I started going out to karaoke nights again. It’s something I started doing when I lived in Arizona to get over stage fright. I sang in a madrigal choir and a jazz ensemble in high school, and while I felt quite comfortable blending in with the crowd I was always too nervous to do a solo. Since karaoke is tantamount to making an ass of yourself, I figured if I could sing in front of some drunks, I could sing anywhere. At any rate, it was my favourite pastime in Florida, but here in Maryland it kind of fell by the wayside.
Since I don’t have shit else to do with my life, I started dragging Whitaker with me. So far we haven’t found any good karaoke joints. Our “spot” has become the Ramada Inn on Wednesday nights, but it’s actually quite terrible. We did stop in at Perry’s last night but there was like 5 people there so we left and went to Ramada Inn, much to our despair.
There are some karaoke joints where the singers are really, really good and if you suck you will obviously not have a good time. Then there’s the places where the people are mostly drunk and everybody’s just having a good time. There’s places that are in between, a smashing of good singers and people who sound like two cats tied up in a bag, and then there’s Tasha. When we first sat down, Tasha was called up to the stage where she sang TLC’s “Baby, Baby, Baby,” actually I’m not sure if that’s the name of the song, but ya’ll know what I’m talking about. T-Boz has a really deep voice and not just anybody can sing her songs. You might have to bring it up an octave, and it still might not sound good. Tasha… well, Tasha sounded like the death rattle of a beached whale. It was kind of like a cross between a dying walrus and a wounded black bear. She had absolutely no tone whatsoever.
When a person can’t sing, there’s several reasons for this. Some people can carry a tune, but they lack musicality. Some people lack rhythm. Some people are just straight up tone deaf. Tasha was all three. She couldn’t follow the words. She didn’t know the words. How can you not know the words when the shit is running across the screen for you? Then you know how each song has a little break down where the singer gets a little ad-lib crazy, yeah, Tasha just killed it. Just smashed it. Into… tiny. little. pieces. Smash. Smash. Smash. I would have gladly punctured my own ear drum just to get away from it.
Then she was done and the KJ said, “Let’s hear it for Tasha!” Nobody clapped. That actually is the height of rudeness in karaoke. No matter how terrible someone is, you should clap just to let them know how much they suck. Tasha said, “Clap, ya’ll, shit.” Still, nobody clapped.
Then five seconds later he was like, “Okay, everybody welcome Tasha back to the stage.” This time she did this rap song, it’s a very popular one, but you know I don’t know. Some people who cannot sing can rap very well. Not the case for Tasha. Rap requires rhythm and flow. You can’t just be up there like.. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. That shit was terrible. I managed to record a little bit on my cell phone but I don’t know how to upload the sound byte onto myspace. And truthfully, I feel there might be a mass suicide if I put it up for everyone to hear. It’s that bad.
Tasha wasn’t the only abomination that night. Some white guy named Joe got up and did a heavy metal song. I would have sang something but karaoke is only fun when there are a lot of singers; that way, if you suck, it will quickly be forgotten because someone else is coming up right after you. And you can hope that the person that follows you will be worse than you are.
Whitaker and I did get hit on. By some wannabe pimp from Chicago and Texas. How you can be both from Chicago and Texas is beyond me, but whatever. He said he was a “business man.” Whatever. And he was also high as a kite and “didn’t give a fuck.” His words not mine. He bought me a cranberry juice because he declared that Whitaker and I must be pretty fucked up in the head that we neither drink nor do drugs. He seemed to find it impossible to be believed that people can be totally straight edged. He said the world was too crazy to go through it sober.
Then, let’s talk about the scrummy ass old man that pretty much insulted Whitaker to her face. So this guy comes up to Whitaker, and he is super nasty, drunk ass old black guy that’s been sucking down Old Milwaukee for the better part of the night. He says to Whitaker, “Your face is so beautiful. You have perfect skin tone. Perfect structure. Your face is very, very beautiful.” That’s a nice thing to say to someone but then he turns to me and says, “Tell your friend to do something about her hair.” And then he walked off.
