The Karaoke Chronicles: Darwin's Waiting Room Bar & Grill

Charles Darwin once wrote, "In the struggle for survival, the fittest win at the expense of their rivals because they succeed in adapting themselves best to their environment." I don't know if this quote is the mission statement for karaoke night at Darwin's Waiting Room Bar & Grill, but if so I wouldn't be surprised.

On Friday night, after an inspiring Serene Dominic show at Donna Jean's Libations in Glendale, my friends and I returned to downtown Phoenix to check out Darwin's, across the street from Hazelwood's First Place Bar & Grill. Hazelwood's, though tied with Darwin's in the superfluous long name category, was recently voted the BEST karaoke in Phoenix by our local liberal freebie, The New Times, and has become an impossible endeavor for karaoke enthusiasts that show up an hour into the evening and hope to squeeze in a song in their whopping fifty person rotation. So, we wanted to see if Darwin's was evolving to accommodate the castaways looking for a convenient alternative.

Unfortunately, we may have picked the worst night for it. Apparently, the owner was celebrating his birthday on Friday night and the joint was more crowded than usual. As soon as my party arrived, I turned in the Monkees' "(I'm Not Your) Stepping Stone," and shortly afterward my friends (including Serene!) turned in their choice tunes. Then the waiting began.

Right before we scored a booth, the KJs blatantly announced, "We have 27 singers in the rotation! [That must be a lot of Darwin's, albeit it still pales to Hazelwood's 50 plus.] So, if you wanna move up, you know what to do!"

Suddenly, legitimately patronizing the bar wasn't enough to participate in the karaoke. Now, as a karaoke enthusiast, oblige me some commentary on the practice of tipping the KJ. Do you tip the waitress before your meal arrives? Do you tip your barber before your haircut? Do you tip the valet before he parks your car? Of course not -- right? -- because the tip often depends on the quality of service. If the waitress gets your order wrong, or the barber gives you a mullet, or the valet steals your car, this significantly affects your gratuity -- yes, that's "gratuity," which shares the same root as "gratitude," as in, appreciation after the fact.

So . . . why the heck should I tip the KJ before I sing? What if he doesn't play the right song, or the song track is damaged and can't be played, or the sound system fails, or [enter any other variable that might make the experience something other than the pure fun it should be]? If a "cover" is required to sing, announce that upfront. That may potentially trim the rotation, anyway, and folks that really want to sing will pay to dominate the mic. Otherwise, I say, hospitably announce your long list of performers and treat the crowd like patrons, not johns on Van Buren. Remember: every KJ is just one good band booking away from losing that gig. That's survival of the fittest.

If only my gripes ended there. Before long, we realized the rotation was taking forever because the KJs and their friends were singing every fourth or fifth song! Didn't you just say the rotation was longer than usual? This mic hoggery baffled me to no end, and while my friends and I did get to sing, sophomore efforts were looking grim. (Incidentally, I briefly lost my glasses during a head-banging rendition of "Stepping Stone," a problem I reckon Micky Dolenz never had!) In the end, I decided to play the system. After last call, I approached and highly complimented one of the ladies blessed with frequency in the rotation, then asked if she'd do me the honor of singing a duet. She quickly turned the song in, and two performers later, we were up. It would've been a crime had I not anticipated it in the first place.

The song we sang was Meatloaf's "I Would Do Anything for Love (But I Won't Do That)." Yes, that tune betrayed my penchant for parenthetical songs that night, more importantly it challenges the concept of the duet, as the female vocals are essentially a choral epilogue at the tail end of 'Loaf's signature six minute soliloquy of song. My partner was chomping at the bit for her turn, and perhaps for the most fleeting of moments, she understood how the rest of us felt that night, watching her sing time after time. Justice? Yes -- but more poignantly, survival through adaptation.

These variable make my first tryst at Darwin's Waiting Room Bar & Grill difficult to evaluate from a karaoke night perspective. Maybe the joint isn't as much about the waiting when the manager isn't celebrating his birthday. To be fair, the wait staff was attentive and the joint itself had that post-modern dive quality that's all the rage right now, so I would definitely give it another shot. Let's just get one thing straight, Darwin's: I may like to sing the Monkees' songs, but even the forefather of evolution isn't gonna make a monkey out of me.

The Karaoke Chronicles: Recent Sound Bytes

In an effort to streamline "The Karaoke Chronicles," here are some smaller reviews that were buried in other blog posts recently.

The Mobile Karaoke Unit

April 1 was also Phoenix's monthly "First Friday" art walk, which has become less about art and more about adolescents offering "free hugs" to oblige their attention-starved hormones. That night, my friends and I found the Mobile Karaoke Unit, a bicycle-propelled karaoke machine that tours First Friday and other events in metro Phoenix. Much to my delight, I sang the Monkees' "Daydream Believer," and many passers-by stopped to sing along. The MKU is an ingenious idea, I give credit to its K.J. for combining my two favorite hobbies (riding bikes and karaoke) into a virtual portable event. I'll endure hundreds of offers for free, sweaty hugs if it means singing another Monkees tune to the beautiful Phoenix skyline.

*****

Song Choice: T.O.I.L.

I was excited to discover recently that Hazelwood's First Place Bar & Grill has a very decent selection of David Gray songs ("Babylon" is usually the only one to be found), so I signed up to sing "The One I Love." When David includes this song on concert song lists, it's abbreviated "T.O.I.L.," which I think is an ironic way to describe the one you love, but you can't find the alphabet, plain and simple.

You also can't fight a large lady on her fifty-third birthday. Hazelwood's has a Celebrity Room apart from the main bar, and I like to sing to the folks that think they may be safe from the karaoke. In this case, when they saw the title of the song, they were more than eager to have me dance for their birthday girl. They didn't suspect the gravity of the song, and honestly I didn't let it stop me from simulating a lap dance, to the best of my ability. So, I was singing lines like, "I'm leaking life faster than I'm leaking blood," while this rather large woman slapped my butt and pulled me onto her lap. I sang, "Don't see Elysium, don't see no fiery hell" when my head was in her chest. Well, I guess David got that right.

So, "The One I Love" is a song of juxtapositions. I'm really not surprised.

The Karaoke Chronicles: DiVerti Bar & Grill

originally published in an issue of Tempe Starving Artist

diverti (adj.): 1. amused, entertained (French to English translation); 2. the latest bar and grill to inhabit the northeast corner of Mill Ave. and University Dr. in Tempe.

Longtime Tempe residents and ASU students on the ten-year plan might remember when 4 E. University Dr. was Ruby Tuesday's, then most recently Sucker Punch Sally's. Now, with hardly enough time to mourn these fallen comrades in Mill Avenue's war against the struggling economy (and the sneak attack by the Tempe Marketplace), DiVerti rises to defy the odds and remain a college town staple. I hope. I don't handle change well.

On Wednesday night, December 1, I was riding my bike past DiVerti from ASU's Empty Space Open Mic (on Rural and University, the first Wednesday of the month) when I saw the “Karaoke Tonight!” sandwich sign on the sidewalk. I was excited. See, growing up in Peoria, Mill Avenue was a magical, faraway place where cool college kids hung out. The few times we endured the trek to the distant East Valley, the tales we'd heard of all-night parties and sidewalk entertainment were confirmed, from drum circles to manic street preachers to the Coffee Plantation's mocha to Jack in the Box's treacherous drive-thru. Now, in adulthood, the beer goggles have been lifted and I see Mill as the desperate, strung-out whore it's always been, but, still, the thought of singing karaoke at its hub roused my inner child. If only my old chums from high school could see me now, me, well over 21 and strolling into a Mill Ave. bar on a WEEK night! Ha!

Of course, they didn't see me – and I don't know if anyone did. At 10 p.m., DiVerti was dead, and the K.J. (dubbed DJ Doubt It) was singing “Marco Polo” to just a few folks scattered around the dining room. The bartender, Eric, was hospitable, and we briefly discussed the doom and gloom of business at that corner before a large group came in and distracted his attention. A young lady among them sang Meatloaf's “Paradise by the Dashboard Light,” wins the endurance award for her ten minute rendition, and was the highlight of my ninety minutes there.

So, this isn't much of a karaoke adventure. It's more of a plea. Please, go to DiVerti on Wednesday night for DJ Doubt It's karaoke time. My inner child wants to invite his friends next time and would be terribly embarrassed if the joint was closed.

You'll have an extensive song list to look forward to, and while I appreciate the KJ's attempt to lay down some ground rules at the beginning of the folder (including a rule that dissuades against depressing, broken-hearted ballads, a phenomenon easily avoided if those songs weren't options at all), the bottom line is, don't be an obnoxious mic hog. Drink specials are very affordable, too, with beers ranging from $2 to $4. All of this makes for a great midweek diversion, which may be what DiVerti means . . .

. . . Hopefully, it's not just a short phonetic jump to that bittersweet good-bye, a rivederci. I hope. I don't handle change well.

