Karaoke Kevin Strikes Out

So last Friday night, to celebrate the end of Hell Week at work, some friends and I decide to go get our par-tay on. Hell week left me too beat to actually drive into The City, as Seattle proper is called 'round these here parts. Plus, we needed to party hardy locally because alcohol.

This meant karaoke night at our local Mexican chain restaurant.

I guess I should give some background on the whole going out deal. Before returning to the land of fast food and NASCAR, I went out all the damn time. We had community overseas, and someone was always up for fun. You could go out by yourself, and within five minutes, you'd hear someone else speaking English, and -bam- automatic connection. Before long, there'd be a group, and multiple languages, and you'd be making the rounds. Plus, the ex and I were still friends at that time, so we each had a free babysitter whenever one or the other of us was feeling all Saturday Night Fever.

Here, everybody speaks English. (And English only, bygod. This here's 'Murka! ) There's no connection. You go up and start talking to someone, they think you're a freak. Or that you want a hookup. Also, my friends are scattered all over. A night out with the girls isn't quite the same when you only have one girl.

I've got one close friend here. One. I met her because her brother was my boyfriend. She stayed with us for a while after an extended trip to Europe. Anyway, I ended up giving her brother the boot, but she stayed on for a few months. This led to a rumor that she'd stolen me away from her own brother with her nefarious bisexual ass. This rumor made it all the way to the brother, to my ex-husband in the Middle East, the brother's ex-wife in Jersey, and the brother's friend in Texas. We thought that shit was funny as hell, seeing as how I, apparently, am "nowhere near butch enough" for her. Those subtleties, however, are lost on most straight guys. That whole gay agenda thing.  They have to take their fantasies where they can get them, I guess.

Sometimes I still call her My Bitch just for old times sake.

Anyway, My Bitch and I used to go out in The City my first year or two back in 'Murka. We had to compromise when it came to our party establishments, as her ass is stuck in the 70s, musically. She also gets annoyed at "straight clubs", because men "don't know how to respect women,". Compromise was in order.

She is all about some 70s soul. It's great music. Love it. But it ain't the only show in town. Just sayin'. Anyway, my favorite place to go was Larry's, which was known around these parts as The Hip Hop Club, or The R&B Club. Which are just politically correct ways of saying The Black Club by people who "don't see color". I liked Larry's because it wasn't uptight and the music was good. (If you ignored any lyrics which happened to be misogynistic.) My Bitch maintained that it was all about men "getting all up in your ass", but when E'rbody in the Club's Gettin' Tipsy came on, her ass was the first to step out.

My Bitch, who tends toward the cynical when it comes to US race relations, told me often that Larry's was not long for this city, because "Whenever there's a black club in Seattle, they shut that shit down. Too many black folks in one place at the same time, folks here get nervous. They're going to shut that shit down."

I believe she even used the phrase "Mark my words," with an air of superiority thrown in for good measure. I blew it off. Larry's was doing the business. Seattle is all about diversity (in theory, if not in the flesh). This is a laid-back town. Larry's would be fine.

Of course, they shut that shit down about a year later, which did wonders for My Bitch's air of superiority.

Anyway, in the spirit of compromise, we'd hit Larry's sometimes and we'd hit Neighbors sometimes, which was a mixed-orientation club tending toward the techno tunes. I'd had enough of techno in Hungary to last me a lifetime, but the crowd was fun. We hit a few other places too, in search of a 70s soul music, and would go out about every couple of weeks or so.

The last year and a half, two years, I've been passing on the party more and more. This has a lot to do with the whole Seasonal Affective Psychosis I'm pretty sure I've developed here, and my ass going from phat to fat in the space of three years. And Larry's being shut down. There's that. Anyway, we've kind of turned into first rate duds.

Which pretty much horrifies me.

Goodgoddamn, but I do digress.

