Livin' On A Prayer

I hate karaoke bars. It's true. I hate them. Why anyone chooses to frequent them over, say, a dimly lit, book-filled, DJ-spinning station-having, loft-esque, good-beer-on-tap, roof-access hangout, is beyond me.

Here's what happens to me:
Approach bar, 'X Karaoke.' Roll eyes. Sigh. Ponder. Out loud, "Am I really doing this?" Enter. Am bombarded by wall of sweat. Immediately accosted by loud and more than slightly off-key drone of a bad Guns n Roses song. Seek nearest bartender. Order something straight up, on the rocks. Drink quickly. Locate exits for a possible quick getaway. Collect shattered ear drum. Silently mock people who think they're having a good time. Try to maintain composure while continuing inner monologue.

It's amusing to me, that I hate karaoke bars so much, simply because I love singing (loudly) while in the privacy of a closed environment (i.e. car, with good speakers), to almost any song, particularly to one whose key matches my alto singing range. Seriously, who DOESN'T sing in the car, alone? It's the private pleasure of non-subway commutes and cross country road trips.

Unfortunately, a black-light-filled karaoke bar is not my private commuting-to-work-while-matching-Thom-Yorke's-falsetto-in-zen-like-fashion-car-bubble. The songbook ("30,000 of your favorite hits!") may as well be edited down to one page and renamed "The 25 crappy songs we know you're gonna pick." I understand that nobody is going to sing an awkward, off-tempo Elliott Smith 3-octave ballad, but why.... why do people lose any shred of creativity, and subject us poor civilians to ear-shattering renditions of:

Bohemian Rhapsody (seriously)
Any song by Ricky Martin
Cult of Personality (an amazingly horrendous song to hear via karaoke (or any time for that matter) as I found out recently, in a painful way)
YMCA (oh the humanity)
Livin' On A Prayer (very original)
Indigo Girls (go ahead, try to harmonize.. you'll never sound like them)
Meatloaf (who can handle this, even outside a karaoke bar)
I Will Survive (for God's sake)
American Pie
Stairway to Heaven (trust me, no one wants to hear this)
Anything hip hop (unless you're Kanye, get off the stage and go straight back to your table.)

Something happens to me when I enter the world of karaoke bars. I feel trapped; cynical; stuck in the 80s at a Bar Mitzvah party or a bad junior prom. Bitter. Claustrophobic. Unable to hold conversations. Socially awkward. Desperately needing to be drunk.

God, I sound like a rancid bitter heap of grumpiness. Should I look on the bright side? Try to see the good in this?

Nah.

Fun in the Kitchen

The 45th Street Block Association presents its second annual FALL FILM SERIES:

Join us for a free outdoor showing of:
LITTLE SHOP OF HORRORS

Tuesday, October 23, 2007 6:45 pm

Matthews-Palmer Playground
(between 9th & 10th Aves, Enter on 45th or 46th streets)

Bring blankets, chairs, food, drinks, and your appetite for fear..

co-sponsored by Rudy's Bar on 9th Avenue.
Grab a Rudy's coupon at the movie.

Hope to see you there.
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Battle Mode

So, Phish has an album called The Story of the Ghost. I have a (quickly deteriorating) saga called The Story of the Mouse.

Some of my faithful readers might remember a post about my friend "Charlie" and her battle with rodents. Well, my friends, the rodents no longer reside on 45th Street. They have moved uptown. Just a few blocks in fact. They now terrorize me. Why God, WHY?

Earlier this week, (in addition to the droppings that have been discovered in the kitchen), I found a dead baby mouse stuck to one of my sticky traps, which upon first glance, was assumed to be a dust ball. (Now, what’s more disturbing? That I couldn’t tell the difference between a rodent and a wad of dust? Or that I had a dust wad LARGE enough to LOOK like a mouse?)

Last night marked the latest incident in this terrible saga:

There are many traps laid throughout my apartment. Some are sticky traps. Some are grey, baited, “self-closing” boxes. They are everywhere, for we have a GAGGLE of mice in the building. And they’re multiplying faster than you can say “Sweet Jesus, I live in a zoo." I came home last night, somewhat inebriated from a work event, and in my lowered-inhibitioned state, gathered up the courage to inspect one of the grey traps that had been closed since the night before. Now, these traps are delicate, as I’ve discovered. A simple current of air MAY cause the door to shut. The brush of a tiny rodent paw MAY cause the door to shut. OR, a mouse INSIDE the trap may, naturally, cause the door to shut. I considered all posibilities ... Then I psyched myself up. “Come on, Ms. EMT. You hold strangers' bloody heads while practically laying on filthy glass shard-covered Manhattan streets. This is cake.”

Latex gloves were donned. (Yes, I have my own personal medical-grade stash). A flashlight was used. Breathing techniques employed. I picked up the trap and shook it around. Nothing felt funny – no weight in the box, nothing moved. Yep, it must have a been a current of air. I would re-set the trap - make sure the cashewbutter bait was still there and that it hadn’t been carted off in some evolved Manhattan “we-can-take-the-food-from-your-stupid-traps-without-getting-caught” mouse fashion. Damn these cheap hardware store things. Always malfunctioning… la de da. And with confidence, (and even a chuckling of "mice are so lame,") I opened the little grey door.

*!!!ZOOM!!!&!FTHFEW! ]!$!!BTHANG!!SHOOOH!!

My arm practically jerked back from the recoil. I abruptly dropped the trap to the floor, whereupon it made a clanking sound. That, coupled with my squeal of horror made for quite a commotion in 4B. The surely half-dead mouse shot out of the trap at such an impossible speed, I barely knew what had happened. It’s like I had fired a mouse-trap-weapon. It literally flew across the living room, like I’ve never seen a rodent fly, and scurried off at lightning speed to some mysterious mouse ER which I may or may not discover, until a stench overtakes 4B and the health department is alerted. My apartment will become condemned, I will be evicted and become unemployed and forced to seek a new job for the 3rd time in my New York existence.

This isn't funny anymore. I'm going into full battle mode.