The Karaoke Chronicles: O'Kelley's

originally published in an issue of "Tempe Starving Artist"

On Guadalupe and Dobson in westernmost Mesa, O'Kelley's is just far enough from the ASU campus to get away from all those Mill Avenue-oriented, amateur freshmen bar-hoppers*, but just close enough to offer more experienced drinkers a chance to enjoy a good dive bar in their own backyard. As the name implies, O'Kelley's is an Irish pub, with all the typical bar food trimmings and drink specials that would make St. Patrick forget about those pesky snakes – but most importantly, on Mondays and Thursdays, karaoke starts at 9 p.m.

I've been to O'Kelley's a few times, but only the latest visit was with the intention of writing a review, so I was particularly cognizant of the elements that would make for a great night of karaoke. Firstly, the song selection is tops, with a wide variety of rock classics, country (if you're into that), and some contemporary hits. (My date was impressed to find HIM, a Finnish goth band, in the folder, so I guess we should be, too!) The K.J. seems genuinely excited when you perform, and she plays an applause track that sounds like a hailstorm, sure to boost even the most timid performer's ego. The sound system is great, as well, but the bar divides the joint into two rooms, with one half dedicated to pool and darts, and venturing anywhere into that area is a karaoke black hole. Nobody over there is interested in hearing your rendition of Weezer's “Say It Ain't So,” and we both know that's their loss.

Be warned, though, that the distance from ASU is as much a blessing as it is a curse. On the right night, O'Kelley's is the kind of place that, if you bump into a tough guy's girlfriend during your, uhm, enthusiastic interpretation of Tenacious D's “Wonderboy,” said tough guy will shake your hand with a death grip and offer to “put you down” if you do it again. It's the kind of place that, if you offer the tough guy's girlfriend a drink to apologize for the accident, she will quickly and knowingly ask for a shot of Patron Silver, chilled, which is no cheap peace offering. Fortunately, it's the kind of place where such a gesture is well received, where the tough guy will shake your hand again afterward, calling your apology a “class move,” adding, “I like you now.” I'm not saying this happened to me or anything. O'Kelley's just strikes me as that kind of place.

If you get to O'Kelley's early, you'll sing all three of the songs you listed on your request slip, so I highly recommend this bar to karaoke enthusiasts interested in singing for fellow karaoke enthusiasts. It's a respite on the fringes of a college town, with all the implications that come with the territory.

*The kind that somehow puts a “w” in “shots,” i.e. “Let's do shawts!”

The Karaoke Chronicles: Scaraoke at Kirk's

I love Halloween. I love karaoke. So, when I heard the two were joining forces as “scaraoke” at Kirk's Sports Grill after downtown Mesa's Second Friday in October, I was excited to see the result. According to Second Friday's Facebook, the deal was simple: Come to Kirk's in costume, get discounts on food and drinks. Oh, I love food and drinks, too.

With just that much encouragement, my girlfriend donned her sexy witch costume, and my buddy Ian gathered his gaudiest clothing possible to pull off a believable porn star (er, no pun intended). I dressed in my mother's old full body pumpkin costume, which is exactly as Oedipal as it sounds. The three of us were Halloween incarnate, and we excitedly entered Kirk's to join others presumably as enraptured by the spirit of the season as we were.

Turns out, “enraptured” is the wrong word, unless “biker” is the most popular Halloween costume this year.

Yes, we were the only ones in costume, but, undaunted, the witch, the pumpkin, and the porn star took a table and signed up to sing as readily as the rest of 'em. At that point, we had to. Fortunately, Kirk's is as open-minded and accepting as any other sports bar on Main Street in downtown Mesa. The crowd, with its wide age range and surprisingly even male/female ratio, sang along to my stirring rendition of “Piano Man,” at least until I obnoxiously slurred the classic chorus into, “Make us a pie, you're the Pumpkin Man . . .!”

Kirk's prices are probably the best in town; a pitcher of Amber Bock cost us five bucks, so ten bucks kept our glasses full for hours. Further, the karaoke jockey is a gracious host, and while I usually loathe k.j.s that invite themselves into a duet (this is MY fifteen minutes of fame, dammit!), his contributions were more supportive than selfish. Ian forgot to put his name on his song submission, which theoretically shouldn't have been a problem considering his distinguished porn star garb, but when we realized what was taking so long the k.j. quickly compensated, and my buddy's impression of Freddie Mercury was soon complete.

Granted, dressed as a pumpkin, I had a unique experience that probably doesn't reflect a regular Friday night at Kirk's Sports Grill. My girlfriend was afraid I'd get beaten up, but my theory stood true: Who's the bigger wuss, the guy dressed as the pumpkin, or the guy that picks on the guy dressed as the pumpkin? That I walked out of Kirk's safely, with a memorable night of karaoke to boot, definitely put a smile on this Jack O'Lantern's face.

The Karaoke Chronicles: An Evening with Grace

I've been to dozens of bars and lounges in my many years as a karaoke enthusiast, but I've never considered myself a "regular" at any of them . . . except the Kopa Room. Nestled in the 24 hour Linbrook Bowling Alley in Anaheim, California, the Kopa Room would probably be considered a "dive bar" by today's swanky standards, what with its dim lights, the arcade card and trivia games, the mirrored walls. Yet, I've grown to appreciate these bastions of nightlife, because if you want to get in deep, you have to dive.

I've dragged many karaoke accomplices to the Kopa Room over the years, beginning with my old friend Eric. For a strong several months, he and I went to the Kopa at least once a week, recognizing the regulars and witnessing some of the strangest performances I've ever seen to this day. Who can forget the deaf gentleman's stirring rendition of "Lean On Me?" Or the time the KJ brazenly and blatantly stole my song? My friend and coworker Konrad is the latest to accompany me to, and find himself enchanted by, the Kopa Room, regularly on Tuesdays of all nights. Too late to continue the frivolity of the previous weekend and too early to acknowledge the upcoming one, one might liken Tuesday to the friend that comes to the party without a six pack, but you'd be surprised. Isn't it always the quiet ones?

A few weeks ago, Konrad and I strolled into the Kopa Room as we had for several weeks, and the crowd seemed no more or less interesting: a few scattered couples occupying the tables, the regulars at the bar. We took a table, turned in some songs with our favorite KJ Bill, and infiltrated the rotation in no time. I probably sang "Tiny Dancer" or "Careless Whisper," one of the many ballads I reserve for quiet nights like that . . . surely not the kind of song that would've garnered attention from the beautiful Asian chick sitting at the table in front of us -- with her stoic boyfriend. Konrad and I had noticed them earlier, how she was much more affectionate than he was, how he ignored her advances with a silently inflated bravado. Despite his seemingly cold shoulder, I didn't expect the young lady to turn and talk to us, but . . .

"Do you guys rap?" she turned and asked us suddenly, almost accusingly.

"I can rap," I quickly retorted, as I'm never one to pass up a potential karaoke request.

"This room needs some rap," she concluded.

Truly, we had been challenged, if not personally, then socially, to breathe some life into an otherwise dismal evening. So, I turned in Vanilla Ice's classic "Ice Ice Baby." I've sung "Ice Ice Baby," more than once in the Kopa with Eric, in fact, but never at someone's behest, so I was eager to see the room's response. When Bill called my name, the young lady actually joined me onstage, but I warned her not to steal my spotlight. Oh, and I was serious. Sure, she had requested the song, but I'll be damned if someone uses me to enter the rotation prematurely. Fortunately, my dramatic interpretation of that Lyrical Poet with a Master Plan's masterpiece overshadowed her suggestive dancing, and I returned to my seat vindicated in the attempt to amuse the crowd.

Eventually, we were invited to the couple's table, along with another, much larger gentleman, who had also started the evening in the company of a female Asian friend who hastily exited after he dragged her onstage for a birthday song. Introductions went around the table: the large gentleman's name was Jeff, Mr. Strong-'n-Silent's name was Steve, and his girlfriend, the one that brought us all together, was Grace. Now, I frequently made steady eye contact with Steve to make sure he wasn't seething at our intrusion, but he warmed up to us quickly and even bought a round. Shortly, Konrad and I were more in Steve's pocket than Grace's pants, which was just fine with us.

When a group of rowdy Yankees fans burst into the room, the root of Steve's smoldering became apparent. See, the Yankees were playing our Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim (long name . . . need to . . . catch . . . my breath) in the World Series, and apparently Steve was an Angels fan. To say he admonished the Yankees fans is being kind to the concept of admonishment, but despite his alcohol drenched rage, he kept his balled up fists to himself. Grace was a different story, though. At one point, she removed one of the fan's caps and placed it over a table's candle centerpiece, and it sat there long enough for me to think that Steve's athletic allegiance wasn't the only thing that could inflame the room. Thankfully, Bill quickly warned Grace that another move like that would get us kicked out. Alas, the Kopa Room had more in store for us that Tuesday night.

