?!" another one asked, but we declined that offer. "Well wish us luck!" he said, which I did with surprising sincerity. I love random acts of Vegas, and know I have been in the same situation on at least a few Margarita Mondays where we're all the sudden drunk enough to think that going to Vegas late on a Monday night is a great idea. Ultimately, we've never followed through, however, because A) no one is in a condition to drive B) we don't have a hotel room and won't arrive until post-midnight at least and C) everyone has jobs or Tuesday obligations they can't disregard. I think this group of bros should have considered some of these consequences, particularly letter A, but I admired their impulsive enthusiasm.

They hopped in their car and kept shouting as they peeled out of the parking lot. As they screeched by, I jumped onto the curb afraid they might hit me. Simultaneously, Melissa went into teacher mode, as she yelled, "Wait, you left your crutch!" I had no idea what she meant since I had been so busy avoiding the car, but there was really a crutch now next to us in the parking lot that hadn't been there before. I asked how it got there, and Melissa said it fell out of the car window.

Either that was a drunken decision that someone is going to regret by the time they get to Vegas or just a drunken accident that wasn't noticed; either way, it was amusing to see how legitimately concerned Melissa was, even if only momentarily, that they wouldn't be able to have a good time in Vegas without their crutch. The mere sight of the single abandoned crutch was a riot and I couldn't stop laughing at their inebriated disregard for the disabled. We waited around in case they should return for the crutch, but that didn't pan out, so Lady Garza decided to take it home as a souvenir.

The next morning, Greg texted me to say that Melissa saw kids playing with the crutch on the road between the restaurant and the nearby school. I had to correct him that Lady Garza had taken the crutch, so the crutch Melissa saw was likely the other one of the pair. Did they throw that one out the window, too? It's like, dudes, even if you're lucky in Vegas, that means you win money, not the ability to walk.

Porn Star Karaoke

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Offensive!

If you think I'm offensive, you should meet my friends!

In the span of just a couple hours, here are the top two offensive things that people said:

2. Singer in a wheelchair
For context, I'm at the lesbian karaoke bar and ordering a drink at the bar. Unbeknownst to me, there's a man in a wheelchair trying to maneuver behind me, but can't find the space between the people at the bar and the table next to it. The person sitting nearby at the bar freaks out at me. "MOVE MOVE MOVE!" I turn and notice the person in the wheelchair and immediately press myself against the bar to make room. While the man trying to get by thanks me, the person who yelled at me at the bar says an aggressive, "God!" at me like I was being rude all along. I got defensive because I wasn't trying to be rude or anything and explained as much: "I didn't even see him! No one even 'Excuse me.'" "STILL!" the fellow patron sputtered at me exasperated. At this point it became clear that I was dealing with someone who was overcompensating for the fact that this man was disabled. He felt the need to irrationally defend a handicapped person, as if I should be expected to sense someone that I've incidentally had my back to the whole time. I'm sure he wouldn't have said a word if someone who could walk was having trouble getting past me.

Anyway, the man in the wheelchair turned out to be an amazing singer with a Frank Sinatra-like voice. The next day, i offered up a silly theory: what if he was told he could only keep one ability, his legs or his voice, and he chose his voice?

L's response: "That's just like Ariel [The Little Mermaid], but the opposite!"

As I type this part, I recognize that perhaps I made the offensive part by introducing the dilemma and L merely turned it around into a joke. Oops. Okay, but I swear the next one was not me and actually took me by such surprise that my jaw dropped; I almost wanted to laugh just to indulge my nervous side, but I couldn't do it.

1. Zoo kids

We're at the zoo and there are thousands of little kids running amuck, screaming, and crying.

L: "This makes me want to put off having a kid for as long as possible."
A: "Why, so it'll have Down Syndrome?"

It's based on statistics, granted, but still...

Carol the Toothless, Crazy Dyke

So there's this crazy dyke that's showing up to the lesbian karaoke bar, perhaps even crazier than the ranting bigoted man we encountered there. I'm pretty sure her name is Cheryl, but someone else heard "Carol," so I'd rather go with that. Sing it with me: "Sometimes you wanna go where everybody knows your name -- but calls you by a different name anyway." We also have reason to believe that Carol is mainly heterosexual, but we still call her a crazy dyke anyway, because, as far as we're concerned, we're all dykes at that bar.

We first met Carol about a month ago. She stood out immediately because she's missing several teeth and acted familiar with us even though we had never seen her before; trust me, we'd remember that toothless face. We sat in our back corner and avoided contact with Carol until she came back to try to buy cigarettes from the machine, but couldn't figure it out. Seeing her struggle, I went up and just pushed the button and amazingly it worked. Carol was so full of gratitude that she gave me an uncomfortably long hug and introduced herself (as Cheryl, but whatever). When I told her my name was Kevin, she was excited because her ex-boyfriend had the same name and promised not to forget it while bumping her hips suggestively against mine. Though she eventually wandered away from our group, Carol returned throughout the night to hug, dance with, and pet (no really, she likes stroking hair) us, ultimately promising to see us again soon.

