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� 06/06/2005 - 4:28 p.m. | it's soopa shredda! I�d do well to focus on something a little more pleasing� say, Saturday night�s karaoke session, hmm? Well, for one thing, I wasn�t bombed out of my mind, how �bout that? We walked in, and I asked Kyle and Shelly, �Was it always this bright in here?� Apparently it had been, but from what I remember, the whole of the bar had been bathed in inky purple darkness like under a black light or something. Goes to show you how easily perceptions can be fucked. We had started out the evening with an attempt to make some sort of alcoholic beverage that resembled the toilet water after I have made an� explosive visit. Shitwater, if you will. We succeeded grandly, but it did not taste too good (Who�d have thought?), so I had to choke it down with some Spaghetti-Os. Still, I was struck by another wave of nausea � not as bad as last week, and I was more coherent, so I could control it � but still, a disturbing trend notwithstanding. Or a terribly positive one! I mean, if I don�t have to worry about specific things making me puke � that is, if regurgitation is a constant threat � then I don�t have to worry about limiting my intact of particularly hazardous substances (e.g. booze, mold-covered food, etc.) Look on the bright side!! We stumbled our way to Geo�s, Kyle singing off of obscure references and Shelly wrenching in pain with the massive shit she had to make. Always a charmer there. Spritz caught up shortly thereafter, and we entered the scene. We were the youngest people there� by half. The crowd was pretty decent, though. Allison Helm was there waitressing (although don�t tell Missy that, OK?), and I guess once Geo or whomever learned that we were her friends, we no longer had to worry about getting carded. I stuck with soda � 1) We don�t need any repeat sessions and 2) Kyle smuggled in a flask of Jim Beam Black and kept making his drinks way overpowered, so he occasionally needed something to water them down. Allison�s roommate was there, and she was all talking to me like I knew her, and it took me the longest time to figure out who she was specifically. Then she went up and sang and was atrocious. Let�s see� who did we have? The fat girl I got shot down by last time, Katie, was back. She has a pretty good voice, but she mostly stuck to awful ballads and such. Same with that dressed up maybe Mexican guy who loved my every performance. I totally would not have pegged him as such, giving me the devil sign and whatnot. There was the one guy who liked like an exact mesh of Justin Timberlake and Frodo Baggins (er � Elijah Wood); I liked him because he knew the words to every song, be it rap, country, or that horrible �Marijuanaville� parody he got up and sang with his partner. Pink Floyd Shirt came up and sang, of all things, Coldplay�s �Clocks,� the longest, worst song in the world. Spritz, who was quite tossed by that point, hated the fucker and kept booing him and giving him the finger (still keeping time with the song). Our main attraction for the evening, however, was this gay couple. Rick was from Louisiana, I think, and was visiting Dr. Phil (Criminology!), the Asian guy with possible track marks (from the heroin, see) on his arm. They were both bald and buff and had little goatees. They also loved to sing. Rick rocked some �Tainted Love� and Dr. Phil banged out some Sinatra or something, and they became fast friends with us when they saw me and Kyle�s stellar performance of Blues Traveler�s �Hook.� I think they thought we were gay and maybe wanted to get a piece, so Dr. Phil started buying us all drinks. While Kyle worked the crowd into a frenzy with his Garth Brooks Baton Rouge song, they came over and asked us if he was in a band. �Hell yes,� Spritz fibbed a little. �Ten Gallon Heros [sic].� From then on they were sold. Rick was all like, �Well, I don�t live here, but I�m going to kick Phil�s ass if he doesn�t go to every one of your gigs.� They would not shut up about the band. "Are you in the band?" they asked me. "Naw, man. I'd love to be, but I can't play anything." "That doesn't matter, man. Just get a tambourine and go nuts!" In fact, don't tell Kyle, but I do believe we made a pact that as soon as he buys himself a guitar, I have two weeks to get myself an electric mandolin. Kyle was getting more and more blitzed and, as he is wont to do, started inviting Phil to stay at our house if he needed to. Shelly and I look on in horror in the background, Shelly mainly because Kyle was getting more attention from dudes in the bar than she was. We all had our fair share of stalkers, though. She had Jean Shorts Guy, who kept staring at her and got the biggest grin when she did her [faux?] sexy dance. Allison was suddenly swept into a slow dance by this big fat Mexican guy whose button-up shirt was definitely not buttoned up. Even I was propositioned, albeit by some horrible chubby creature with dead eyes. I think someone did even compare her to a zombie in fact. She pulled me over to dance with her and her gigantic friend. Spritz did his best to act gay and get me the fuck out of there, but she was still sort of sad. �I guess you�re shooting me down then, huh?