A group of Samoans stumbled into the room, obviously continuing a party from somewhere else, and their birthday girl, deliciously named Muffin, was quickly taken by Grace. Grace and I had made a motion for our group to dance, but Muffin cut in, and, as we had learned, Grace's hospitality knew no bounds. Before long, she and Muffin were onstage singing the Pussycat Dolls' "Don'cha," and Konrad, Jeff, and I verbosely wondered if "Muffin" was a nickname for the birthday gal's preferences in life. Don't get me wrong; Muffin sang incredibly, but she was also a party animal determined to have a great time. In the Kopa Room that night, that great time was Grace . . .

. . . who, after many drinks, hardly lived up to her name. By closing time, she was stumbling out of the bowling alley surrounded by Muffin's posse, and Steve-o wasn't pleased. I reckon all of the attention was more than he could take. Interestingly, he shook hands with his World Series rivals, but the Samoans' advances had crossed a line.

"Give me your keys!" he demanded of Grace. "I'm getting your car!"

Konrad, Jeff, and I were amused that he was getting her car, but the look in his eyes assured us that the time for joking around was over. Emboldened by her admirers, Grace was rebellious, which only fueled her boyfriend's fire. When he finally pulled up the car, he and Muffin played tug-o'-war with Grace, which was as awkward to watch as it must've been to experience. My friends and I were in the middle of an interesting and potentially dangerous predicament; if we attempted to mediate, we could've found ourselves in a fracas with practical strangers that might've cost us the chance to return to our favorite karaoke venue. If we didn't intervene with our sober objectivity, someone might've been seriously hurt, someone who had shown us strangers nothing but kindness otherwise. The situation was over before we could act either way, as Steve won the war, pulled Grace into the car, and squealed away. The Samoans barked their amusement before we parted ways, and Konrad and I shook Jeff's hand with the unspoken assurance that we'd see him the following Tuesday with the hopes that it would all happen again.

That singular experience betrays everything I love about karaoke as the ultimate social experiment. Consider: the boyfriend/girlfriend dynamic, the culture clash (Steve was a Hispanic dude with an Asian girlfriend who beckoned white guys like us to her table and attracted Samoans like Muffin on the dance floor), even the pop culture influence of the World Series. Push this motley crew of behavioral variables into a pool of booze and you have a Tuesday night with all of the excitement of a Friday night, and perhaps all of the regret of a Sunday morning. Finally, these variables would've never gathered around the edge of the same pool if they hadn't been invited by karaoke, the most hospitable host of all. Karaoke is the only phenomenon I know that can take any ol' boring evening . . . a give it a little grace.


This detail is from a larger drawing of October events, and I've been wanting to color it for naught, so at least I can put this piece up here to illustrate this karaoke misadventure's major players.

The Karaoke Chronicles: Palm Springs Eternal

A few years ago, I wrote, "Palm Springs dies every night at 11 p.m." I retracted that statement when I discovered Peabody's Coffee Bar, a joint that unapologetically offers weekend karaoke, but for the past two years Peabody's has been closed when my coworkers and I have ventured into the desert for our annual leadership retreat. So, like a cowboy in the Old West looking for a hospitable small town saloon, I've spent two dreary summers scouring Internet listings for karaoke venues in the high desert -- and, to my surprise, I've never been disappointed. In short, I've been to Palm Springs five times now, and every time I've enjoyed a fond karaoke experience. Does that searing sun bring out one's need to experience a proverbial spotlight at night, too? I've decided to compile these experiences in an attempt to answer this question and uncover the mystery that is memorable karaoke in Palm Springs.



My first trip to Palm Springs was for a friend's bachelor party (apparently, this was the last time something happened to him), and I confess that I don't remember the experience that well, so I asked a few of those old pals for their fondest recollections of that weekend. Interestingly, their respective goggles were lifted as they remembered the same things. Their descriptions of that night's supporting cast are most intriguing: The woman wearing the see-through shirt that wouldn't stop checking herself out in the mirror . . . The larger woman that proudly sang Alanis Morissette's "You Outta Know" . . . The karaoke jockey that planted a kiss right on our bachelor's lips . . . Each of these caricatures reflects a need to be seen and heard, to emerge as a flower from the otherwise barren desert. This may yet prove my theory.

I remember that place we frequented those years ago, and in fact I ventured back there again just last year, but their karaoke equipment was on the fritz. A coworker of mine is pretty handy with computers and sound equipment, so we resurrected the system enough to illicit a crackle of music, but despite my ability to beckon folks in from the street, the bartender was hesitant to let us lead any karaoke festivities. Fortunately, we found an upstairs bar across the street that offered a perfect karaoke memory, where I actually burst onto the balcony to serenade the whole city for a time. Some wayward coworkers went to that initial joint first and told us later that they had indeed cranked the crackling crooning without us -- essentially taking advantage of our help then kicking us out. Were the regulars afraid we'd steal the spotlight? Man, we just wanted to turn it on for them!

Fortunately, this year's experience was more fruitful, as I dragged coworkers to not one but two nights of karaoke, in two totally different locations, no less. On that Thursday night, my cohorts and I were browsing the farmers' market downtown when I spotted an inviting banner outside of the Alternate Route. The karaoke had already begun but the crowd was sparse, so I was able to sing a whopping six songs before the night was over. As the name of the bar suggests, the Alternate Lounge was particularly friendly toward Palm Springs' homosexual community, and while I was afraid that my usually conservative boss would cower at the sight of two men cuddling on the couches around us, he took to the open atmosphere happily. Speaking of alternatives, the comfortable couches were a pleasant change of pace from the usual bar stool or wooden table, so despite the K.J.'s penchant for talking to performers while they sing, everyone was quite comfortable -- with the joint, and each other -- making for a pleasant evening of karaoke all around.



The next night required a little more research, but we found Cicchi's Sports Shack in Palm Springs' neighboring Cathedral City (thanks in large part to our calling the place some four times) with no expectation that it would offer one of the most memorable karaoke experiences I've ever had. Cicchi's is a much more traditional bar than the Alternate Route; without using too much hyperbole, let's just say that a white guy like me, having acquiring some redness on my neck fro the desert sun that day, felt right at home. Within minutes, some rowdy young gentlemen befriended the pretty young ladies in our group, and my song choices, like "Summer of '69" and "You Give Love a Bad Name," were bar-wide favorites. However, when two Valley girls on the prowl for an easy karaoke crowd showed up, they easily stole the show. One sang well enough, but the other was rather . . . outgoing . . . and by the end of the night she left none of her assets to the imagination. Needless to say, I left Cathedral City saying, "Holy . . .!" -- but fortunately I wasn't the one determined to end up on his knees.

While two hot chicks singing and flashing their goods makes for a great story, I wouldn't do my purist propensity for karaoke justice without pointing out how their drunken obnoxiousness threatened the sanctity of the evening. See, Cicchi's doesn't have a stage, which is fine if you tend to stand on chairs like me, but one's vulnerability to crowd interference is becomes greater, especially as the booze flows more freely. I frowned when one of the Valley girls began blowing on performer's ears, especially one hapless gentleman's who seems flushed by her and eager just to finish his tune. When she threatened to interfere in one of my songs, I rebuked her, to which she snidely replied, "Oh, you just want the spotlight, is that it? Do you want the spotlight?" Uhm . . . yeah?! Isn't that why I've volunteered to sing a familiar song in front of a room full of strangers? For some of us, crooning a tune is our makeshift lifting of the skirt, our showing off what the good Lord gave us. At least I can show off what my pipes are capable of in polite society . . .



Now, when her dancing inspired another (an admitted mother of five?) to join her for a virtual strip-off during my Meatloaf's "I Would Do Anything for Love (But I Won't Do That)," who was I to stop them? Their contest only drew more eyes to where I was singing, and in those rare moments I essentially facilitated entertainment even those averse to karaoke could enjoy (not to mention coming closer to making my ideal small business a reality).

Which finally proves my point. Something about Palm Springs inspires anyone within its city limits to seek that spotlight, despite the blaring sun's rays during the day. Some use it to escape the monotony of living there, while others of us travel there for the opportunity, and every time I've had that chance I've never been disappointed. Even in the heat of the high desert, one can rest assured that karaoke will always be waiting there, like that stereotypical bull's skull, giving locals and wayward travellers alike a chance to be cool -- if only for the length of their favorite song.

The Karaoke Chronicles: The Twelfth Night of Russmas

Eleven days after the Twelve Nights of Russmas began, my birthday actually arrived, just as I had planned. The beginning of my two week vacation from work, I could've slept in that morning, but I awoke early in anticipation of Les Stroud's Good Morning America interview. Stroud, my latest man-crush, is the host of the Discovery Channel's Survivorman, an one-man reality show in which he authentically recreates seven days' worth of survival in tumultuous terrains. While twelve consecutive nights of karaoke by no means compare to a week of endurance in places like the Kalahari Desert or Canada's Boreal forest, I can relate the concept of committing to a project that demands the kind of determination that changes one's lifestyle. On the brink of my thirties, I'm not quite a homebody, but I'm definitely not a swinging socialite, either; in other words, I enjoy staying in as much as I enjoy going out. Twelve nights in a row? Surely even Paris Hilton isn't capable of that, but with karaoke as a catalyst, the effort is truly its own reward.