After a few week absence, Carol was back this past week. She warmly yet aggressively greeted us, then gave us an awkward serenading while singing the most awful rendition of "Knockin' on Heaven's Door" you've ever heard. As she talked to us more, it became increasingly obvious that Carol wasn't just drunk crazy or fun crazy, but full-fledged insane crazy. She rambled about anything and failed to pick up on any social cues. My eyes were sore because I was rolling them too much. At one point, she pretended to talk on her "invisible phone," and took the whole thing quite seriously.

Carol was especially proud of her Jack Daniels hat that her friend gave her. She doesn't even drink Jack Daniels, she explained, but the hat is terrific, a questionable assertion, but one we agreed with anyway. All Carol needed was acknowledgment. She's the neediest person I've ever met. She needs people to pay attention to her at every second. If no one's looking, she'll call your name out to make sure you're seeing her do a dance move or make a shot at pool. We'd appease Carol, and tell her "good job," as if she were a puppy.

The dog comparisons don't end there: Carol was also barking up the wrong tree. She made some comment about being on the prowl for men. Carol, honey, a lesbian bar is not the place to accomplish that. I think it's safe to say that Carol was oblivious to the situation, however, and just seemed to take out her sexual aggression on Greg and me. When Greg stood up for a song, Carol snuck up behind him and spanked his butt. Immediately, she came to me and asked me to stand up so she could do the same to me "to be fair." I tried to find a polite way to decline, but she kept insisting. I'm not proud to say that I just gave in, stood up, and let her slap my butt, because that seemed like the only quick solution. She then sandwiched herself between Greg and I, alternated between kissing our cheeks and referred to us as her boyfriends. Seeing hilarity in action, Lindsay grabbed her camera:


Photographs proved to be just the attention Carol craved, and she didn't want the picture-taking to end. She offered to model for Lindsay, which Lindsay was happy to go along with, naturally. Carol's poses are her own, and oh so creative:


After the first photo, Carol asked to see the picture than snatched the camera out of Lindsay's hands and ran away with it. I thought this would result in a funny story about how Lindsay's camera was stolen by a crazy dyke, but instead, Carol ran around with the camera to show her modeling off to every patron in the bar, most of whom humored her. She came back and offered to pose for more, again showing them off to people she believed to be her friends.

Oh well, at least Carol believes she's "gorgeous." She asked if I thought she really looked forty-six. Not liking to lie, I thought in my head that she could have been in her fifties, before saying, "No." She hugged and thanked me, reasserting how good she looked for her age. Then she repeatedly told us how nice we were, which Lindsay pointed out was probably our problem. We were too nice and indulged her, so now she wouldn't leave us alone. Carol offered to give me her phone number, and I decided to whip out my own "invisible phone" to take down her number. This angered Carol because she wanted to use real phones in this case, but I insisted my invisible phone was good enough. According to Carol, you can't hear invisible phones ring, so she offered her home phone number instead. Though I'm not surprised she doesn't own a cellphone, I am surprised she has a home, truthfully.

After several more invasions on our personal space, we left the bar, but not before the KJ said she was going to smack Carol for being so annoying, and Bev, a truly kooky dyke in her own right, described Carol as "certifiable." Yeah, I'd agree, Carol's definitely nuts, but she sure photographs well:

The Most Popular Dyke at School

Lindsay has a common lament: "I'll never be the most popular girl at school." When we go to the lesbian karaoke bar, she amends it to, "I'll never be the most popular dyke at school." It's meant to be funny, but it's also true. As much as we go to the bar, we're not in the thick of the social scene. Mainly, we sing our songs and people watch. Admittedly, we ostracize ourselves further by always sitting in the back corner of the bar because that's where the empty seats are.

We're not popular, but that's not to say that we don't have some fans, Lindsay in particular. Lindsay is cute, young, and talented, so the bar's older lesbian clientele is largely smitten. One of Lindsay's admirers is Bev, a white-haired lady with a lot of character who actually hit on Lindsay since the very first time she came to the bar.

Bev is not Bev's real name. It's Beth, but every time the karaoke jockey says it, it sounds like she's saying Bev, so we always assumed that that was her real name until one week on her birthday when we noticed that the cards were addressed to "Beth." By this point, we were so used to calling her Bev, we decided not to correct ourselves, continuing to refer to her as Bev, even occasionally to her face. Once, Bev dedicated a song to Lindsay, but called her "Leslie," which might be the funniest thing ever. We're still not sure whether Bev caught on to us calling her by the wrong name and played the joke right back on us, or if she had it wrong entirely, thus justifying our own actions. Either way: Bev + Leslie = Love 4eva

This past week, after Lindsay and I sang a duet, "A Whole New World," Bev approached us and told us that she almost cried during our song. Wha...? It's Aladdin, it's meant to be cheesy, not a tearjerker. We sit back down in our corner for a couple of minutes before Bev returns with some woman who's femme-y yet covered with tattoos and sounds like Debbie Harry when she sings. They asked us to come sit with them.