Okay, karaoke night at our local Mexican chain restaurant: we actually had a group, actually a foursome -- a veritable crowd for me and My Bitch. The other two ladies and I had been there twice before, after our fledgling advocacy group's first meetings. We were so charming that we are already "regulars" for our favorite waitperson, a feisty Brazilian hottie, and the manager -- also a hottie of the male persuasion -- who keeps us happy by bending the musical selections to our desires. Feisty hooks us up with the right booth, titillating conversation, and fast service, and MixMaster keeps the tunes flowing, much to My Bitch's delight.

Would that MixMaster was not quite so young. Or my ass not quite so fat. Anyway...

Karaoke was interesting. Whole lotta country going on. But there was one chick who did a few non-country songs. We were liking her. One lady did The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face. Now I love me some Roberta, y'all, but don't sing that slow shit on karaoke night.  About that time, our two compatriots decided to call it a night. There was one petite white girl who did The Humpty Dance. Girl did a great job. She also did Rapper's Delight. You just never know. Her boyfriend did a country number. He was real twangy, now. You just never know. She told us to gear up for Ice Ice Baby, and we decided to order a shot while waiting for that great American classic.

Hey, you takes what you can get. If it's Vanilla Ice or Conway Twitty, my ass is all about some Ice.

Now My Bitch isn't much for drinking. When she does, nursing a Lemon Drop is her thing. But every great once in a while, she'll do a shot. Last Friday it was a Pink Pussy. Which turned out to be sickeningly sweet, and sat neglected on our table. Now, it's not like My Bitch to neglect a Pink Pussy, but I guess the shot is nothing like its namesake. I went for a Blow Job.

We're still talking shots here, people.

As many of you may know, you don't just pick up a Blow Job like any old shot. That wouldn't be in the spirit of the drink. You have to go down on it. My Bitch was making all kinds of noise about how big and heavy the shot glass was, and how maybe she's safer on the Pink side of the fence, when I knocked it back, hands free. My Bitch was suitably impressed and was about to take notes, when some dude suddenly appeared at our booth.

I mean, really, the shot glass hadn't been back on the table a full minute. Show some restraint, man.

First time a guy's flirted in 20 or 30 lbs -- gee, ladies, I guess a good blow job really does cancel out the poundage. Bastards.

Kevin was drunk. That was his first mistake. Hook-up tip: slurring your words, not attractive. Kevin also veiled his baldness with a Kangolesque hat that looks sexyhot on some people, but looked like my grandpa's on him. That was his second mistake, trying to hide the bald with a hat.

In fact, let's stop and talk about bald, because it needs to said:

Men --especially straight men: bald is sexy. It's true. We like it. If you're upset over that receding hairline or that donut ring, shave the shit off. Sex-say. Hot.  Just shave the shit off and call it a day. A field of lonely hairs waving over your dome is not fooling us. We can see your scalp. Patrick Stewart? Sexy. Sexier than a guy 20 years younger who thinks he's fooling me with his lonely hairs or sloppy donut ring. A comb-over is a definite no-go. You can just stop reading if you think a comb-over is a viable option for thinning hair. If my man had a comb-over, I'd lop that shit off while he slept. Growing it long in the back and making a ponytail out of it? Well, I won't say it can't work, but if you choose this option, make sure you can carry that shit off. You'd best be one sexy motherfucker to go with the balding ponytail option. The hat? This is the male version of wearing falsies. Someday that shit is going to come to light. You're not fooling anyone, honey, and you may well piss a woman off with that little ruse. Now a hat can be hot, and I'm not saying you can't do the hat AND the bald. Just don't wear the hat specifically to hide the bald. It does not work.
Moving on. So, Kevin:

"Hello Ladies ... may I interest you in some conversation?"

Blank stares.

Kevin would not be dissuaded. Now I'm sorry, but when two women hesitate, look at each other, and come back with, "Um, we're actually leaving before too long, but thanks," they're really not that into you. I won't even go into how many times he asked if he could sit down. Again, guys: if the answer is not a definitive YES, assume that means NO. I decided, fine, you want to push yourself on us, let's have some fun. I'm fucking with you, Kev, and not in a good way.