So what does one learn from twelve consecutive nights of karaoke in eleven different locations throughout Orange County, you ask? That the Kid Rock/Sheryl Crow duet "Picture" quickly becomes the most annoying song in the history of music when heard all twelve of those nights, that's what. Actually, the muses spared us that final night, perhaps because the Linbrook Bowling Alley's Kopa Room was just as dead that Monday as it was the Thursday night we started. Yet, one lesson learned is the tenacity of karaoke itself, how, despite the night of the week, it's still happening anywhere, it's still demanding participation from the faithful and inexperienced alike. For some places, karaoke fills the void between weekends; for other venues, it is the weekend. For some people, it's a whim; for others, it's a must. The soundtrack of dive bars and steakhouses alike, karaoke has become a staple in American nightlife, and there's no escaping it . . . much to Kid Rock's delight, I'm sure, as it keeps his career afloat.

Further, experiencing the karaoke has only been half of the Russmas celebration; blogging about it has been the proverbial pumpkin pie to this holiday's highly anticipated turkey dinner. My aim for these twelve Karaoke Chronicles has been threefold, an effort to (1.) recount a memorable, hopefully quirky evening of karaoke with friends, (2.) review specific karaoke venues throughout Orange County, (3.) to reminisce over certain songs or musicians that have made an impact on my life, and thus that I must "pay forward" to others via karaoke. Mission accomplished, on all fronts.

The final night of Russmas was relatively uneventful by way of peculiarity. The Kopa's Monday night K.J. kept the short rotation moving, and the participants varied from the standard stiffs to the talented extroverted. I was able to sing four songs: two that I had saved for my birthday, and two that have become personal favorites. They were:

"I'm A Believer" -- The Monkees
"Careless Whisper" -- Wham
"The Authority Song" -- John Mellancamp
"Piano Man" -- Billy Joel

I've been an avid Monkees fan for as long as I can remember; since my mom had an admittedly crush on Davy Jones, I dare say my fanaticism is genetic. I have plenty of blog entries dedicated to that, so . . . After "Piano Man," "Careless Whisper" is one of the first songs I ever sang karaoke. My mom has the Wham single on its original vinyl (actually, I have it now), and I fondly remember she and my dad slow-dancing to the tune in our living room when I was a kid. The ballad has become a part of my life's soundtrack; I'm sure you have similar songs. In my opinion, these are the best to share, because your performance will be authentic and free of trepidation. With a lifetime's worth of fondness for that particular tune, who cares what anyone thinks about the way you sing it? Careless, yes, but a whisper, hardly.

In attendance for my actual birthday was my ever-faithful girlfriend, who endured every night with patience and grace, and our friend Stephanie, the runner-up for most dedicated to the cause. A few other co-workers joined us, one of whom was accompanied by an old friend that resides in Japan. Kim had been in town a few months prior and I met him at the Kopa then, too, so his participation this time 'round was darn near poetic; on that June night, he wowed the crowd with a harmonica solo that rivaled the best blues musicians. He was in similar form on my birthday, and I was thrilled when he agreed to join me for "Piano Man," blowing harp to my vocals and making for a truly memorable last performance. He answered that persistent question, "Man, what are you doing here?" with a musical poignancy.

"I'm here to conclude a dozen nights of marathon karaoke that celebrate my twenty-ninth year of life, that's what!" Sing 'em a song, I did . . . actually, thirty-two songs in all . . . and I survived.

The Karaoke Chronicles: The Eleventh Night of Russmas

The penultimate night of Russmas was more treacherous than I could’ve anticipated, perhaps like the very night before Christmas, if you believe the tale of Joseph and Mary’s difficult journey to that fateful manager. When my girlfriend and I arrived at Lucky John’s, we came up unlucky and discovered no room at the proverbial inn, as karaoke was scheduled for Wednesday night despite the Sunday night listing I had researched on-line. Fortunately, I had picked up an issue of Karaoke Scene magazine at Sherwood the night before, which lists karaoke locations by night and county, so we quickly found the Rio Vista Inn in our neighboring Anaheim, like the star that guided the wise men . . . or something. Undaunted, westward lead, we proceeded.

I remembered frequenting the Rio once before, so despite its unlit sign we found the venue relatively easily. Before we strolled into the joint, a gentleman asked to see our licenses and promptly tried to pick up my girl. Thankfully, she isn’t into sixty-year-old smokers with large facial birthmarks -- and, in retrospect, we wonder if the guy even really worked there. We found a booth and the fellow approached again, this time asking about my karaoke preferences.

“Do you do Hootie?” he asked. “Hootie’s new stuff is good, his solo stuff.” I wouldn’t have pegged him for a blowfish kind of guy, but a blowhard? Definitely.

The Rio was full of interesting characters, including this Santa, just passing through from the adjacent bar to use the restroom but happy to answer the request of this little boy by posing for a pic.



Before I turned in a tune, my girlfriend noticed a sign that requested a dollar donation for every submitted song. Apparently, the proceeds benefited the U.S.O., but I can only trust that the Rio is a respectable establishment, the K.J. a man of integrity, and that they weren’t claiming the collection themselves. I was grateful to encounter the pay-to-play phenomenon, because it offered a more comprehensive Russmas experience. Really, only one place that requires a karaoke cover, out of eleven? Not bad. Admittedly, I sang two songs but only paid a single buck; that way, I either cheated the U.S.O. a dollar, or was scammed for only a dollar. I’m cool either way. My song choices were:

“Man on the Moon” -- R.E.M.*
“Wanted Dead or Alive” -- Bon Jovi

So, the last-minute venue change. the questionable I.D. expert, and the unexpected cover would’ve been notable enough, but I was perturbed by a patron whose disregard for his fellow karaoke enthusiast embodies one of my karaoke pet peeves. While a particularly lanky guy and his gal made a duet out of “Piano Man,” a conversely dense metal head tried to commandeer his mic, rudely. His behavior was straight up old school bullying, and his victim was obviously annoyed. This is the point in the night where the K.J. must step up and enforce the dirty side of entertainment facilitation -- assuring the momentary comfort of the entertainer. Alas, the hoarse old-timer was nowhere to be found, until the song was over and he announced my presence to the makeshift stage. Considering my next song was “Wanted Dead or Alive,” my feelings of an impending showdown were appropriate.

Sure enough, the metal head loomed in my peripherals, but I assume my death stare kept him at bay. He offered the “wanted” echoes during the chorus and dabbled with some high pitched harmonies, but I think my no nonsense attitude drove him off. Had he advanced, I honestly don’t know what I would’ve done, but in a venue where one must pay to play, the standards behind the mic should be higher. Sure, I’ve only paid a buck, but considering I could go anywhere else and sing for free, I expect my proverbial fifteen minutes of fame to be mine alone, if I so choose.

The baby Jesus faced a few challenges close to his birthday, too -- namely, a certain King Herod that sought to swipe his fifteen minutes of fame, as well. Fortunately, the lessons of his life still ring true some two-thousand years later, that, if your mission is pure, your cause just, no one can stand in your way.

* Nine years ago, my friends and I celebrated Russmas by seeing the recently released Man on the Moon, the Andy Kaufman bio-pic starring Jim Carrey. I didn’t know much about Kaufman at the time, but the film, coupled by the dually released memoir by Bob Zmuda, changed my life. His philosophy about entertainment, and his lifestyle of prankish antics, drove me to appreciate acts like this, and undoubtedly contributed to my love of karaoke, which often elicits more awkwardness from its audience than the performer. After all, what else is karaoke than releasing one’s own inner Tony Clifton?

The Karaoke Chronicles: The Tenth Night of Russmas (or The Legend of Sherwood Inn)

The Tenth Night of Russmas requires a prologue. Back in June, Eric was in town, and he, our friend John, and I sought to rekindle old times by singing karaoke at Linbrook Bowling Alley's Kopa Room. At the same time, we sought something different, a new memory to cherish, so assuming Linbrook was still plagued by busy Saturday nights and thus a snail's pace rotation, we opted for the mysterious Sherwood Inn just a block or so down. Like Robin Hood and his merry men, Sherwood was destined to be a stretch of unexplored terrain rife with unexpected adventure for us, as well -- and come to think of it, Robin and I both had guys named John with us, too! And we both robbed from the rich -- ah, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

So, Eric, John, and I stroll into Sherwood, discovering a karaoke night, to our delight. When we saddled up at the bar, we quickly realized that we were the youngest guys in the room, in a room full of only guys, except the bartenders, one of whom was on us immediately. Now, when I say "on" us, I mean quite literally, as she, an older Asian woman, nearly sat on my lap. All of the bartenders were older Asian women, in their forties or fifties I presume, and all as scantily clad as can be. The only white server, a surprisingly fit woman named Angela, was hoola-hooping to some old-timer's crooning, when our lap-happy hostess asked us, "Are you guys singing tonight?" John was fast to reply, pointing at me, of course, "Oh, yeah, this guy's great! Wait 'til you hear him!"