This probably doesn't sound like a big deal, but it is, in fact, huge. Imagine that you are the nerdy kid who sits alone in the school cafeteria and one day a couple of the most popular kids ask you to join them. That's what it felt like, and we didn't want to blow the opportunity. We followed them to what can best be described as the bar's "cool" table. We were introduced to and hobnobbed with the fellow lesbian elite. It was surreal.

Immediately, Bev bought us drinks. Let's be honest: I was just kind of there, they all wanted Lindsay's attention. But if I get treated to drinks, too, I'm completely content. At one point, Bev grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me out to the back parking lot for a surprise. I honestly had no idea what to expect. It turned out she wanted to offer me illegal drugs. Oh, crazy Bev.

I went inside, sang a song, and then was approached by a man who wanted me to participate in a different kind of illegal activity... he wanted me to buy some bootlegged DVDs. I felt bad for the guy because none of the bar's other patrons were considering his offer, even though he ran a fairly good hustle. I told him not to feel bad because the ladies here don't pay much attention to the men for anything and agreed to look at his selection out at his car. Kindly, Greg, who had joined us by this point, watched from the doorway to make sure I was okay. He just wanted to make sure that I actually knew what I was doing and making good decisions by following a strange (emphasis on strange, no less) man to his car, which I appreciate. Primarily out of sympathy, I agreed to buy a DVD, but then he said that he had forgotten the DVDs at home, at which point I found the whole "transaction" a bit dubious and ran inside to avoid him.

Greg had his own fans, however. After he serenaded the crowd with some Bob Marley, he gained a couple of admirers who told Lindsay that they'd buy us all shots if he'd sing some George Michael. He soon did an awesome rendition of "Careless Whisper," followed by a round of shots.

As the night came to a close, we bid farewell to our new lesbian friends. Someone asked for my phone number, and when I hesitated, they asked whether having Lindsay's phone number was as good as contacting me. I assured them that it was, mainly to avoid calls from people I hardly knew or, you know, purposely refer to by the wrong name. Mainly I was surprised to find that they had already obtained Lindsay's number. I give it another couple weeks, Lindsay, and you will be the most popular dyke at school.

The Benevolent and Protective Order of the Elks

My social life isn't all it used to be, so I'm considering joining my local Elks club. Ahem, I mean the Benevolent and Protective Order of the Elks.

If I can prove I am a god-fearing US citizen (take that, you silly fence hoppers) and am willing to undergo an "indoctrination program" along with my spouse, I just might be approved to participate in their secret activities, which, according to their events calendar, seems to consist mainly of eating, bingo, and karaoke.

As if that were not enough, I'd also get to hobnob with these esteemed elks:

(In order: Leading Knight, Inner Guard, Lecturing Knight, Secretary, Tiler, Treasurer, Esquire, Chaplain)

I'm not sure how long it takes to get a title, but I plan to dream big and go for for EXALTED RULER:

Look at that bling!  Who's with me?

Might As Well Jump

I've mentioned previously that one of my favorite haunts, the lesbian karaoke bar, is in a sketchy place in the middle of nowhere. Allow me to now illustrate how in the middle of nowhere it is: When we visited last week, there was a giant tumbleweed in our normal parking spot.

"Okay, everybody, remember we parked behind the tumbleweed," I quipped.

Later, after a few drinks, Christine, imitated Atlas. Hot.


Ah, but the best moment happened inside the bar, believe it or not. Picture an almost 80-year-old man who seems a bit perplexed as to how he's made his way to a lesbian bar. I had noticed him seeming a bit frightened by his surroundings earlier in the night, so I was pleasantly surprised to see him when he was called up to perform a karaoke song, "Jump" by Van Halen.

If a confused elderly man singing Van Halen doesn't immediately strike you as the most awesome thing to happen, let me assure you that it was. He was adorably timid with his singing, but each time he sang the word "jump" he proceeded to do just that: jump. He jumped quite high even, if you take into account his age and brittle frame. I thought it couldn't get any better until "Buddy" decided to participate.

For context, Buddy is a regular at the bar. He comes dressed in a professional manner, then heads to the back corner with a shopping bag full of garish accessories including stockings, earrings, and skirts and changes. We like to speculate that Buddy has a serious job and is married with kids, then tells his wife he's meeting the boys for poker, and shows up for lesbian karaoke instead.