Okay, how rude is that? How about you do something about your fucked up ass teeth. His teeth looked like a sharp jagged cliff on the edge of despair and then he smelled like he’d been rolling around in a port-a-potty after he rubbed a urinal cake on his face. If you are not one hundred per cent perfect yourself, you should probably limit your comments. Then he had the nerve to come back and point at her and keep walking again.
See why I am crazy? Because people do stuff like that and it makes me want to lose my mind. If I hadn’t already finished my drink I would have thrown it in his face. The gall of some people is truly astonishing.
Tae Kwan Do
All right, so last week was my first TKD class since the summer started. My school cannot accomodate adults during the summer because of summer camps and stuff, and truthfully with AT and vacations and stuff I wasn’t able to attend much class anyway. Luckily, I have been working out all summer so I wasn’t too out of shape, but you can be quite assured that I don’t remember one form. I am currently a yellow belt, working on my yellow advanced and I don’t remember any forms. My instructor was mad, of course. “You don’t remember anything!” He is still the same crazy ass Bulgarian man who doesn’t have a sense of pain or the unnatural. The class last week was so vigourous that none of the students came back.
This week we had a new lady and her daughter. Yeah, we’ll see if they’ll be back. I can’t say that I’m that good, it’s just that I’m used to him and I can expect to be beaten up pretty bad when I leave there. Today, I renewed my acquaintance with the punching hands. If you miss, he hits you in the head. So tomorrow I will probably have a late stage mental defect and if I start slurring my words that means I have brain damage. The other lady who joined the class today said, “I feel like my bones are breaking.” The instructor says, “That’s okay, a hospital is nearby.”
He did take pity on them and let the girl and her mother leave. I stayed because he said I needed to work on my boxing to get ready for my belt. He won another competition last weekend, and then for some reason we got into a long discussion about the Bible and its connection with movies, and Bulgarians in films, and pimps, prostitutes, drugs and American women. Don’t ask. This man told me far more information than I require out of anybody. But it just goes to show that you never know somebody until you know somebody.
Now, I will go and soak my ass in a tub of steaming hot water and hope that I don’t wake up tomorrow all cramped up. But this is all very good for my bottom line. I have drill next weekend, and if I don’t lose one more inch off my fat gut, I’m going to run in traffick. I missed the body weight by one inch off my waist. I’ve been working so hard all summer, you can’t even imagine and to know that my gordita stomach is still too big just really hurt my feelings.
I told Demessa and Whitaker that I was going to look up every white girl crack diet I could find and do them all at once. I’m going to do the lemonade diet, plus the 3 day detox, and I’m going to fast and also do the cabbage soup diet. Then I’m making an appointment for lipo. Watch. One day I’m going to leave you as a big fat hog beast and the next day I’m going to come in looking like Halle Berry and you guys are going to be like, “What the fuck crack is she smoking?” But it’ll be the lipo. It’ll be the lipo. Watch. Just watch.
The Truth Always Outs
Ever since my manic episode, I’ve been made aware of a great many things I hadn’t known before. Some of it just blows my mind, like all of this time all this shit was going on and I just had no idea. You know, I like to brag on about how smart I am but really a lot of the time, I just don’t have a fucking clue. I think I am starting to realise, so that I can really admit that my greatest weakness is that I’m so smart till I’m dumb. (My mom used to say that to me all the time). I’m okay with that, I guess, and I would be lying if I said it didn’t hurt my feelings, but some things I really wasn’t surprised. Sometimes I feel like someone just told me there was no Santa Claus. I’m like, “Oh my God, for real?” Some shit I was seeing, I just wanted to crawl into a hole and die because it’s like, all this time everyone was having a joke at my expense. Thanks. Thanks a lot. I’m going to commit suicide now.
Or maybe not. I still have two more operas to go to.
And then there’s the realisation that people I’ve always adored and trusted are really serpents in the grass. That’s becoming more clear to me now, especially after certain conversations this past week. You know, I might be as naive as Le Petit Chaperon Rouge, but I do have enough sense to realise when I’m being set up. Please. I have always contended that I will never be an unsolved mystery. I have dotted all my i’s and crossed all my t’s. What the hell do you think I write all these blogs for? Oh, it’s therapy, that much is true. But there’s something else. Just remember one word:
But I’m not done quite yet. I still have some half-finished sentences.