"Oh, yeah! You sing good song, you get free drink!" she blurted. Excited at the prospect of a free brew, we were excited . . . and definitely could not have anticipated what happened in the next few moments. Our hostess suddenly pulled aside the top of her dress, exposing her full breast, and shouted, "Who want free milk?!" Unbelievable, hilarious, but in no way tempting, as (1.) I imagine many an old trucker taking her up on that offer, and (2.) I bet that milk is curdled. You have to consider the source, is all I'm sayin'.

To commemorate the night, Eric and I wanted to swipe something from the bar, an old tradition of ours tracing back to the days we crashed strangers' house parties, a harmless misdemeanor, at best (I hope). So, glancing around the room, we found an out-of-place Tweety Bird poster, framed, to boot. The Warner Brothers birdie hangs over my toilet to this day, because, although thankfully we didn't I'm sure we could've very easily seen a puddy tat that night.


So, six months later, John and I actually willingly bring our significant others to this place, this Sherwood Inn, because we're chivalrous. Robin Hood brought Maid Marian to his Sherwood hideaway, so who are we to deny our ladies the same pleasure? Surely, the joint didn't disappoint -- as divey as ever, our waitress wiped the top of our beer bottles before serving them, making us wonder where the brews had been. Again, the youngest people in the place, we were hounded by fellow patrons and servers alike; sometimes our ladies entertained comments on their beauty (not by any sleazeballs, mind, but the old Asian waitresses!), other times we engaged in conversations about Vietnam and hip surgery with an enthusiastic old-timer. Angela hoola-hooped, albeit briefly, and Mary picked up some of the slack during her performance of the Go-Go's classic "We Got the Beat."

(Wait . . . Mary . . . Maid Marian . . . the parallels are vivid!)

Without fail, we saw a breast. No offer of milk, though -- just a token of thanks for our two dollar tip. "One for each titty!" the waitress squealed. No wonder her manta for the night was the country tune "Why Don't We Get Drunk and Screw." Seemed like she took care of the first part easily herself. Meanwhile, John sang a Counting Crows favorite, "A Long December," changing a line to say, "One more night in Sherwood." Love it. I got in four sweet ditties:

"The Authority Song" -- John Mellancamp
"Livin' On A Prayer" -- Bon Jovi
"The Best I Ever Had" -- Vertical Horizon
"I'm an A$$hole" -- Dennis Leary

Yes, by night ten, I reserve the right to recycle some favorites -- including the venue. The Sherwood Inn is a gem in Orange County, a place, like its namesake, where even the most noble deeds are accomplished and shrouded through shady means. It's perpetually decorated for a birthday party, and everyone leaves that joint rich -- with a story you couldn't have anticipated, which in turn begs a nagging question that demands an answer as cyclical as the hoola-hoop around Ang's waist.

"So, would you go back there?"

"Sure would!"

The Karaoke Chronicles: The Ninth Night of Russmas

Back in March, a co-worker and I emerged from a special job-related event in Costa Mesa, California, hungry for a little local karaoke. To the amazement of a relatively techno-ignorant fella like me, she pulled out her cell phone, Googled "Costa Mesa karaoke" or some such work combination, and found Durty Nelly's practically across from the street from us. That night, we stumbled into a kind of karaoke nirvana -- a joint that, contrary to its name, was clean, offered affordable drinks, and most importantly hosted an array of curious characters all bound by a love for their proverbial fifteen minutes of fame with their favorite vocal-free song track. Best of all, at the eye of this storm is Kevin, Orange County's 2007 K.J. of the Year, an award well earned and deserved.

Yes, while Durty Nelly's isn't necessarily my favorite place to sing karaoke (I prefer the dirt), Kevin is definitely my favorite person that facilitates it, for several reasons. First of all, he usually sings only one song every night, the first, and it's usually a hilarious Weird Al tune or an obscure remix of old favorites, keeping himself out of the rest of the rotation and running as smooth a show he can. Between performances, he plays videos, including viral oddities like the recent "Take On Me" literal version that is too hilarious to be believed. (A few nights after I met Davy Jones, he followed my song with a "Daydream Believer" clip. Nice.) Further, he looks like Weird Al, so much so that he appeared on a celebrity lookalike reality show and pulled off an excellent rendition of "Eat It." While his flair for the stage may imply a right to overwhelm it, Kevin's participation in any given song is never an intrusion; in fact, his cameos as Slash in Guns 'N Roses songs, or his spot on guitar solos in "Don't Stop Believin'," enhance the experience as light-hearted entertainment, versus the ego trip oft taken by performers and K.J.s alike. In short, Kevin obviously seeks to provide an interactive, multi-media karaoke experience, one that continues even when you get home, as you can peruse the pics he captures on his comprehensive website.

Of course, Kevin is only half of the equation, the crowd making up the difference for raucous fun. Consider the birthday parties that always reserve and dominate the room's coveted center tables, and the drunk cougars that end up on stage wiggling in a way they probably regret in the morning. Consider the rockabilly waitress and her performances of "Jailhouse Rock" or "Little Red Robin Hood," or John, the regular that nails the Killers' "All These Things That I've Done," every time. (I've mentioned him a few times by now . . .!) On this special night of Russmas, a definitively white guy sang a spot-on rendition of "The Humpty Dance" (sans silver nose, unfortunately), while others engaged in "scare-aoke" (when others turn in a mystery for you) that resulted in a spirited singalong of "R.O.C.K. in the U.S.A." I sang another Mellancamp classic, "The Authority Song" (which has quickly become one of my personal karaoke favorites), eventually followed by Paul Simon's "You Can Call Me Al."*



Thankfully, a few old friends joined my usual karaoke crew this time around, and for the first time all Russmas, all five of the folks at the Russmas table sang a song! It was truly a gift, to have friends and strangers alike united by music they love. If Ebenezer Scrooge hadn't been visited by the three spirits, Bob Cratchit needed only take the old bat to a karaoke night at the local barroom. Though, I'm sure he didn't have a phone that could've helped him find one. I guess some quests are best led by spirits -- and Durty Nelly's has those in spades, not just in those low-priced brews but in that spirited fellow behind the karaoke equipment, conjuring the best of karaoke past, present, and future. It truly wouldn't have been as merry a Russmas without him.

* "You Can Call Me Al" was one of the songs on Eric's list of requests, and a tune he and I performed often back in the day. Note that I said "performed," as I did all of the singing, but he would frequently rush the stage during the musical interludes to mimic the classic Paul Simon/Chevy Chase dance from the song's otherwise uneventful video. In fact, at Durty Nelly's, another '80s aficionado shouted up at me just before I engaged in the dance solo, "Where's your Chevy Chase?!" You were there in spirit, Eric, old friend -- a conjured spirit of Russmas past, indeed!

The Karaoke Chronicles: The Eighth Night of Russmas

The Eighth Night of Russmas experienced an eleventh hour surprise, as I decided to change the scheduled venue from Westside Bar & Grill in Costa Mesa to Loffler's Sports Bar and Grill in Anaheim. My usual karaoke crew and I have already been to Westside, hosted by our favorite K.J. Kevin, and since we were excited to see him at Durty Nelly's the next night, I figured why drive to south Orange County when there's so much undiscovered karaoke country in our own backyard? Considering Loffler's, "country" was the right word, indeed.

A few friends were already at Loffler's when my girlfriend and I arrived, and they quickly warned us of the country music trend sweeping the karaoke stage -- and claimed that we just missed an entertaining bar brawl. When they left, the tide started to turn toward different genres, and I decided to turn in Bon Jovi's "Livin' On A Prayer," a karaoke standard that straddles country western appeal and the rest of the country. I spent the wait before my performance marveling at the size of the joint; Loffler's is its own building, unlike some of the strip mall dives we've recently frequented, complete with two bars if the crowd demanded it. Later a friend mused that the extra space could be utilized for line dancing, a probable deduction considering the country-friendly crowd. They like their open spaces.

Also, I couldn't help but notice the K.J.'s enthusiasm, particularly manifested in her introductions for each singer. She announced the next person to the stage like a D.J. throws to a song on the radio: "And now, singing Bon Jovi's 1986 hit 'Livin' on a Prayer' . . . Russ!" Some might not appreciate having their tune revealed prior to their performance, often as a crowd's collective woot for their song choice is almost as satisfying as performing the song itself, but I appreciated that the K.J. utilized her time in front of the mic effectively this way, rather than by inserting herself into the rotation. She scored her fifteen minutes (spread out into several fifteen seconds), the singers just kept comin'. For me, that's an answered prayer.

As a humorous aside: I opted not to sing the final few "woh-oh's" during the songs fade-out, as I was suffered from a bit of a cold and I didn't want to threaten future nights of Russmas with a sore throat. My girlfriend told me afterward that the chick sitting at the table in front of us uttered a "Whaaat?" when I passed up the guttural exclamations. Dare I remember you, karaoke literally means "empty orchestra," and I'll fill that void any way I please, but I do take comfort that some still treasure the sanctity of a song's original performance. As the song's title implies, "Livin' on a Prayer" is darn near gospel, at least by way of karaoke -- no matter what temple you decide to sing it in.

