Contrarian

I live in Seattle after growing up near Portland. I have had innumerable days in my life where, in order to stay out of the rain, I could watch TV or curl up with a book or play The Bard's Tale II and not have anyone really criticize me for not going outside.

I don't want to give the impression that I've always been a total shut-in. When I was a kid, I think I spent a reasonable amout of time out of doors; I shot hoops and rode bikes and built forts like most kids that grew up in a place without sidewalks. 

I also don't want to give the impression that I don't occasionally enjoy being outside. Walking around the neighborhood or watching a baseball game or looking at how women are dressed? Most of the time all of these things are much more entertaining  when it's sunny and warm out.

(I wonder how many paragraphs I should start with "I" at the beginning of the blog. Let's say four.)

The thing is that, for some reason, I've been consistently challenged/encouraged/chastised to go outside more throughout my life. My mom did it when I was growing up. Friends on Facebook do it today. Actually, now that I think of it? I think that only women want me to go outside. Dudes evidently are content to let me become transparent from lack of sun and die due to Vitamin D deficiencies.

I just don't like to go outside that much. I don't like napping in the sun (it's too bright). I don't like reading outside (it makes me feel squinty, and sunglasses tend not to fit me well because of my large and seemingly vertically mismatched ears). I don't like eating outside (bugs like food but I don't like bugs).

Unlike most blogs, which deal with important issues of today, this one doesn't really have a point. I guess, as a walk-away? Understand that if I don't want to have sushi in the park or if I don't want to walk around the water and look at the boats or if I don't want to walk around under the Alaskan Viaduct and mock homeless people: it's nothing personal. I just don't always (or even very often) feel like going outside.

People are Mean

I'm drunk so hopefully this will be a rather short entry.

I went out to sing karaoke tonight (shocker) and  had some adult beverages (another shock). It's currently 1:44 AM and I'm waiting out the effects of the booze, txting, and looking for friends to chat with. In the mean time, I heard people outside of my window, talking loudly.

Three things:

1. I am a big NBA fan. I love talking about the NBA and stats and whatever.
   
2. I live on a corner that has a lot of foot traffic late at night, as people wander home from the bar.
   
3. I think I'm a reasonably straightforward, nice guy.
   

So what do I make of the following conversation?

Drunk Pedestrian #1 (walking along the street): Dude, you don't know what you're talking about!

Drunk Pedestrian #2 (walking with DP1): Look... he's Kobe! You can't deny his stat line!

Me [brought to my window by the NBA talk at 1:40 AM, leaning out to talk to them as they walk away]: Can I just say that I love the NBA talk?

DP1: Fuck off.

Me: No! I'm being sincere. I love to hear people talking about stats and the NBA at this time of night.

Drunk Pedestrian #3: And another thing: Fuck off!

Really? A guy can't semi-inebriatedly comment on a drunk NBA chitter-chatter without being told to fuck off?

Boo, humanity.

Boo!

Hosting Karaoke

I've been going to my favorite karaoke bar for just over three years. About a year and a half ago I started hosting once a week and filling in for the normal hosts on a regular basis. It was a nice way to make a bit of pocket change, and it was a reasonable way to meet girls, but it was most valuable for me because I experienced odd little stories. Due to employee turnover, after I temporarily relinquished my Sunday night gig, my coworker quit/got fired and I never got it back... but I still hosted occasionally.

Last night I hosted for the first time in a month or two. I am not 100% sure why I hadn't been invited to help out, but I think it's primarily because I got a negative Yelp comment... which is frustrating to me, because I had about a half-dozen friends say they'd leave positive comments, but no one has done so, so I just look like a prick of a host based on one chick who didn't sing as quickly as she wanted.

ANWAY... I filled in last night because the regular Sunday night guy was sick, and I made a little pocket change and I have a few little stories to tell. I didn't meet any girls, but that's OK.

Setting Up

I got to the bar at about 8:30, which gave me 30 minutes to get set up and start the karaoke at 9:00. I was asked, as I was setting up, to play Thriller as background music. I looked up the number to put it into the system but learned that it isn't in the system, so there could be no Thriller karaoke or pre-karaoke music.