� Too drunk to remember this for long, though, she started pointing at me across the room, whirling her finger, as if to hypnotize me towards her. No dice. I just whirled my finger back and prayed it would appease her. It did. See, I can�t even be flattered by that one. In fact, I am downright depressed that that is the type of girl I am capable of attracting solely on my looks. Of course, there was no one the least bit attractive there, really, but that she actually thought, �Yeah, he�s about the same attractiveness level as me! Hell yes I have a shot with him,� well, that bums me the hell out. Confidence and humor are the only things a guy needs to attract a beautiful girl, I�m told. Well, fuck. I ain�t ever gonna have no confidence, my humor is most scrutinizing your flaws, and I sure as hell can�t rely on looks. In Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs, Chuck Klosterman talks about this set of hypothetical questions he asks people to get to know them. Here�s an example: �You meet a wizard in downtown Chicago. The wizard tells you he can make you more attractive if you pay him money. When you ask how this process works, the wizard points to a random person on the street. You look at the random stranger. The wizard says, �I will now make them a dollar more attractive.� He waves his wand. Ostensibly, this person does not change at all; as far as you can tell, nothing is different. But � somehow � this person is suddenly a little more appealing. The tangible difference is invisible to the naked eye, but you can�t deny that this person is vaguely sexier. This wizard has a weird rule, though � you can only pay him once. You can�t keep giving him money until you�re satisfied. You can only pay him one lump sum up front. How much cash would you give the wizard?� Answer: I would give him every dollar to my name and then some. I would sign up for credit cards and max them out. I would apply for loans. I�d mug people for a few dollars more. Seriously, if I could be $10,000 more attractive or whatever, that money wouldn�t mean shit in the long run. Who�s good looking and needs money? Psh, no one. I mean, the possibilities could be endless. I could be a golddigger and marry some rich old hag and wait for her to die. I could certainly have a successful acting career; it wouldn�t matter if I was good or not as long as long as I was attractive (See: Keanu Reeves in just about anything, but especially maiming a British accent in Bram Stoker�s Dracula). Hell, I could even be a male stripper, that makes good money. Point is, the money would be negligible, and I would be infinitely happier and more confident for it� even if I was constantly referred to as �strangely attractive� (�And tonight on �Entertainment Tonight,� more news about the rumored drug use of strangely-attractive celebrity Nathan Walsh��) [Yet another tangent � Remember Jen, the girl I was crushing on from Hot Topic? Yeah, apparently she quit there and now works somewhere in the area as a stripper and is making a shit ton of money. I�m not sure where and when yet, but I wrote her, so hopefully we�ll be making a really awkward road trip really, really soon] What else was there of songs? I did a pretty decent rendition of �Clint Eastwood� by the Gorillaz, Shelly finally joined in with me, Kyle, and Allison for some Sister Hazel, Phil went up for Afroman�s �I Got High,� which was absolutely ridiculous, and we ended the evening on Dynamite Hack, which Spritz left early and missed. Lots of dancing about and singing along and maybe some looks here or there, but no harm. Kyle was wasted on the walk back, making up songs in Spanish, and Shelly had to shit herself again, but we made it home OK. Kyle collapsed on my bed and started drunk dialing people, leaving BillyC a very extended ad-libbed song about biography (�And then I fucked this red-haired girl, and she took four fingers��), followed by an absolutely surreal song with the lyrical content of Ben Folds Five�s �Brick� (told from the perspective of the aborted fetus � Vic Llewyn Folds) with the tune and pacing of Radiohead�s �Creep.� How he manages to create these things while so smashed is far beyond me. Shelly came upstairs in her skivvies, and Kyle finally enticed her in. I stared at the pillow in front of me. How could this get more uncomfortable? Oh, maybe an alluded reference to Kyle smacking Shelly in the face with his cock sometimes? Shit, man, who does that? And oh fuck, look, another reference to Shelly�s burgeoning sex drive. Guess we�ll have to put another six month embargo on the old diary, huh? While unlocking my bike on the front porch: Kyle: Hey! Yeah, I guess I am.
I won't be soothed, |