Probably similarly moved by the old man's performance, Buddy was motivated to approach the senior citizen mid-song and dance next to him. At the sight of a cross-dresser getting too close for comfort, the old man's eyes full-on bulged while the rest of his body froze. He was so petrified that he couldn't even jump anymore. Though I thought the performance couldn't get any better, this turn of events was even more awesome.

Unsurprisingly, afterwards, the old man left in a hurry. I hope he remembered where he parked his car; I should have saved him the spot behind the tumbleweed.

A Run-In with the Police

After an underwhelming hour of lesbian karaoke, Lindsay and I drive to a 7-11 and pick up some forties. I ask where we should take them, and Lindsay suggests a park. I inform her that, it being 1 am, technically the parks are "closed," but Lindsay says that she doesn't care. We sit on the miniature bleachers of the baseball field and shoot the shit for a while, drinking our Cobras concealed in brown paper bags. Though a little cold, it's pleasant. I've been in this park at later hours more times than I can count and, without getting specific, I have done far worse things than sipping on malt liquor. Never once have I encountered any trouble.

Wouldn't you know it? A police car shows up, then another one. Other than mine, there is one other civilian car parked in the lot and apparently the police officers find some people in it and begin to interrogate them. At a safe distance and shrouded by the dark, Lindsay and I quickly stash our beverages behind a trash can then proceed to innocently sit at a picnic table and have a conversation. Lindsay panics a bit, but I tell her we'll be fine as long as we play dumb to the trespassing business and not mention the public drinking (or urination for that matter -- the restroom is locked, so I help myself to home plate.)

Both police cars flash their high beams on us so I proceed to wave like a dumbass to demonstrate that we are friendly people, not scum. They read out my name, which they must have obtained from looking up my car's registration information, so I answer.

"The parks are closed!" one officer shouts as we walk closer to them. "Do you live at [address]?"

"Yes," I reply.

"Then should know that this park closes at 10."

"I'm sorry, I wasn't aware," I plea.

"All of the parks in town close at 10 except for the wilderness park," responds the officer.

"When does the wilderness park close?" Lindsay asks, as if she remotely cares. I realize that she is inquiring as a way of making casual conversation and seeming less drunk, even though it just serves to incriminate her more. Oddly, he directs his questioning to me.

"Have you been drinking?" the officer asks me.

"No," I reply.

"Really?" he asks again.

"Well, a few hours ago," I say, wondering if I look that horrible. Granted, I'm flinching, but that's because there are two sets of headlights shining directly in my face.

"Have you been drinking?" the officer asks Lindsay.

"No," she says.

The officer believes her, apparently, telling me, "You should let her drive. Get out of here."

This puts me in an odd predicament, because I am the one who is not too impaired to drive, and I cannot say the same of Lindsay. Good call on that one, copper. For the sake of safety and legality, I disobey the officer's instruction and take my position in the driver's seat. The officers watch me do this, so I'm pretty convinced that they'll pull me over shortly thereafter, but as I've beaten a wrongful accusation of DUI in the past, I figured I could handle that again. Instead, the officers speed off down a 20 MPH road going about 50 MPH just because they can. I'm perplexed by them, because what the hell are their priorities? They successfully "protect" their town by removing two people chatting in a park after dark, but then turn a blind eye to someone they believe to be intoxicated operating a motor vehicle. Ugh.

Me driving isn't the only order I disobeyed: within three minutes, we are back in the park. Since more than anything we wanted to reclaim our 40s, I drive us in a circle, park on the street, and we dash through/around sprinklers to where we hid our beverages in order to retrieve them. I mean, those things are like $3 a pop, we are not about to ditch them when they're half full! Rebels with an insignificant cause!

That is my daring run-in with the law. Behaving like a teenager is the only way I manage to have fun these days.

Friar Tuck's

Lindsay, Amy, and I went for a ride late Thursday night, looking for something fun to do. We passed a bar, Friar Tuck's, that looks like a castle from the exterior. For years now, my friends and I have talked about visiting this sketchy bar because it seems both hilarious and gross, but we had never made it inside. We came close once, getting as far as the parking lot. Two carloads of us pulled in and we surveyed the scene inside via the open door as we drove by. I can't accurately articulate what it was we saw, but it simultaneously unnerved each one of us. Rolling down our windows, the members of both cars quickly conferenced and decided that none of us felt comfortable exiting our cars, so we abandoned that plan for new ones.

On this past Thursday night, Friar Tuck's had a sign advertising karaoke. Lindsay encouraged us to go. Initially, I expressed my hesitation, but then reconsidered since it would surely provide the adventure for which we were aimlessly searching. We drove by the entrance three times, peeking in each time, before deciding that we were actually up for it.