As 9:00 got closer, I was approached by a customer who wanted me to play Thriller. I had already told him it wasn't in the system, and I think it's helpful here to look at the basic flow of how signing up works:

It's not complicated. I can't remember all of the 10,000-odd songs in the book, so when someone asks me if we have a song, unless I'm sure that we do, I ask them to look it up. Of course, with this guy, I had looked it up previously and the flow of our conversation over the next 15 minutes looked something like this:

After I told him I couldn't play Thriller because it wasn't in the system, he asked if he could hook his phone up to the system, since he had the song on his phone. I told him that the first problem was that it might not be the right level (line vs. mic levels) and also that I didn't have the right cord, so, alas, I didn't think that was going to work.

He was undeterred. He asked if his buddy, who has "worked with a lot of bands" could check out the sound board. Since I didn't have anything else going on, I said yes and his buddy was nice and ensured me he wasn't going to touch anything.

I wasn't sure how all of his expertise was going to help without the proper cable, and I was right when the buddy confirmed there might be a line difference issue... and there was no cable, in any event, to hook up the phone to the sound board.

A few minutes later I approached the customer and apologized for not having the song and we had this brief convo:

Me: I'm sorry, man, that we don't have that song. Is there something else you want to sing?
Him: It's fine. Hey... can you sing it?
Me: Sing what? Thriller?
Him: Yeah.
Me: Umm... maybe. I dunno. It's difficult... do you mean a capella?

Him: No. Just sing it.

Me: I thought you wanted to sing it?
Him: We just want to dance to it.

Me: Oh! Well. Sorry... see, we don't have it in our system...

It was a weird convo. 

German Chick

After things got rolling, a blond chick approached me and turned in a song. I could tell she kind of recognized me or something, even though I had no idea who she was.

Ten minutes later or so, she came back up to the podium and showed me a pic. A pic of me and a friend of hers. I instantly flashed back to an evening of karaoke in November involving me and alcohol and my shirt being unbuttoned and... yeah. Ugh.

Why do I have the feeling I'm going to be seeing random pics of drunk me well into the future?

Tears in Heaven

As the night wore on, three distinct groups of customers were present. The first group was of regulars, who came every Sunday and were all the way to my right. I knew one or two of them and they were nice people, etc., but they don't really figure into this story.

The second group of people were actors from a local theater. When I used to host Sunday nights they would come in regularly, and although there were a lot of new faces there were a couple of people I recognized and it was fun to see them again.

The third group was really just a pair of people. A man and a woman who had showed up at around midnight and had turned in three songs between them. It was a busy night, and I had told them that they probably were only going to get two songs in, and there was a chance they could only get one. 

The dude from the third group sat at the table right in front of me and basically spent the next hour staring at me. It was not a friendly stare. It was a bit vacant and, while not overtly menacing, not very pleasant.

He got to sing his first song and there were a couple before his wife's song. He changed the song selection for her and let me know they were going to sing it together.

They were in line to be the second-to-last song of the night, and they appeared to be happy to get to sing Tears in Heaven.

The third-to-last song was a Rage Against the Machine ditty, and the last was going to be Bohemian Rhapsody... those two were going to be performed by the theater group members, who are (shockingly, I know) very extroverted and willing to dance around and give it their all... it was going to be an interesting slower-paced song sandwiched between the two "bigger" songs.

The first group (of regulars) had departed, so it was essentially the theater folk, the couple, and employees of the bar.

Rage Against the Machine went fine. The crowd (remember: dominated by the theater folk) was all pumped up. 

The husband asked if he could say a couple of words before he sang, and I said yes, but that we didn't have much time since closing time was approaching.

He took the mic and his wife took the other one and he said into the rather loud room (the theater folks were still amped up), "This song is dedicated to our little boy, who was killed January 16 at a monster truck show."

Umm. Really?

He kind of smiled, but I couldn't tell if it was a "Hehe... that's a twisted joke but kinda funny" kind of way, or if it was a "I can't believe my son is gone, but I have to put on a brave face for my wife" kind of way.

As the song went on, I did some Googling and was able to pretty much confirm that it's legit. Wow.

So the song ended. They dedicated it (again) to their son (this time by name, which matched the little bit of research I'd done on my phone). I gave the guy a pat on the back and extended my condolences.

And the theater people kept talking and laughing and whatever.

I'm not blaming them. It is a bar that has booze flowing. It's a positive place and they were having fun. They also almost certainly didn't hear the guy, and if they heard the guy I'm not sure that they believed him.

