The Karaoke Chronicles: The First Night of Russmas

The first night of Russmas fell like an anxious, awkward geek asking a beautiful woman out on a date -- blinded with ambition, full of expectation, and, whatever the result, destined for the annuls of exaggeration. Russmas began in the Kopa Room, a bar in Anaheim's Linbrook Bowl, where I first caught karaoke fever several years ago with my friend Eric. I don't remember how we discovered the place -- I think someone invited us, and we quickly began to pay the favor forward by dragging whomever we could to this dive-within-a-dive. (I mentioned it's a bar in a 24-hour bowling alley, right?) In recent years, I've weened away from the Kopa, a little frustrated by the snail's pace rotation and interested in broadening my karaoke venue tastes, but Russmas just had to begin there. Russ was born almost twenty-nine years ago in Bridgeport, Connecticut, but KaraokeFanboy was born in the Kopa Room.



And on the first night of Russ, karaoke gave to me . . . an opportunity to sing five whopping songs, thanks to a very slow Thursday night. My "set list" was as follows:

"Summer of '69" -- Bryan Adams*
"Read My Mind" -- The Killers
"Boys in the Hood" -- Dynamite Hack
"All These Things That I've Done" -- The Killers
"Wanted Dead or Alive" -- Bon Jovi



Since my last visit to the Kopa, the karaoke system has been updated from CD's (that stands for "compact disks," kids) to digital, a system with its own pre-established song list. I noticed that the song selection was little thinner than I remember, some of the tracks older and more obscure. Also, and most detrimentally, on stage my vocals boomed back at me, so I couldn't sing to the track as much as I like. It's a technical complaint with a philosophical premise -- I'm on stage to become one with the song, and to share my vocal interpretation of it with others. I can hear myself sing anytime.

Whether or not that analysis is as serious as it's written is totally up to you.



Oh, but that's just the beginning . . . In the midst of these technical difficulties, a few Russmas miracles bloomed, like the Christ-child Himself emerging from the rigor of the manger. First of all, the K.J.'s name was also Russ, an old acquaintance from my more frequent days in the Kopa Room, and when he heard we were celebrating Russmas, he milked the joke all night. He shared his "secret stash" of song CD's with me, which included the Killers tunes (though I loathed their version of "Read My Mind") and some Dave Matthews Band stuff I noticed missing from the revised song list. Then, when I settled up at the bar and an older lady (just beyond the cougar category in age and looks) asked if I had finished singing, I replied, "Oh, no, I have eleven nights left!" After a brief explanation, she mused, "Russmas . . . I will never forget that." You know the old saying, if you could save just one life, it's all worth it? Night one, mission accomplished.

The dark horse treat of the night was when a gentleman, who may or may not have caught the Russmas spirit, bought my girlfriend, our friend, and me a round. He had sung Bon Jovi's "I'll Be There for You," and I sung along, laughing with him when he couldn't hit the higher notes and '80s rock-'n-rolly guttural screams. Sure, I was sitting with two beautiful women, one of whom appeared available, but I'd like to think that the karaoke connection inspired him to make the Russmas donation. It is a season of giving, after all.


Looks like a Halloween decoration managed to stay ahead of the season. Awesome!

So, did the beautiful woman say yes to Russmas's proverbial advances? Honestly, that doesn't even matter. The fact that he had the guts to ask is enough. In this case, the means are more important than the ends, and either way both are stronger for it. Tonight: El Torito!

* Every night, I plan on singing at least one song from the self-imposed soundtrack of my life. I've dug Bryan Adams forever, and my oldest friends will describe my fandom as fanaticism. His oldest stuff is obviously his best, though his more recent studio albums express a minimalist take on rock 'n roll that a maturing me can really appreciate. The thing about "Summer of '69," besides its potential for sexual innuendo? Adams sums up the staples of adolescence -- friends growing apart, romance, burgeoning creativity -- with some of the best chords of the '80s. "Standing on your momma's porch/You told me that you'd wait forever/Oh, and when you held my hand/I knew that it was now or never/Those were the best days of my life . . . But I guess nothing can last forever/Forever, no." What better way to kick off a self-indulgent birthday celebration for a man-child like me?

That's a rhetorical question.