The bar was filled with angry-looking dirty dudes and the women who love them. (The picture above is from the bar's myspace page and provides a pretty good idea.) The average patron wore black and had three visible tattoos. The floor was sticky with spilled beer. In a room on the side, baseball capped jocks cheered while playing beer pong. In spite of the scuzzy-ness, the bar was standing room only. We hovered in the back until an end table freed up. I grabbed us a pitcher of Budweiser (that seemed to be the only beverage anyone was drinking), deciding against lapping up the four cups of beer spilled on the tabletop by the table's previous patrons.

The karaoke performances are subpar and boring. Rather than watching the singers, I devoted my attention to a toothless woman who stood less than five feet tall and was twice the age of everyone else in the bar. She sat amongst the surly young folks who seemed to permit her presence but largely ignore her. This yokel troll would bop her head and bounce her pink sweatshirt-ed breasts to whatever song was playing. She drunkenly caressed a mullet-ed man who could easily have been her son and he did not seem to protest. I appreciate the yokel troll on several levels: she was absurd, unintentionally entertaining, and she was the only reason Amy, Lindsay, and I didn't look like the most out-of-place people in the bar. I pointed the troll-lady out to Amy, but since she had slept funny the night before, she had hurt her neck and couldn't turn her head to the left in order to observe her.

After a short amount of time, Lindsay was beckoned to sing her staple song, "Welcome to the Jungle." Since this was the type of crowd that listens to Guns-n-Roses in their leisure, there was audible excitement at the opening bars of the song. Unfortunately, it was difficult to hear Lindsay because the backing track was far louder than the microphone used for vocals, and she didn't receive the usual fanfare. At least the lesbians know talent when they see it.

Amy was called soon thereafter to sing Hanson's "Mmmbop." She had done a hell of a job with that song in the past, so I suggested it again that night as a joke, thinking she wouldn't have the guts to try that song in this type of bar, but good on her for accepting the challenge. Again, it was hard to hear the vocals during her performance, but "Mmmbop" was entertaining nonetheless as it was just the song that prompted the yokel troll to get off of her stool and go right up front with two surprised young men boogying with a toothless grin. Amazing!



I was deliberate with my song choice, selecting the Violent Femmes in order to fit with the tone of the bar. I didn't want to come across ass being "too Broadway" in front of a bunch of ex-convicts. (I'm sorry, that's not fair -- I'm sure some of the Friar Tuck clientele have never been caught for their crimes.) It didn't go so hot, because a lot of the song requires a low voice, and I can't sing low loudly, so I just sort of mumbled as the backing music outdid me until halfway through when the screaming starts. When done right, you're not singing "Kiss Off," you're screaming it. I generated a fan up front, who was digging it and gave me a hug afterward and tried to chat me up. I wouldn't say he was hitting on me, that would never fly in this setting, but I wasn't a fan of his douchey brotherly love either, so I brushed him off and he trotted back to his game of beer pong.



I started to feel bad for having stereotyped the bar so severely without having been in it. In truth, it wasn't so bad. Well, actually, it was bad, but it wasn't nearly as scary as I had thought it would be. Just as I was expressing to my friends how I could see myself coming back again, a fight broke out a few feet away. One guy, intoxicated and irate, threw punches at another while the one blonde lady in the bar (that means she's a hot commodity, obviously) stood between them trying to get them to stop. Fists continued to fly, however, and suddenly the aggressor had pushed his victim onto our table. I reflexively (and successfully) grabbed the pitcher before it spilled as Lindsay was coated with cigarette ash that shot in her direction during the scuffle. Meanwhile, Amy, who can't turn her head to the left if you recall, knew something was happening immediately beside her, but couldn't see it.

We backed away from our table, leaving it to the fighters whose standoff continued for another minute before the bar managers forced the aggressor outside. The yokel troll who had seemed nervous during the altercation seemed to forget what had just occurred more quickly than a goldfish, almost instantly resuming her routine of smiling and clapping to the music. My friends and I contemplated leaving, but hesitated when we saw the puncher pacing just outside the bar, waiting for the other guy to come out so he could "fuck him up."

After twenty minutes, we weren't feeling anymore comfortable with the situation, and decided to bolt. We didn't see the ejected patron in the parking lot, but we did get to overhear a curse-laden relationship squabble. While I wonder whether a certain element of danger might be what karaoke has always been missing, I'm not sure I'm going to be rushing back anytime soon.

Crack Whores Are Friends

After more than a month's absence, a few of us took a trip to our favorite lesbian karaoke bar. Lindsay arrived at the bar as Terri and I were leaving the house, so she opted to sit in the car and wait. Normally, I'd probably make a similar move, not wishing to sit in a strange bar by myself, but in this case, given the bar's seedy location, I might make an exception and feel safer just going inside.

Indeed, when Terri and I pulled up, we parked on the street next to a run down building with three garish (is that a polite way to indicate whorish?) women sitting on a stoop. Without a word, Terri and I exchanged a glance that indicated, "Do we feel safe enough to get out of the car."