The wife started crying right after she gave me her mic. The dad consoled her right in front of the stage. 

It seemed a bit weird to call up group of people to sing Bohemian Rhapsody.

After like two minutes of me not knowing what to do (must the show go on? Do I nudge the grieving parents out of the way? Do I simply shut it down a few minutes early?) the husband got onto the mic again and lightly chastised people for not being respectful.

Which made it even more awkward, because the theater folks had no idea what he was talking about. They looked up and saw an angry guy and a crying woman by the stage, and they probably saw a befuddled me standing there, looking confused and sad. They almost certainly just wanted to sing another song, so they probably didn't give a shit.

Eventually the couple shuffled out of the way. I called the last song of the night and it was sung. A couple theater people who had heard what had happened apologized to me and we agreed it was a tragic time for the parents and an awkward time for the rest of us at the karaoke bar.

In spite of the last 20 minutes or so of extreme awkwardness steeped in melancholy, I hope that I get to host again soon. The experiences are much more memorable than Civ IV and porn, my normal Sunday night fare.

Doug Stanhope and Me

I'm weird in one way. Or at least in one... actually, more like in about 1,523 ways, but I wanted to focus on one way.

Sometimes, inexplicably, I get invited to do something by friends and I say no. It's inexplicable that I am invited, of course, but more inexplicable that I decline. I think it boils down to my introverted tendencies--which is not always on display after I decide to not decline.

When I used to play baseball, as a hitter it made the most sense to have a "yes yes yes no" attitude. Like, "Yes I'm going to swing, yes I'm going to swing, yes I'm going to swing, no I'm not going to swing." It's easier to stop swinging at the last moment than to decide to swing at the last moment. I have a similar, but opposite, approach to going out/doing things. "I don't know, I don't know, I don't know, OK I'll go" is not fair to my friends and occasionally leads to me missing out on opportunities, but it leaves my options open for urgent, last-moment napping and/or masturbation.

Anyway, yesterday I was invited by TM2000 to see a comedy show. The comedian was Doug Stanhope, an angry 42 year-old white man that has a penchant for offending people on purpose. Like me except the "42 year-old" part. And the "on purpose" part.

Normally, I'd hem and haw and hesitate and whatever other verb that starts with "h" indicating a delaying tactic I could think of at the time. There were a pair of reasons, though, where I was pressed into immediate decision-making mode.

1. There wasn't much time. The doors opened at the Showbox Sodo at 8:00 and TM2000 and I were chatting at, like, 5:30. I had to shower, get ready, pick up the tickets from Flowers, and hopefully get a bite to eat. 
2. I felt a divine push to go to the show. Not really. Well, kind of. Originally, four people were supposed to go: Buddy #1, Flowers, TM2000, and TM2000's gf. Through a pair of (seemingly unrelated) odd occurrences, Buddy #1 and Flowers both ended up in the hospital Friday night and were unable to attend the show Saturday night. I am considering getting Untouchables on God (He sends one of yours to the hospital, you send one of his to the morgue) but I have difficulty getting the motivation to clean my dishes; I'm not sure I have the energy to declare war on an omnipotent being.

Yes, I just blasphemed in a tremendously puerile fashion. I think that maybe I have been influenced by the Stanhope show I saw last night.

Of course, not entirely influenced. If I were regurgitating his bits, there would be a lot more uses of the word "cunt". There would be populist politics with hints of underlying racism. There would be a loathing of humanity in general.

And it would probably be funnier than what I am actually writing.

I don't go to a ton of standup. I went to a comedy club with a chick I met online about 30 months ago. I have seen the guys from Stella a couple of times. I watch standup on YouTube occasionally.

The live aspect of standup is something that I still am not used to. In spite of the fact that I chat online about 27 hours a day (I usually am on a plane, flying in a westward direction, to get the most out of the days that I'm awake) and that chatting is one of the most interactive activities one can undertake, I still think of entertainment as a one-way deal: rock bands play, the audience listens. Comedians tell jokes and the crowd laughs. Or yawns. Or whatever.

Of course, comedians tell jokes/do material, but the crowd often chooses to do things other than laugh or yawn. Or at least some audience members do. They feel an intimacy, perhaps, with the performer that is consistent with real life but inconsistent with the unliateral performer/viewer that I'm more comortable with (and is probably formed from TV/blog/porn experiences that I've accumulated over time).

