Skareoke
At the beckoning of the (very) insistent Ms. Jeanne, a fellow writer in advertising Limbo and all around beautiful person (not that I’m beautiful or anything, just her), I would like to recount an evening not too far removed from this evening—three weeks ago, in fact. If you’ve been adamantly reading my last few posts (and really, how could you not?), you’d have noticed a handful of references to a certain event, a certain, shall we say, Skareoke?
It all started out innocently enough, a simple dreadful Monday made slightly bearable by the fact that every employee’s calendar had a two-and-a-half hour of time blocked out at the end of the day. Yes. The company Halloween party was set to begin at 3:00. Now, being the ever-punctual, always ready professional that I am, I decided to have a few vodka-crans (well, just one, really—-the “cran” portion of the drink was really only mixed in for a very literal dash of color) before the evening’s (afternoon’s, rather) festivities. Understand that at this point in the day, I’m severely buzzed and my cheeks have taken on a healthy hue roughly the same shade of the cranberry juice currently chaperoning its partner in crime through my liver.
And then we hear it, quietly at first, a slight rumble of idle chatter and occasional laughter, then growing into a great cacophony of clinking glasses, loud talking and—the piece de resistance—anemic musical notes and off-camber rhythms that can only mean one thing: Skareoke was upon us. My fellow “early adopters” and I made our way into the main lobby where we were met with a 10” stage, two microphones, and an enormous soundboard with matching speakers.
I’ll be honest; I’m not much into the karaoke. I’ve taken a trip down tone-deaf lane a few times before, always with a group, and always irrevocably, unquestionably drunk. At 3:30 on Halloween afternoon, I was already at batting .500: a warm buzz was coercing what was once my good judgment into searching for someone, anyone, to take the stage with me. And that someone was Scott.
An account exec for one of our large clients, I found Scott over by the song books. Karaoke is a funny beast; it’s like an aural car accident—-people are disgusted by what they see, some are amused, and all are just the slightest bit curious. They'll casually meander over to the large binders housing countless songs sheathed under grimy, decade-old plastic and take a peek. They flip through the book, taking care not to actually touch anything but the corners of the pages, and scan the listings. Sometimes they’ll laugh, other times they’ll break into spontaneous chorus of a familiar song, but rarely do they ever take the next step: writing it down on the song ticket.
When I saw Scott, I had a good feeling; I was absolutely positive I would be able to get him to sing—-it was not a question of if, but when. I walk over, put my arm over his shoulder, and ask good-naturdly what he was planning on singing. Scott laughed and said he didn’t know—-a common defense mechanism that automatically clicks into place when a large, slurring man puts his arm over your shoulders and asks you to sing something. Needless to say, I was ready. I started flipping through the book, randomly pointing out songs that would be neither funny nor entertaining to sing, but rather incredibly difficult and not at all fun to listen to. This is key, because that is the exact opposite of the song I currently had playing on repeat in my head; I knew that once I “stumbled” upon that song, it would be so easy compared to the other songs I’d been wantonly suggesting that there was no way he’d refuse.
“Hey! Destiny’s Child! ‘My body’s so booty-liscious!’ Uh!”
“Ooh…John Denver! ‘Sunshine on my shoul-DERS!’”
“Heeeere we go: Janet Jackson, man, ‘Nasty boy!’”
“My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard…”
And then, just as he was about to call me a cab and pretend he had to be anywhere but underneath my warm, somewhat noxious armpit, I found what I was looking for:
“Alright, fine…oh…what about, uh, ‘Friends in Low Places’? Easy enough, right?”
Outwardly relieved, Scott graciously agrees. He tells me the song number as I put it to paper, our journey now a signed contract of public humiliation. And as Scott went to give our ticket to our beloved DJ, I promptly filled my vacant cup with more punch.
Finally, our time had come. Mr. DJ called into the now beer-soaked mics for Scott and myself to take the diminutive stage. Scott situated himself behind the mic closest to the prompter (we only had one—a rather small one at that), leading me to believe he would be taking the lead during the song. After all, he was a good seven inches closer than I was and could see about 3% more clearly. Plus, the guy sings in a band, for God’s sakes! Of course he wants the lead…HE’S IN A BAND!
And then the intro chords start up, followed closely by the first lyrics. Struggling to hear my cue, I jumped into the first verse. Unfortunately, the verse didn’t follow—-I was about a half-measure early. Let’s try it again. “Blame it all on m’roots / I showed up in boots…”
Booyah, baby. Boo-freakin’-yah. So far so good. Nailed the first verse and absolutely nailed the chorus:
“Oooooooooooooooooh…I’ve got friends in loooow places, where the WHISKEY flows and the beer chases my blues away…and I’ll be okay….”
And then…the spoken part. Yes, you read correctly. The spoken part. I’ve never come across this part. Given, I’m usually belting out the chorus at tables as I’ve lost the ability to stand, but still, I’ve never heard this spoken part before. And the best part, my good buddy, my accomplice, my friggin’ wingman in this fight against acoustic decency, leaves me for his beer. And I stumble, hard, through each and every word that comes up. And because Sir Garth was so generous in his song writing (I have no earthly idea if he actually wrote the thing, but the fact that he sings it is proof enough) to not add any background music, I have no idea when it’s going to let up.
Eventually though, I found my feet in the song once more:
“…low places, where the WHISKEY flooooows and the beer chases...”
And then there’s a quick little solo in there; a rousing electric guitar that inspired me to do a “I’m'a ridin’ a gallopin’ horse” dance.
We finished to resounding cheers and the “encore” chants can still be heard ringing round lobby. But alas, I was done.