I asked, "So, Kevin, what brings you over to our table?" Knowing full well it was the now-empty shot glass with whipped cream lingering on the rim. Kevin stammered and stared and finally came back with some lameass shit about true conversation and connections. Right.

"So, ladies ... what's your story? I'm a bit of a philosopher. Why are you here? Ah you're friends. Of course. The question should be, 'Why are we friends?' (ha ha ha) Are you married? Out with the girls? May I sit down?"

We did not scoot over.

We gave fake names. I was Shania, in honor of the karaoke pouring through the speakers. Kevin didn't make the connection. My Bitch was Jasmine, which apparently is some sort of street name she'd had back in the day. I believe it was actually "Sweet Jasmine", but Kevin didn't need any encouragement.

We asked Kevin about his philosophy. His philosophy was "true connections" and "real people". Right. Like I've never heard that before. At least be original, dude. I'm surprised he didn't whip out the always-impressive I Like Walks on the Beach deal. He did, however, drop the fact that he takes care of his sick father, and that he's pretty much solvent, as he's got some sort of business selling windbreakers, which allows him to pursue his passions. Including philosophy.

I told Kevin that we'd actually met through My Bitch's brother, and she caught on and chimed in that she had stolen me away from him. Kevin was looking a bit uncertain at this point. I let him know that My Bitch tended to get pretty jealous, so ...

Kevin blinked. He responded smartly with, "She does? Tha's okay ... I'm drunk too!"

Me: "No. JEAL-OUS, not drunk. I said jealous."

Kevin blinked some more. He raised himself half way out of his chair, rubbed his face, eyes darting nervously around the room. Good, I thought. That freaked him out -- he's so out of here. I underestimated the power of testosterone. (Fool!) Kevin sat back down. "I like it!" he confessed, breathlessly. "I've got to hear about this!"

Typical. I am out of practice. When has the possibility of lesbians ever freaked a guy out enough to get rid of him? What am I, a rookie?

Kevin eyed us with new interest and respect. Whatever. Like that whole "I'm so down with lesbians" bit is any kind of original.

"Do you ladies like Faith Hill? Tim McGraw?" he asked, whipping out his cell phone.

"Um... NO," in stereo.

"Oh." he shrugged, slipping the phone back in his pocket. "Then there's no point in it..."

We didn't take the bait. Kevin held out for about 10 seconds. "Oh, I just have to show you this ... I'm not trying to intrude, but when you ladies see ..." he flips open the phone and proudly reveals a picture of some chick's back on a stage with a bunch of lights. "That's Faith Hill!" He reverently confides.

"Oh. Mm-hmm." (again with the stereophonics)

At this point, Kevin gets a bit emotional. His barefaced desperation is clutching at our sleeves. "No, ladies ... I met her. Faith Hill. I was on stage with her. I gave her my windbreaker. We were all together -- everyone -- this was after 2001, after 9/11." Kevin shuts his eyes tightly and takes a moment. "9/11, ladies ... it was ... we were all there," Well shit. Now he's whipped out 9/11 on our asses. What is he, George Bush? Fuck. "To this day, she still has my windbreaker. I gave it to her."

My Bitch and I exchanged a glance that spoke volumes. Mainly, "This motherfucker is just too damn pathetic to mess with. Let's blow this pop stand." I told Kevin I needed to get home to my kids. I was tempted to tell him I had nine kids, but this shit wasn't even entertaining. Plus, that probably wouldn't have fazed him.

Kevin was just on this side of tears. Goddamn. "But ... I'm real! I'm true! I showed this to you," waving the phone. Yeah. About that...

We were out of there. On the way out, I told Li'l Humpty that we were sorry to be missing her rendition of Ice Ice Baby after all.

She understood.