The Karaoke Chronicles: The Seventh Night of Russmas

The Seventh Night of Russmas really isn't much to blog about. My girlfriend and I went to the local Sunset Lounge, where we met a co-worker of mine, I sang a song, then we bounced. Still, the venue deserves some review, also considering its role as our plan-C on last week's never-ending Friday night.

When I began going to the Sunset Lounge a few years ago, the joint was Fullerton's smokiest dive bar, despite laws to the contrary. While the song selection is great and the karaoke rotation is fluid, many friends of mine refused to go back because of the joint's hazy atmosphere. Interestingly, just a few weeks ago, I overheard the bartender explaining to a fellow customer that the police had begun to crack down on the illegal puffery, fining patrons, the bartender, and the owner $300 each. That means every smoker in the place made the city an easy grand, give or take. So, the Sunset is now smoke free -- and as anybody that has watched the Los Angeles sun set knows, without a little smog, it's not nearly as colorful. Still, the karaoke remains, and the Sunset Lounge is a haven for rockabilly twenty-somethings looking to croon Creed or whatever other guilty pleasure they've decided to inflict upon others.

I sang U2's "Where the Streets Have No Name," a song I'd heard on the radio early that day, and the lyrics of which actually suited the windy, rainy weather outside. "The city's a flood/And our love turns to rust/We're beaten and blown by the wind/Trampled into dust/I'll show you a place/High on ta desert plain/Where the streets have no name." Awesome imagery there. Now, I'm putting myself on a pyre when I confess that I'm not a big U2 fan, though their radio hits are catchy and more poignant than most airwave fodder. In the context of Russmas, I sang the song to remember my high school speech coach and mentor Mr. Martin, who immersed me in Batman canon even more than I already was at the time. More importantly, he instilled in me a self-confidence that manifested through impromptu speech, and through his coaching I won second, first, and third place in the category at the 4A Arizona State Championship three years respectively. Those skills drive me to this day. Mr. Martin was a huge U2 fan and included a few of their songs on the proverbial personal soundtrack he bequeathed me when he moved to Colorado. I don't remember if "Streets" was one of those songs, but considering the tumultuous climate that night, the choice was serendipitous.

"Where the Streets Have No Name" also betrays a sense of idealism indicative of the Sunset Lounge's recent plight, not to mention my twelve day quest to achieve karaoke nirvana. (Not sing Nirvana, but achieve -- oh, never mind.) While the city cracks down on smoking, smokers are forced to find another place to crowd and cloud, and though antagonists, both these folks and the vigilant police are on a the same quest -- to find that perfect place to hang. We all want that perfect sunset at the end of the day, but when the streets have no name, it's pretty hard to find.

The Karaoke Chronicles: The Sixth Night of Russmas

On the way to McClure's Bar and Grill in Tustin, I mused aloud to my girlfriend, "The sixth night of Russmas . . . We're halfway there, baby!" She managed a grin, but I could tell the marathon was getting to her, and honestly I'm feeling the strain, too. Even if we stay at a place for just an hour or two, getting home by or before midnight, this is the week before that other holiday everybody's bustling about, and that has its own traditions to maintain, as well.

Fortunately, McClure's, right down the street from my favorite local comic book shop, has a warm, inviting atmosphere, with those old padded booths I like, where even a fatigued mind can relax and enjoy some karaoke. The K.J. is a no nonsense type, rapidly calling singers to the stage and avoiding the spotlight altogether -- a rare trait in any karaoke jockey. The crowd was a younger sect, too -- the guys a gang of Weezer rejects, the gals a group of watered down Gwen Stefani disciples, all in the best way possible, I assure you. Just south of the Orange Crush (I think that's what they call that assemblage of freeways in OC), this place was the polar opposite of the previous night's TomKat Lounge, the distinction between north and south Orange County.

The song slips boasted three places to list tunes, so if you know what you want to sing, one trip up to the K.J. is all it takes to load up for the night. I haven't seen that in a long time, but the pressure is on -- you know, sometimes the mood changes between songs, and you want to switch things up. On the other hand, once you're in the rotation, you're in, so the format has its advantages. Because of our aforementioned fatigue, I only sang two out of the three songs I listed, with no regrets:

"One Week" -- Barenaked Ladies
"Two Princes" -- Spin Doctors

The Barenaked Ladies and the Dave Matthews Band have vied for the "my favorite contemporary band" position for almost a decade now*, and while "One Week" isn't my favorite of their songs, it's a fast, favorite '90s tune; besides, I think the best BNL song, "What a Good Boy," might put off a crowd . . . that's not to say I wouldn't sing it. Also, Aquaman gets a mention, Superman did in Saturday night's Dave Matthews ditty "Where Are You Going," so . . . if only Martian Manhunter got a plug in a Gin Blossoms song, or something, I might be able to get the whole Justice League out there by the end of Russmas! Ah, but that would be having my birthday cake and eating it, too.

"Two Princes" was a random old radio play favorite I've never sung before, but I don't think I'm Bohemian enough to really pull it off.

The highlight of the night came when someone sang the new Killers song "Human," which everyone I talk to seems to agree is the worst Killers song ever. (According to a coworker, people have recently called KROQ and asked them to stop playing it!) On top of the song's hokey lyrics, the guy sang it terribly, and our grumblings were loud enough to attract the attention of a dude dancing (hence, not human?) nearby. When we shared our disgust with the song, he snidely replied, "Oh, yeah, like that whole 'soul/soldier' song is any better . . ." My friend Stephanie didn't even let him finish. "Shut up! That's the best Killers song!" Soldiers we all became, defending our positions on the matter.

A quick interlude here: Our favorite karaoke venue, Durty Nelly's (coming the Tenth Night of Russmas), boasts a few devoted regulars, one of whom, a Scottish guy, sings the Killers' "All These Things That I've Done" expertly and way enthusiastically. It's become a staple of our Durty Nelly's experience, and why I'd never sing the song there (and hence have opted to sing it twice elsewhere these past few nights!). Also, between the accent and the guy's outed homosexuality, he's a hit with the ladies, mine included. Musing about the tune a few nights ago, my girlfriend summed it up best, explaining that the song has nothing but fond memories attached to it, Nelly's and all. (I particularly liked it at the end of the Pierce Brosnon vehicle The Matador.) So, enter this guy, with the gall to suggest the song barely even has lyrics!

Also, I must insist that this guy looked like Zephram Cochrane as portrayed by James Cromwell in Star Trek: First Contact, weird beanie and all.




Stephanie quickly changed her next song choice to the ditty in question to prove the tune's catchy viability and multi-faceted lyrics. Mission accomplished, and, in her words, the fellow was owned. When he then challenged her to a dance contest, shortly after describing dancing as a vertical expression of a horizontal activity, his true colors were revealed. Talk about moving at warp speed. We left shortly after, the spirit of Russmas still thick in the room, if not also in that guy's pants.

In brief, I would definitely hit up McClure's again. With three nights of karaoke, Tuesday through Thursday, it offers a fun mid-week respite in an inviting atmosphere, even one that inspires rousing debate. The joint lets you be human and, uhm, dancer, whatever that really means.

* For the record, the Monkees are "my favorite band of all time," with Face to Face reserved for "my favorite punk band," and Bryan Adams "my favorite male performer," though his back-up band, with Keith Scott on guitar, is awesome and necessary for old favorite like "Cuts Like a Knife." Just so you know. "My favorite female performer" is still open for suggestions, though Whitney is a strong contender . . .

The Karaoke Chronicles: The Fifth Night of Russmas

I don't know how the term "dive bar" originated, but it's meaning is clear. Diving is a downward motion, to plunge below . . . but in the case of a dive bar, below what? Expectations? Societal standards? The belt? All of the above, I'm sure -- dive bars remain the one true epitome of public drunkenness, rife with dusty decor, shifty clientele, and the unavoidable old whore willing to earn her next drink by way of five minutes alone with you in the bathroom stall. I'm sure when I look up "dive bar" on Wikipedia, I'll see a picture of the TomKat Lounge in Buena Park, California. It's definitively below standard in Orange County's blossoming realm of chic nighttime lounges . . .

Which makes it above expectation for karaoke! On the butt end of a strip mall around the corner from Knott's Berry Farm, the TomKat Lounge offers nightly karaoke for a crowd of the seemingly homeless or drug addicted, with scatterings of folks like my friends and me who don't know what they're getting into. Of course, this impression is only based on a few hours' time, on a Monday night, no less, but everyone seemed so at home in the joint I'd be hard pressed they don't spend as much time there as the karaoke itself. The K.J. we experienced -- a Frank Zappa lookalike, if he'd lived to host karaoke nowadays -- facilitated this circus with expert precision and plenty of positive reinforcement. "Great job! Wasn't that a good job? Give 'im a hand, everyone!" His singing "Dirty Deeds" was an excellent compliment to the whole adventure.