"Are they?..." Terri half-asked.

"Friends," I said pointedly, trying to keep a positive attitude. Once we were a safe distance away, I branded them prostitutes, while Terri supposed they were crack addicts. We comprised, accurately I feel, with the label of crack whores. An unkempt man on a bicycle with a beer bottle in one hand rode by us and approached/propositioned the women. We scampered faster toward Lindsay. I apologized profusely for making her wait in such a sketchy locale, but she promised she was okay.

I thought I was headed for trouble when the lecherously-proposition-me-in-the-bathroom-then-serenade-me-with-Sarah-McLachlan-and-still-don't-take-a-hint man entered the bar. Was I going to have to snub him again? Fortunately, we mutually snubbed one another, neither one of us acknowledging the other's presence.

Oh, but this time a different man hit on me at the bathroom. I was waiting in line behind him, but he allowed me to go first. When I exited, he told me I was nice, which I thought was strange since he was clearly the nice one in permitting me to use the restroom first. He also told me I was cute, which was exactly what I didn't want to hear, so I hastily thanked him and fled back to my friends.

You may be asking, as people in real life have, if this is a lesbian bar, why are you having encounters with older men? (Remember the racist lunatic?) As Terri describes the bar's proportions, "The lesbians are the cake, and the men are the frosting."

Lindsay divulged that last time we visited, one patron recommended to Peter that our friends not come there anymore because the bar is in such a sketchy area. This person only came because her girlfriend is the karaoke jockey and gets paid to come, so she insists on protecting her love. She claims that people get mugged just outside the bar. I wouldn't doubt it, but aside from the hookers, the worst I've seen is the gifting of a Drew Carey doll, and apparently arson.

So the new guy I met at the bathroom apparently gawked me the whole night; I refused to so much as glance in his direction to verify this fact, afraid of repeat shenanigans. Instead, I had a more pleasant encounter with a girl who told me she loved me (really?) and placed one hand on my butt, and one on my leg. She started asking me personal questions, like my dating status. Just when I thought she might be legitimately hitting on me, she pressed whether I was dating Lindsay, then proceeded to gush about her crush on Lindsay. So she was just using me to get to Lindsay. Heck, I got felt up in the process, so I'll take it. I promised to tell Lindsay that this woman thought she was pretty. I'm sad to report that Lindsay didn't even try to hit that.

Though it may not be the safest place we frequent, it's still a fun time. And isn't that all that matters? Sort of? They have cheap drinks, cut us some slack. Also, as we left, Terri and I caught a view of the best thing I have seen in a long time. An honest-to-gosh hooker being arrested by the police. That's so real!

Songs Lindsay sang:
ACDC = Born to Be Wild
Michael Jackson - PYT

Songs I sang:
Blues Traveler - Runaround
Criminal - Fiona Apple

A Big Day: My Birthday and the Last Day of Teaching

Though yesterday was my birthday, I actually celebrated it on Wednesday night because of my overbooked Thursday schedule. Katy, Michael, and I traveled downtown to the newly opened Belgian pub, which turned out to be quite fun. The establishment was standing room only, but we lucked out and found a few seats at a long table next to a lesbian couple. While I'm generally not one to chat up strangers, fortunately my mates are, and we made good friends with the significantly older duo. They are some of the coolest, wittiest people I've met in this town in ages. We took turns buying one another french fries, shared beers, sassed back and forth, and even developed a contingency plan should I go off of health care and develop cancer. (Seriously, one of them is a cancer surgeon.) Katy and Michael Michael wanted to know if it'd be acceptable to invite them to my party later that night, which of course I approved because I want to be barbecue friends with these people. As I decided last week, we were returning to the lesbian karaoke bar. Michael and Katy each invited them to "the karaoke bar," the place's name clearly registered recognition with them, which confused them. I finally cut in and and said, "Actually, it's a lesbian bar." I understand it's an interesting predicament, since we were already going there and didn't want to make it seem like we were inviting them just because they were lesbians, but I think there's such a thing as being overly-cautious. Alas, they never showed up (to their credit, they were tanked and admit they probably couldn't drive), but digits were exchanged, so here's hoping.

The lesbian karaoke bar was a hoot. Because it was my birthday, a lot of the lesbians dedicated their songs to me, which was a nice gesture. Allison brought a nice cake, Michael and Terri bought me drinks, Katy and Phoebe sprung for an official t-shirt from the bar, and Lindsay and Peter brought a Nascar-themed birthday card with the most awesome one-word inscription on a card ever: "Dykes!" Even better was the fact that my stalker from the previous week was not present. There was one guy who bought me a drink, but did so in a friendly manner because it was my birthday, then proceeded to put the moves on Terri instead. Win-win scenario. For me, anyway.