The comedy I'd seen before, there was some sort of MC. Some dude comes out and thanks you for entering the venue. Thanks you for spending your $20 and encourages you to get a drink. Maybe tells a joke or two, and informs you who you're going to be seeing.

Last night? This did not happen.

Last night some guy with big bags under his eyes and a Coors light in his left hand wandered out and started talking. He did material about drugs and death and rape and Christianity (shockingly, he's not a fan) and drugs and rape.

Did I mention drugs and rape?

In spite of the fact that I do not do (illegal) drugs and I've yet to dabble in rape (from any level of participation), it was pretty funny. Some people from the crowd were shouting out comments (punchlines? Drug reference-one-upsmanship? Drunken ramblings? Yes to all of the above...) and it was definitely material consistent with Doug Stanhope's style.

About five minutes into the 15 minute set (I think the guy, whose name I still don't know, since there was no MC who gave any sort of introduction, made a joke about the miracle of rape babies), I looked to my right. TM2000 was responsible, to whatever extent anyone is, for how offended his gf was at the show. I felt some responsibility for the fourth member of our party, a delightful female friend we'll call Heels.

Heels is cool. She has a great sense of humor. She's laid-back and she is about one of the last friends of the female type that I have that I would expect to get offended by anything at a comedy show.

I didn't forget those things. In the same way, though, that you'd run to check on a fellow officer who just got shot in the chest while wearing a super-duper-bulletproof vest, to see if he's OK, I kept glancing over at Heels to see if she was really not offended.

Rape babies. Is she offended? Elderly rape. Is she offended? Christian-bashing. Is she offended?

Miraculously, she was less offended than most of the people reading this blog probably are at the moment. Maybe she stopped listening at some point, or maybe she's the kind of chick that loves reading obituaries to make fun of people that have Jesus references in them. I'm not sure.

Doug Stanhope came out, wearing a glorious and odd pink and white collared shirt that looked like the kind of thing he was going to wear as a visual gag and then change out of after he got a laugh. But nope. He was actually wearing it. Like. To wear it.

His set went about an hour and a half. It was good. He was (seemingly) honest about his schtick at the beginning, when he talked about how his rage is often feigned, and that he doesn't really care about waterboarding or overpopulation or stupid people... but that it made for good material. That honesty (or feigned honestly; I could see him adding to his bit next time, about how he sometimes pretends not to really care, because it's funnier that way) was interesting and it sort of brought down the wall, for me, between performer and audience.

By the end of the show, all of the walls were down. Some drunk weirdo who had been chatting up people (in an obnoxiously loud fashion) throughout the evening got on stage for some reason. Another guy got up with his "bucket list" of people he'd want to have a beer with before he died, and Stanhope (who was on the list) had some fun with the rest of the list.

I got the distinct sense that control had been lost. It seemed that (other than the 11:00 quit time) the comedian had no idea what was going to happen next... it might have been an illusion, and he might have been in perfect control, but based on the amount of alcohol (Jager, beer, etc.) he'd consumed on stage, I somehow doubt it.

In any case, it was sort of fun to feel like the wheels had come off. I would imagine that the prepared material that he uses at close would have been funnier, but the haphazard ending is probably more memorable.

We managed to avoid the weirdos on the way out. There was no fighting/bleeding and no trips to the hospital. As long as I don't go to Hell for laughing at the stuff I did, I would say it was a pretty good night.

Three Visceral Reactions

The classic internal conflict (along with the liver vs. kidney) is reason vs. instinct. How we think we should react to something is not always consistent with our knee-jerk reaction.

(Aren't you glad that you read this blog? This otherwise might never have come to your attention, and your left liver might be in trouble, too.)

Whether it was because of a lack of sleep, oxygen deprivation due to excessive luchador mask wearing, or because my monthly cycle is starting to get locked in with all of my female roomies, I seemed especially susceptible to unreasonable thoughts today. In fact, I had three overreactions based on my baser instincts. Let's examine them, shall we?