I sang three songs:

"Straight from the Heart" -- Bryan Adams
"Desperado" -- The Eagles*
"Heat of the Night" -- Bryan Adams

That first Bryan Adams tune (my second of Russmas) was appropriate in the context of other, slower songs sung by this wayward group, with lyrics betraying feelings of regret or reflections of a life not yet fulfilled. "Heat of the Night" was pure guilty pleasure, one of Adams' most under-appreciated songs, yet rich in vivid urban imagery and paranoia. I'm plenty of the patrons would've related, had they not stepped out for smoke.

I should comment on my friend Stephanie's rendition of "When He Cheats," a tune that has become the scorned woman's karaoke anthem. I should examine why the lyrics, sans catchy country twangs, are really just a list of felony charges, glamorized by righteous rage and revenge. I should really make an effort to explain why, if a man sang a similar song, he'd be dubbed either a whiny baby or a pompous pig. But I won't. Because I'm the kind of gentleman that insists his girlfriend and one of his best friends that is a girl join him in a place like the TomKat Lounge on a Monday night.

Regarding the song choice in general, the TomKat Lounge boasts four thick binders of tunes, lists of both artists and songs categorized A-M and N-Z, with some 1400 pages per book. At first I wondered if there was a song I couldn't find in the batch, but I quickly realized that the choices were most likely comparable to any other venue -- the TomKat just has more multiple versions of any given song. In contrast, while Elvis secured nearly fourteen pages, the Beatles barely cleared two. I don't know how many times I've started a sentence like this, but, if I were a K.J., I'd streamline my books to the song's artist and title only, leaving whatever version I choose to play up to me. I know karaoke aficionados prefer different incarnations of songs, some with backing tracks or better sound quality, but these people are so advanced in their karaoke commitment that they probably don't need the binders anyone. A newbie faced with literally 2800 pages of songs to choose from? The radio barely plays a top 40! I'd throw in the towel before my fifteen minutes of fame ever began.

Still, this criticism comes in the context of having experienced four karaoke venues consecutively, and a place like the TomKat Lounge, everyone has a little burden to bear aside from lugging that binder to their table. I've overcome my prejudice of people in establishments like that -- if everyone's buying their own drinks and enjoying the karaoke, who cares where they come from, what they look like? Heck, the only real difference between the patrons of a dive bar and those with their heads supposedly above water at Orange County's more prestigious drinkeries is that the former wear their dirt on their sleeves. Everybody else is just better at hiding it. Just beware . . . if these meek folks are truly destined to inherent the earth, Frank Zappa might call your name to sing next.

* When I was a kid, my family and I went to a fair -- maybe a county fair, I don't remember -- in Connecticut where people could pay a few bucks, sing a song in a sound booth, and take the cassette tape home. (A cassette tape is like a CD stretched out between two tony rolls in a convenient little cartridge.) I was five or six years old and sang "Hey, Hey, We're the Monkees," and with my little lisp at the time, it's hilarious to hear now: "Here we come, walking down the stweet . . .!" My dad recorded "Desperado," and the choice resonated with me, his talents as a singer impressed me, even if he was unhappy with the performance, as I remember. My dad has had quite a few karaoke adventures of his own -- it runs in the family. For any desperado, that has to be heartening.

The Karaoke Chronicles: The Fourth Night of Russmas

Before I dive into the Fourth Night of Russmas, I have to marvel at "the power of the blog." Friends (from around the world!) that can't make Russmas have been checking in via comment and e-mail, which is just as effective emotionally as spending a night out together. It's the thought that counts, always.

Sunday, December 14, 2008. On the heels of a relatively quiet Saturday night, I wasn't sure what to expect from downtown Fullerton's Florentine's Grill, right around the corner from Mulberry Street. Right on the corner of Fullerton's busiest intersection, I'd only been in Florentine's once before -- one-part swanky restaurant, one-part mandatory Thursday night frat boy fodder, this joint is just plain too good for me. Leave it to karaoke to bring Florentine's down to earth, a place anyone can go and croon a favorite tune. Besides, anyone on stage is high class, you know what I mean?

To clarify, the karaoke actually goes down in Florentine's Tuscany Room, and the bar's back entrance is a virtual maze between the restaurant, the Tuscany, a billiards room, the restrooms, and if you're really not careful, the neighboring bar Palapa Grill. When we strolled in around 9 p.m. on Sunday night, the room was . . . well, pictures speak louder than words.



A regular, perhaps the regular, was on the mic, and the K.J. greeted me raucously, calling me Ralph Malph and insisting I submit a song. It's really a shame there aren't many famous redheads out there. Still, it's better than Ronald McDonald. Or Carrot Top.

So, I eventually submitted Billy Joel's "Big Shot," a ditty I gladly award Best Sarcastic Inflection in a Song. Something felt off with their sound system -- the music was projecting through the monitors on-stage, but seemingly not out into the bar. When Oscar, apparently the proverbial producer of the whole operation, arrived, he flipped a switch and rectified the situation, much to the rowdy K.J.'s embarrassment. He, the regular, the bartender, and I rotated through a few more songs delightedly. My total song list was:

"Big Shot" -- Billy Joel
"Are You In" -- Incubus
"Time" -- Pink Floyd*



The technical difficulties continued when the cordless mic ran out of juice, and the K.J. asked if anyone had a set of AA batteries on them. My girlfriend suggested we use the batteries in our camera, and sure enough I was quickly hailed the hero of the night, complete with a free round of drinks. I couldn't have said my own name through the mic enough if I were the K.J.! Another Russmas miracle, to be sure.

A few other patrons finally arrived and sat behind us, and I was amused to overhear them dare one another to the stage first. "Are you singing? Oh, I'm not singing. Maybe if you sing first . . ." I was virtually raised on singing out loud; I remember my dad driving, or rocking back and forth in his recliner at home, shamelessly belting along to his favorite songs on the radio. Everybody does it, but something about a stage, a microphone, and an audience of strangers ups the ante, as if one's very destiny rests in the quality of his performance! A word to the wise, future fellow karaoke singers: I could care less how you sing. It's why you sing that counts -- and the right reason is because you love the song you chose. An excited performer is an entertaining one, quality be damned.

Hence, the success of karaoke in the Tuscany Room. Sure, most nights of the week, Florentine's Grill is the stuffed shirt of local restaurants, but sometimes it knows how to let its hair down, clear its throat (or sound system), and belt out an old rock anthem. Incubus was right to ask, "Are you in?"

* In high school, my friends Nathan, Dusty, and I learned of the Pink Floyd "Dark Side of the Moon"/Wizard of Oz synchronization phenomenon (oft dubbed "The Dark Side of the Rainbow"), and we spent an entire night trying to accomplish the alignment between film and album perfectly -- sans drugs, believe it or not. Keep in mind, my years in high school were before the rise of the DVD or any significant on-line media (I think Napster was all the rage -- I was a little disconnected from it all), so Nathan painstakingly attached his VCR to the computer and transferred the film to his hard drive. Hours of uploading and song synchronizing later, we achieved what few had before -- a perfect match between Oz and the album, in its complete two and a half times' worth of replay to achieve the whole duration of the movie. I could spend a-whole-nother blog listed the matches, but the psychedelic experience convinced me of one concise truth: balance does exist in the universe. A relative association exists between seemingly unrelated events, believe you me.

Not to mention, "Time" boasts some of the best lyrics of all time: "And you run and you run to catch up with the sun but it's sinking/Racing around to come up behind you again/The sun is the same in a relative way but you're older/Shorter of breath and one day closer to death." Truer words were never sung . . . and synced to the liberation of the Tin Man.

The Karaoke Chronicles: A Russmas Reminiscence with Eric Gieling

If you'd allow me a brief interlude to my Russmas night reviews, my friend and longtime karaoke partner Eric Gieling became the Ghost of Russmas Past a few posts ago when he commented with this reminiscent list of old on and off stage memories! A true gift, I just had to share, albeit edited for spelling and grammar. Sure, these are just mentions of stories and not the torrid tales themselves, but perhaps they'll serve to foreshadow Karaoke Chronicles of the future! Let the rant begin . . .

Man, if only I was a little closer to help celebrate the 12 nights of Russmas, a traditional that happens to have started after I moved away! So are the days of my life! On the origin story of the Kopa (according to my drunken foggy memory): I actually went bowling there one night and poked my head in what seemed to be the hot spot of the place . . . and like a light shinning on the Holy Grail . . . I think I heard angels sing and say, "When you turn 21 come back and enjoy this Garden of Eden!"