Since it was a late night, I only got a couple of hours of sleep before it was time to go to work. Although I set an alarm, I must have accidentally fallen back asleep because when Kirsten re-awoke me by calling to wish me a happy birthday, I realized it was 7:30, meaning I should have been to work 20 minutes prior. I didn't even get a chance to put on socks or straighten myself up, instead hopping in the car, getting to work as fast I could.

So it's my both my birthday and my last day of teaching, and for the only time in two years (aside from when there was a traffic accident and then some F-ing in my classroom), I am late to work. Granted, I don't care, but I don't want it to look like I don't care just because it's my last day. On my drive, I panic and wonder whether I should call until I remember that since it's the last day, the first hour has been earmarked for a "study hall for finals," even though I can guarantee that absolutely no studying occurs during this time. I am co-"teach"ing this period, so it's not as if I'm leaving a classroom of kids unattended. When I arrive nearly an hour late, I apologize to the other teacher who doesn't much care. Whew.

During first period, my honors class celebrated my birthday by bringing three cakes, which was a fine gesture. My favorite one was a cookie cake, pictured below.

It reads, "To Mr. M, The Feminist." It's the perfect joke and a good capstone to a year in which I tried to address some social issues in the classroom. I told my students I was a feminist four months ago, and it hasn't come up since, but clearly it resonated on some level if it is part of my farewell celebration. One of my usually well-behaved students surprised me by slamming a cupcake into my face. Had it been a punk, I probably would have reacted poorly, but coming from eir, I found it amusing and left the frosting on for the remainder of the period.

Throughout the day, students wrote messages on my white board wishing me a happy birthday and farewell, which was sweet, except for one message about how I need to watch out for hookers, which I still don't quite understand. By the end of the day, some students were so rambunctious that they began draping my room in paper towels; I let them do whatever they wanted so long as they cleaned it up at the end, and to their credit, they did.

After school, I spent time chatting with some of my more favorite students, finished grading, and cleaned out my classroom until 7 at night, when graduation began. I was assigned to parking lot duty, which meant I stood in the parking lot, surveying for trouble. It was the least essential job ever, it's not like I was valet parking or anything. My students kept walking by me and asking what I was doing, so I tried to make my job seem exciting rather than humiliating, but I didn't even convince myself. The people here were excited for graduation, definitely more excited than students at my high school. As I see it, at my high school when I was a teenager, everyone was expected not only to graduate, but graduate again four years later at the collegiate level. For many of these kids, however, graduating is a big deal. They beat the odds and strung together just enough last-minute Ds to earn a diploma in what is likely the first and last graduation of their lives. Evidently, the parents of these students express their pride for their kids in the form of helium balloons. I swear, there were more balloons in the stadium than people.

Ultimately, I opted to skip out a few hours early, disgruntled with my position. It's not as if I wanted to be sitting through the ceremony with a better job, so I suppose the fact that I got away with skipping out makes it pretty good in the long run. Well wishes to the seniors, but my birthday takes precedence over their graduation, though.

Certainly a long, but eventful birthday.

Walking a Mile in Her Heels

I’ve been negligent in reporting my last three trips to the lesbian karaoke bar; allow me to catch you up.

Before she fled California, Kirsten joined me for a wild night. She boozed, I drove. I sang “Slide” by the Goo Goo Dolls and acquired a rabid fan, let’s call her Roxanne, who loved the song. Roxanne was cute, conversed with me, and even gave me free tickets to her concert. Just as I was thinking there might be some romantic potential, I noticed that she kept referencing the fact that we are “family.” At first, I believed Roxanne was making adorable references to our instant bond, but soon realized that when she said “family” she meant “gay community.” So she wasn’t hitting on me. I’m the dumb one, however, thinking there’s potential at the lesbian bar. Sigh…

Last week, a few of us returned to the bar only to be blocked by emergency vehicles. Two buildings away, a warehouse was severely on fire, and the firefighters actually were pumping water out of the bar to help put out the blaze. Due to the commotion and smoke inhalation, our group decided to cancel our plans. The following day, Laura ran into a regular at the bar and asked whether she stayed during the action. The patron made light of the fact that the firefighters were trying to flirt with the women at the bar, commenting “as if that’s going to happen.” Heh.

We rescheduled our outing for last night. When we arrived, an alert Phoebe noted a pair of men staring in our direction and “being obvious about it.” I paid no mind, figuring they were sleazy dudes gawking at the women folk in our party, an unfortunately common occurrence. Ten minutes later, Phoebe brought them to my attention again, insisting that, actually, they were clearly staring at me. “Oh please,” I dismissed. “How can you tell?”