1. Orange juice purchase. I was at the grocery store today and I put a large jug of OJ into my shopping cart and I felt irrationally exhuberant. (It was like I thought past performance was a indicator of future success... a vitamin c bubble. OK. Enough with this tangent.) There are few things in this world that I like better than waking up in the middle of the night, moseying out to my fridge, and drinking a glass of orange juice. I always like orange juice, but I love it in the middle of a thirsty night, and for some reason all of that pent-up love came spewing out all over the southeast corner of the local Safeway.
2. Tailgating bicyclist. I don't mind bicyclists. I don't mind old dudes with ridiculous yellow helmets perched atop their gray ponytailed noggins. I don't even mind a combination of the two. Where I, evidently, draw the line? It's when that guy is stopped at a light, six inches behind a car, and when that car has its blinker on because it's trying to back up to parallel park. The bicyclist appeared to be willfully ignorant... maybe he didn't see the blinker, or maybe he was upset with the driver for being less-than-bicyclist-friendly at some previous juncture. In any case? My lizard brain shot endorphins through my body and I wanted to put on my e-brake, pop my trunk, and bludgeon the old dude with any sort of bludgeon-capable item I might have had in my trunk.
3. Juggling cheese and knives. I was in my kitchen, preparing an intricate dinner of chicken parmesan sandwiches. The dinner has three primary elements: hamburger buns, swiss cheese (pre-sliced) and chicken parmesan (frozen and eminently microwavable). I had a knife in hand to slice open the package of cheese slices, when I slipped. The knife and the newly-sliced-open package of cheese went flying in opposite directions. One of the things I prize about myself is my ability to paint Warhammer miniatures. Another, more relevant, thing is my hand-eye coordination. Instinctively, I reached out for the knife... but reason won out, reminding my instincts that I do not have medical insurance. Why my reason didn't also remind my instincts that cheese does not tend to cause much damage when grasped I cannot say, but the knife and cheese hit the kitchen floor at the same time, with the knife taking a chunk out of the linoleum (better than my palm) and the cheese being instantly covered by whatever nasty stuff comprises the film on my kitchen floor. I stood there, altogether still, staring at the floor, for about 10 seconds and then I started giggling. I continued to laugh even as I washed the affected cheese and cutlery.

The lesson of the day? I think there are two. First of all, I think I need more than four hours of sleep. Secondly? You might want to visually inspect dairy products before eating them at my place...

Escape

This is a first for me. I am starting this blog from my phone, rather than my normal place at my computer desk in my cat hair-infested apartment.

There are three reasons I started to blog, and those three reasons have remained pretty constant.

1. To document my life. My blog is a journal of sorts. I like to be able to look back and see what happened in any given month in the last three years. Even if my posts aren't complete in their coverage of what happened, they can trigger other memories and help organize what happened when.
   
   
2. To work on my writing. I am not sure that I'm actually a better writer now than when I started, but I have read that the key to being a good writer is to write. Duh. So I've been trying to get better through doing.
   
   
3. To entertain. I want my parents to know what's happening and I want to make friends laugh and I want to fight the power by questioning conventional opinion on politics and good taste. Well... not the politics part.
   

I am thinking, as I'm keying this in on my Sidekick, that there's another reason to blog.

4. To escape. I write because it lets me forget about other things, whether it's H1N1 or my dirty dishes or a charity auction where I've volunteered to help and I've got nothing to do so I'm standing around awkwardly.
   

Yes. That's right. Me, awkward. Who would believe it? I think I'm going to have a role at this lovely charity event when the actual auction starts, but in the mean-time and between-time? I have nothing to do.

I could mingle. Or, rather, ONE could mingle. I almost never mingle, and if I have any sort of "scene" or "crowd" that I'm comfortable in, this is definitely not it.

Nice people dressed well. Cruising around with glasses of wine, socializing and occasionally glancing at silent auction items.

I have little to say to them and little curiosity to ask anything of them.

I'm thinking of something as I stand here, leaning against a wood load-bearing column towards the periphery of the main venue.

It's from an episode of 30 Rock, where Alec Baldwin's character is shooting an internal promo video. He asks, as a nervous inexperienced actor, "What do I do with my hands?" and ends up holding two coffee mugs to occupy himself. 

I feel like that right now. What do I do with my hands? What do I do as I stand here, looking at people (but not too closely), and ... waiting.

[end scene]

The auction went well. There was a fashion show afterwards, which I didn't really pay attention to other than enjoying the sheer Zoolanderness of much of it. I saw a former co-worker and I was given tasks to do. I also got a bit of food and was in a good enough mood that I am not terribly crushed that the Blazers were knocked off by Houston tonight. Next year, right?