But 12 Days of Russmas deserves a top 12 memories of Karaoke events. Since I can't celebrate I might as well share:

12. Karaoke singing at a pizza place with a little girls soccer team hogging the machine and signing Backstreet Boys!
11. First experience at Dimples where we got black-listed because "Man in the Mirror" was not hip enough for this swanky Hollywood crowd!
10. Mary! Every karaoke guy's dream girl . . . although I am sure she got around she never came and talked to us.
9. The egg! If you don't know . . . well, you don't want to!
8. The Drew Carey lookalike fight! Almost . . . I did think that he was going to at least punch someone!
7. Dimples, the second go around. Getting a picture with a group of strangers and the owner buying us a round of drinks. I would say that you could dub that night "Russmpire Strikes Back!" (Russ's note: "The Eric-mpire Strikes Back" makes more sense to me!)
6. Takes us back to Dimples, where we get to see Def Leopard sing "Pour Some Sugar on Me" live.
5. Ahh, the Kopa Room. So many memories can't believe it took till #5 to get on the list. Do I go with the Mexican Eminem or the guy who played the sax while you sang "Careless Whisper?" (Russ's note: I'd go with the deaf guy that sang "Lean On Me.")
4. Is the Kopa Room again. Where else can you convince two German Girls to sing "99 Luft Balloons" while you have a cougar gyrate on you during the song? (Russ's note: Only in America, that's where.)
3. Sideburns! I shaved my too! (Russ's note: Uhm, mine grew back. You can't fight who you are?)
2. Gay Spice. How can one forget Gay Spice! Man, oh, man how that brings back the memories! You would have thought that would have been the #1 memory, and it is, but I'd just like to add this last one in there for laughs!
1. Our free drink of fresh 2% milk. Wow, I have never been to a place where "Piano Man" has captivated a bar and encouraged people to come in from outside!

So there you have it, my top 12 memories of Russ and me singing karaoke!

The Karaoke Chronicles: The Third Night of Russmas

Saturday, December 13, 2008. The third day of Russmas began with yet another holiday event at work, but my co-workers were obviously too pooped for another egotistic extravaganza, so my girlfriend and I ventured into the night alone, which was just as well considering the location was where we met. Mulberry Street is a restaurant in downtown Fullerton, one of the city's relatively recent additions in the quest to revitalize its historical, traditionally antique shop-ridden district with a nightlife for local college students and the upper middle class. When my girlfriend and I met there in May (through an old co-worker of mine I had converted to the karaoke cause and who was just as excited to find it in such an upscale venue), the singing was in full swing, but this time we arrived way too early, and patrons were still enjoy their fine dining experience. The night before, we were rushing to beat last call, and Saturday, we were ahead of the game. Who says third time's the charm?

I've always lamented about the few places that offer karaoke before 9 p.m. If I want to sing a quick song during my lunch break, why not? What are we so ashamed of, that the karaoke has to wait until the cover of darkness? Well, Mulberry takes that shame a step further, saving its open mic for a late 11 o'clock. Even then, some diners were still enjoying their meals -- darn near elderly patrons at that, so when the K.J. cranked her pre-performers tunes, they grumbled almost as loudly. Now, Earth, Wind, and Fire's "Reason" has sentimental value to me, as one of my boss's favorite songs and the one we played at his birthday roast a few years ago, but cranked to eleven during supper? Mulberry Street's decidedly Caucasian crowd, the senior citizen dinner table, and the R&B rhythms flowing through the joint created the perfect storm for the awkward Russmas spirit.

Mulberry's dark wood hues inspired me to sing some slower songs, like a lounge act or something, so my choices were:

"She's Got a Way" -- Billy Joel
"Where Are You Going" -- Dave Matthews Band

"She's Got a Way" was for my girlfriend, since the night turned into a reminiscent date, and, come on, it takes a special woman to endure twelve nights of karaoke, particularly at some of the dives we'll frequent. Her dedication adds a new, intimate meaning to the lyrics, "She's got a way of showin'/How I make her feel/And I find the strength to keep on goin'."

"Where Are You Going" was for me, as I'm a big Dave Matthews Band fan. For all my years of karaoke, though, this was my first foray into the DMB, mainly because Matthews has such a distinct voice, I was afraid of the comparison I'd inflict upon myself. It's one thing to sing along loudly with friends, as my old high school chums did as we cruised those mean Peoria, Arizona streets, but it's another to perform for a crowd, through an unforgiving microphone. As soon as I heard myself, I regretted the choice . . . then, the recently, dearly departed LeRoi Moore's saxophone chimed in an instrumental interlude, and I was almost honored to deliver the tune.

While the Dave Matthews Band has plenty of more beloved, potential crowd-engaging songs to choose from, "Where Are You Going" is a good introspective tune, reminiscent of the life-changing work that I do. Further, with a mention of Superman, it seems comprehensive to my obsessions enough to stand as the only DMB tune I croon in these twelve days . . . unless there's a "Dave Speak" version out there with some reference to Twinkies or Little Debbie snack cakes that I haven't heard yet.

I hadn't realized I'd scheduled two restaurants in a row, but El Torito and Mulberry Street seem to represent either side of the restaurant-turned-karaoke joint phenomenon. Whereas El Torito caters to a karaoke-centric crowd in a well-lit adjacent bar yet closes early, Mulberry Street offers karaoke in a darker corner of downtown to socialites that happen to stumble in on the later (presumably much more shaky) leg of their bar-hopping. At El Torito, the guy that sang "Careless Whisper" also tried (and succeeded at) a fast-paced rap song, apparently just for the vocal experience, while at Mulberry Street, some goof sought to entertain his friends by inserting the b-word into an otherwise harmless Hendrix tune. Hey, karaoke is Japanese for "empty orchestra," which implies that anyone can fill that void, even if they're a little empty themselves.

Thankfully, Mulberry Street has been a little more fulfilling for me, not just on the third night of Russmas, but on that warm May night earlier this year, too, when I met the woman brave and patient enough to survive these twelve nights of self-indulgence with me. I doubt she thought then that this is where she'd be going, but that way about her makes anything possible.

*LeRoi Moore suffered and died from injuries from an ATV accident earlier this year, and I wrote an eulogy for him here.

The Karaoke Chronicles: The Second Night of Russmas

Friday, December 12, 2008. When the second night of Russmas began, it seemed cursed . . . no, burdened, like Jacob Marley in Dickens' A Christmas Carol, virtually chained by other events and variables throughout the evening. First of all, I had to attend a dual nighttime event at work, one-part fundraising sock hop, one-part staff Christmas party, and between folding up tables and chairs and finally getting to our obligatory white elephant gift exchange, I didn't hit the road for El Torito until after 10 p.m., a full after after I'd hoped.

Secondly, on the heels of the makeshift Christmas party, several co-workers planned to attend Russmas, as well, but the location created a bit of controversy. "Is El Torito even open this late?" "Are you sure they do karaoke there?" "Will there be enough room for us to sit?" Yes, yes, and yes, I assured everyone; the venue was recommended by one of my staff and we scoped it out weeks ago. The bar remains open when the restaurant closes, the K.J. is a large, lovely woman with a strong set of pipes, and, for Russmas' sake, a friend was saving enough seats for everyone. Despite the delay, the Ghost of Russmas Future seemed to boast a positive portent . . .

Until my girlfriend got lost coming from another pre-scheduled Christmas party! Fortunately, she arrived just a few minutes after we did. Then, another singer performed Wham's "Careless Whisper," one of the tunes I planned to croon! Feeling completely foiled, I decided to go for broke and submit my two most favorite karaoke songs: Billy Joel's "Piano Man" and Bon Jovi's "You Give Love a Bad Name." When I sang "Piano Man" at that El Torito those weeks ago, the K.J. surprisingly played harmonica behind me, so I asked if she'd blow harp again, "for my birthday, of course." By the end of the song's five minutes, thirty-eight seconds, the cantina's crowd had been swinging their beers in jubilation, and the night found its silver lining. Oh, little did I suspect . . .

My time on stage (sans stage) had just begun. Before I could retreat to my seat, the K.J. asked me to sit at the bar so she could give me a birthday surprise -- her rendition of "Nasty Naughty Boy" by Christina Aguilera. Remember, this K.J. can sing (unlike other K.J.s that insist on hogging the mic), but she's also a larger gal, so lines like "I wanna give you a little taste of the sugar below my waist" had an ironic flair to them. My girlfriend was in charge of picture-taking, so needless to say I don't have any photographic evidence of this sultry serenade, but considering the looks on my co-workers' faces, I think the best memories were on my side of the table, anyway.

Since I'd announced my upcoming birthday, I got free flan. Delicious. Also, my rendition of "You Give Love a Bad Name" got some hands clapping, which is always satisfying. Unfortunately, our hands were silenced prematurely, as the bar closed just before midnight. My girlfriend and I probably would've been happy enough with the two songs' and free flan's worth of karaoke, but my co-workers wanted to keep the party going. To quote the one we called Governor, "I feel unfulfilled." We chased last call back to Linbrook Bowl, where the Kopa Room was all kinds of packed -- the complete yin to Thursday night's yang. I finally suggested the Sunset Lounge, scheduled for the seventh night of Russmas, but close enough to the Kopa to squeeze in one more tune. Yes, I felt uncomfortable jumping the gun on this location, but I'm certain that I won't have as many Russmas participants in future nights, so the majority ruled. To that end, I revisited the Killers' "All These Things That I've Done," a song I could never sing at our fave karaoke venue Durty Nelly's because of another regular's claim, so I'm milking these different venues for all they're worth.

Did I mention the free flan?

So the second night of Russmas was as up and down as the two turtle doves of the second day of Christmas, with a happy ending complete with the proverbial sunset. If only the third night of Russmas went down sans hiccups . . . To be continued!

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.