At some point, I proceeded toward the bathroom and noticed that one of the men Phoebe pointed out got up immediately as I passed him and started following me. I avoided eye contact and walked briskly into the restroom, locking the door behind me. That was a good move, since within ten seconds he tried to open the door. I can’t imagine what he thought would come of entering the restroom with me, or rather I don’t want to imagine that anyway. After urinating, I exited to see the man waiting just outside. “Kevin,” he said, extending a hand for me to shake. I was self-conscious since my hand was still wet after washing them because there were no paper towels, plus I wanted to know how he learned my name, but was too afraid to ask. He introduced himself and called me a “cutie patootie.” Although I know Rosie O’Donnell uses the word as a term of endearment, it’s nauseating coming from a creepy stranger. As he compliments me a bit, I nod and thank him and try to back away. While I make my exit, he points out where he’s been sitting and encourages me to stop by and see him. He’s sitting with his friend, which he stresses as friend so that I know they’re not dating. Taken by surprise, “Ohhh… okay” was the only response I could muster.

Later, I noticed him talking to the bartender and pointing toward me. I slumped over in my seat, afraid he might be trying to buy me a drink. Half an hour passed, though, and no drink was delivered, so I decided I was letting the first incident go to my head. When I went to order my next drink from the bar, the bartender handed me a beverage and would not accept payment, instead informing me that this drink had already been paid for by the gentleman with the glasses. Gah! Simultaneously, another stranger spoke to me about how much ey liked my performance of Eagle Eye Cherry's "Save Tonight," which drew jealous stares from my drink benefactor. Feeling uncomfortable, I quickly ended that conversation so I could chat with Stacy at the bar briefly to devise a plan before having to face my gentlemen caller. I thought it might be funny to make a comment about how I was glad to see he was just friends with his buddy, because there seemed to be a lot of gay people here. While this was amusing, it was not practical. Instead, Stacy fed me some no nonsense lines to deter him and finally I felt confident. Sort of confident, anyway.

I approached him, thanked him for the drink, and told him I was already dating someone. He blatantly ignored the "dating" comment and explained that I'm a "cutie patootie" again (shudder) and tried chatting me up. Since he did buy my drink, I indulged him a bit, giving him my real occupation but a fake area of residence and background. When I informed him that I taught high school, he told me he wishes he were back in high school. “Really? I don’t,” I commented. “That way you could put me on suspension,” he said like a true pervert. Then, uninvited, he began rubbing my back. I'm not sure how I resisted the urge to vomit in his face. Thoroughly skeeved out, I hastily thanked him again and retreated as quickly as possible.

In the meantime, our group mingled with Roxanne, who I mentioned meeting a month prior. It quickly became clear that Roxanne had a crush on a female in our party. They even exchanged phone numbers, so that’s awesome. If I’m not going to date her, someone I know should. In other circumstances, I might be jealous, but love was already blooming for me with that gross man. Speaking of which, my friends tried to encourage me to be flattered by the whole thing, but I called him “ancient.” I estimated him to be 50, but Phoebe insisted he can’t be older than 40, as if that made it any more appealing.

Phoebe was also approached outside the bathroom by a regular patron. She invited her to come join them for weekly Monday bowling, and then specifically mentioned that Phoebe bring me, “that cute boy who sings”, too. It’s hard having an adoring public. Although I do like bowling or even “bowing” as the flyer advertises (obviously, curtseying is just a little too femme for these gals), I’m not about to abandon Margarita Mondays. Besides, I view my periodic trips to this bar as a hobby, not a lifestyle.

Just when I thought he had taken the hint, it was the man’s turn for karaoke and he dedicated his song to me. I wanted to crawl into a ball under the table, even more so once I recognized the song: "I Will Remember You" by Sarah McLachlan, which is sappy and wholly inappropriate. Please, don't remember me. Please. I made it a point to keep my back turned to him the entire time so as not to encourage this behavior. After the song, he came up and told me how shy he is (could have fooled me!) and embarrassed he did that. Then he slipped me his number and said he'd appreciate if I called him. Once he walked away, I gave the number to Stacy instead. We think it'd be really funny if she called and said, "Kevin's not interested, but I am!"

If nothing else, my interactions with this man have been a learning experience. Though many times I’ve been in the company of my female friends while they’ve been relentlessly hit upon and made to feel uncomfortable, I’ve never recognized how truly unnerving it is. Previously, I could neither relate nor understand. Like my girl friends, all I did was exist in a common space and did nothing to provoke the attention; I did not like being objectified and pestered. Now I can see why some of my friends feel so anxious each time they go out socially, knowing it is likely they’ll be harassed and attract unwanted attention and comments. I used to think it was unfair that women so easily had drinks purchased for them, but I don’t believe it’s worth the trade off anymore. If this were something I regularly had to endure, I would probably never go out. I have a new appreciation for my friends who have to put up with shit in an attempt for everyone to have a good time.

Oh, but we are going back for my birthday celebration next Wednesday evening. If you are my friend in real life, please join us. If a sketchy person approaches me again, I do maintain the right to make out with you to ward them off – you know, birthday privilege.