For an hour.
And then I did it all over again. And again. Although to different songs, none well done, especially “Crawling,” by Linkin Park.
My head still hurts from that one.
It all started out innocently enough, a simple dreadful Monday made slightly bearable by the fact that every employee’s calendar had a two-and-a-half hour of time blocked out at the end of the day. Yes. The company Halloween party was set to begin at 3:00. Now, being the ever-punctual, always ready professional that I am, I decided to have a few vodka-crans (well, just one, really—-the “cran” portion of the drink was really only mixed in for a very literal dash of color) before the evening’s (afternoon’s, rather) festivities. Understand that at this point in the day, I’m severely buzzed and my cheeks have taken on a healthy hue roughly the same shade of the cranberry juice currently chaperoning its partner in crime through my liver.
And then we hear it, quietly at first, a slight rumble of idle chatter and occasional laughter, then growing into a great cacophony of clinking glasses, loud talking and—the piece de resistance—anemic musical notes and off-camber rhythms that can only mean one thing: Skareoke was upon us. My fellow “early adopters” and I made our way into the main lobby where we were met with a 10” stage, two microphones, and an enormous soundboard with matching speakers.
I’ll be honest; I’m not much into the karaoke. I’ve taken a trip down tone-deaf lane a few times before, always with a group, and always irrevocably, unquestionably drunk. At 3:30 on Halloween afternoon, I was already at batting .500: a warm buzz was coercing what was once my good judgment into searching for someone, anyone, to take the stage with me. And that someone was Scott.
An account exec for one of our large clients, I found Scott over by the song books. Karaoke is a funny beast; it’s like an aural car accident—-people are disgusted by what they see, some are amused, and all are just the slightest bit curious. They'll casually meander over to the large binders housing countless songs sheathed under grimy, decade-old plastic and take a peek. They flip through the book, taking care not to actually touch anything but the corners of the pages, and scan the listings. Sometimes they’ll laugh, other times they’ll break into spontaneous chorus of a familiar song, but rarely do they ever take the next step: writing it down on the song ticket.
When I saw Scott, I had a good feeling; I was absolutely positive I would be able to get him to sing—-it was not a question of if, but when. I walk over, put my arm over his shoulder, and ask good-naturdly what he was planning on singing. Scott laughed and said he didn’t know—-a common defense mechanism that automatically clicks into place when a large, slurring man puts his arm over your shoulders and asks you to sing something. Needless to say, I was ready. I started flipping through the book, randomly pointing out songs that would be neither funny nor entertaining to sing, but rather incredibly difficult and not at all fun to listen to. This is key, because that is the exact opposite of the song I currently had playing on repeat in my head; I knew that once I “stumbled” upon that song, it would be so easy compared to the other songs I’d been wantonly suggesting that there was no way he’d refuse.
“Hey! Destiny’s Child! ‘My body’s so booty-liscious!’ Uh!”
“Ooh…John Denver! ‘Sunshine on my shoul-DERS!’”
“Heeeere we go: Janet Jackson, man, ‘Nasty boy!’”
“My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard…”
And then, just as he was about to call me a cab and pretend he had to be anywhere but underneath my warm, somewhat noxious armpit, I found what I was looking for:
“Alright, fine…oh…what about, uh, ‘Friends in Low Places’? Easy enough, right?”
Outwardly relieved, Scott graciously agrees. He tells me the song number as I put it to paper, our journey now a signed contract of public humiliation. And as Scott went to give our ticket to our beloved DJ, I promptly filled my vacant cup with more punch.
Finally, our time had come. Mr. DJ called into the now beer-soaked mics for Scott and myself to take the diminutive stage. Scott situated himself behind the mic closest to the prompter (we only had one—a rather small one at that), leading me to believe he would be taking the lead during the song. After all, he was a good seven inches closer than I was and could see about 3% more clearly. Plus, the guy sings in a band, for God’s sakes! Of course he wants the lead…HE’S IN A BAND!
And then the intro chords start up, followed closely by the first lyrics. Struggling to hear my cue, I jumped into the first verse. Unfortunately, the verse didn’t follow—-I was about a half-measure early. Let’s try it again. “Blame it all on m’roots / I showed up in boots…”
Booyah, baby. Boo-freakin’-yah. So far so good. Nailed the first verse and absolutely nailed the chorus:
“Oooooooooooooooooh…I’ve got friends in loooow places, where the WHISKEY flows and the beer chases my blues away…and I’ll be okay….”
And then…the spoken part. Yes, you read correctly. The spoken part. I’ve never come across this part. Given, I’m usually belting out the chorus at tables as I’ve lost the ability to stand, but still, I’ve never heard this spoken part before. And the best part, my good buddy, my accomplice, my friggin’ wingman in this fight against acoustic decency, leaves me for his beer. And I stumble, hard, through each and every word that comes up. And because Sir Garth was so generous in his song writing (I have no earthly idea if he actually wrote the thing, but the fact that he sings it is proof enough) to not add any background music, I have no idea when it’s going to let up.
Eventually though, I found my feet in the song once more:
“…low places, where the WHISKEY flooooows and the beer chases...”
And then there’s a quick little solo in there; a rousing electric guitar that inspired me to do a “I’m'a ridin’ a gallopin’ horse” dance.
We finished to resounding cheers and the “encore” chants can still be heard ringing round lobby. But alas, I was done.
For an hour.
And then I did it all over again. And again. Although to different songs, none well done, especially “Crawling,” by Linkin Park.
My head still hurts from that one.
posted by The Haiku Review at 10:28 PM
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