Some nights you've got it. Even if you don't know what 'it' is, you know you've got it. Your hair is right. You've got a bounce to your step. Your baby's mamas aren't hassling you. When you're hot you're hot.
Some nights you know you don't have it.
Of course, knowing you don't have it and actually not having it are different things, but since we tend to let subjectivity (slightly) influence our perception of the world, confidence matters. By observing we influence, and by believing we succeed.
I rarely apologize on this blog, but I have to say I'm sorry for that last sentence. It's a mea culpa with a caveat, however.
The caveat is that the reason I'm waxing philisophical (today, at least) in the blog is because I can't really talk.
It started Wednesday night, I think. One too many loud bars, or one too many karaoke songs, or one too many cries of 'rape'. Oh, wait. I wasn't the screamer on that last one.
Anyway, Thursday night one of those things (or the cold I've recently recovered from) caught up to me and my voice was scratchy. Fortunately, the snowed-in LQA are didn't offer karaoke and I was able to merely speak too loudly, rather than speak too loudly and sing drunkenly.
Friday night I thought I might have to host karaoke, and I was particularly willing to do it (rather than sing) because my voice had gotten no better. I woke up all scratchy and it didn't really improve over the course of the day. After it was revealed, though, that I was not needed (I'm used to that on a variety of levels, for the record) I knew I'd end up at Ozzies.
It was a solid prefunk. The booze hit me just right and we were all in a great mood as we ice skated the couple of blocks to the bar. Flowers, in particular, was in a very convivial mood, and it was infectious. He might have been infectious in other ways, too... that's why I wear gloves.
While walking (literally) arm-in-arm with Flowers to ensure he didn't slip on the ice, I boldly proclaimed, 'I'm going to talk to girls tonight!'
That sounds like it might not be a big deal, but while I can appear comfortable doing it, I still am... not. And I usually get distracted, or allow myself to get distracted to avoid car wrecks (although not Car Wreck).
I'm not even sure that they heard me... we were all (locked elbows excepted) sort of in our own little world as we approached. When we entered, they made a beeline upstairs but I, trying to walk the walk since I talked the talk (could I have just said, 'walk the talk'? I'd like to think so... oh, missed opportunities!) approached a young woman sitting with another young woman in a booth... sort of on the way to the stairs, so I had an easy means of egress.
I don't know if I stumbled up towards their booth or if I self-assuredly sauntered (or self-assuredly stumbled) but I approached and they both looked up, clearly wrestling with two things.
The first was, 'Who the hell is this guy?' Not that girls aren't used to being approached by strange/random guys in a bar, but I (at least would like to think) that I was approaching them as if I knew them. Familiarity (even verisimilitudinous) breeds contempt. They didn't know me, and they weren't eager to.
The second (and I don't know which one was the overwhelming factor in their cold shoulder response) was, 'What the FUCK is that guy thinking, wearing a mustache?'
I forgot to mention that I was sporting a 'stache. I hadn't shaved in a while and I ... bah. There's no excuse nor explanation. I just had a mustache. I knew said facial hair looked (or 'looks', as I sit here, typing this) pretty bad, but it's fun and I think that making anything ironic makes it funny (see: the 'rape joke' earlier in this entry, as well as my 2006 kidnapping attempt of Jules Verne's granddaughter).
Of course, even an ironic mustache is not the best thing for one's ego. This is particularly true for women sporting actual mustaches (ironic or not), but it applies to me, as well.
Fortunately, my voice didn't fail. Of course, that's like praising the technological prowess of the printing press that spat out Mein Kampf with clock-like precision. Meaning? Meaning my voice worked but what came out wasn't good.
Me (confidently, in spite of it all, to the cute blond girl on my left): You gonna sing tonight?
Her (disgusted): I don't sing.
Me: So... what are you gonna sing tonight?
Her (looking at the brunette across the table from her): ...
Me (confidence instantly crumbling like the Seahawks O-line): It was a ... joke. Bye!
Thank goodness for my rapid means of egress. I high-tailed it upstairs for a bit to sing.
The upstairs is normally a happening place at 10:30. People are happening. Singing is happening. Drinking is happening.
Last night? It was Roller Girl, who bartends there, Krazy Karaoke Host and the friends I rolled with (TM2000, Flowers, Thor, and Steve). I tried a song. Butchered it. Could barely make noise in my standard singing range. It was horrible, and yet it was kinda funny because of my lack of sobriety.
I headed downstairs and talked to another bartender, and Marriage Material came up and said hello. She's super-cool and it had been a while since I'd talked to her, so I pledged to stop by her table and creep out her friends at my earliest convenience.
Heading back upstairs, it was still dead, and I still couldn't sing. After a second song butchering, one might think that I would give up. Fuck that. It was Friday night and LQA was snowed in and I wanted to sing and talk to girls. That my voice had deteriorated further in the hour or so I'd been there was irrelevant. Well... not irrelevant (except insofar as my life is ever not irrelevant) but not a consideration.
Going back downstairs, the booth that I'd interacted with earlier had been filled with four new people: a dude sitting next to a chick and two cute girls across from them. I recognized the two cute women from the night before... one had introduced herself to me in an unsuccessful attempt to get me to host karaoke and insert a spark of joy into the lives of everyone.
The first conversation with the booth girls had been off-the-cuff. From the hip. Riding the scissors. (OK. I just made that last one up. I like it, though it sounds sort of painful. Maybe that makes it appropriate.)
This time? I took a moment to plan. Here was the planned conversation:
Me (to blond): Hey... I recognize you, don't I?
Blond: Hi! Yes, we met last night, I'm--
Me: Shh... no names.
Brunette and Blond: *giggle*
Brunette: I love the mustache!
Me: I know.
Blond: The kitchen just closed. We are totally in the mood for some tuna melts.
Me: I've got tuna melt fixin's at my place. Let's go.
Brunette and Blond (grabbing their coats and exiting the booth): *giggle*
OK. I'm not sure that I had it THAT well planned out. But I at least knew what I was going to say to start things off. Shockingly, though, it didn't go exactly according to plan. It went more like this:
Me (to blond): Hey... _ re____ize you, ___ I?
Blond (smiling, but confused): I'm sorry... what?
Me: __ voice. It's fucked __.
Brunette and Blond: ...
Brunette: Hi, my name's Mary.
Me: Good to--[cough cough/clear throat]--meet ___. Y__ were here __ night?
Blond: Yeah, we're alcoholics. *giggle*
Me: ___ me ___. ___ ___--[cough cough/clear throat]--__. Bye.
Brunette and Blond (staring blankly at me, judging my 'stache, in all probability): ... bye.
They were actually very nice and friendly. I just couldn't fucking talk.
I was able to sing falsetto without too much difficulty, so I sang 'Stayin' Alive' downstairs and it went OK. I also got to talk to Marriage Material... or, rather, I got to exhale in a speech-like pattern as she strained to hear me over the off-key stylings of Boys 2 Men and Tenacious D karaoke.
I kept trying to talk, and I've paying for it today. Actually, the readers of this blog entry are paying for it. My online loquacity is clearly an overcompensation for my inability to speak out loud. Knowing that 4-6 more inches of snow are on the way tonight (note: I did not make a '4-6 inches joke'... am I maturing? Or is it because I've already used up my quota of penis humor for 2008?) and I won't be able to sing is killing me. And taking control.
No comments:
Post a Comment