On Friday nights, sometimes I'm lucky enough to goad a couple friends into hitting-up karaoke at a little bar just west of downtown. The scene is omnipotently hit-or-miss; but last weekend, a party of sundress-ed women flooded into the bar. Some were accompanied by dudes wearing khaki's and button-up shirts. The dive bar was instantly transformed into the SMU v. Baylor homecoming game, towards the end of rush.
My friend, likely sensing the forcefield of nervous energy radiating from my pores, plunked down a shot of Cuervo in front of my face after returning from the gentleman's room. Removing the superfluous salt and lime from my glass, I threw the shot down the pipe, savored the burn and topped it off with half a pitcher of Lone Star. I think there might have been 10 mg-or-so of diazepam floating in the belly as well. Just a bit'a fire for my esophagus and a glove compartment for my phone was all I needed to get off.
Some people clamp clothespins to their nipples, pull their hair out, slide down rails, curl up in the fetal position under covers or shoot junk... not because they necessarily want to, but they HAVE TO. Means to remove the smog of their souls, assuage the bane of existence; to feel a semblance of control in an otherwise chaotic world. It's kind of like jazz...
I'm into this odd inverse self-deprecation. My whole life, I have not developed much. And throughout my life, there has been no line; between age, gender, race, mental aptitude, whatever... in my eyes, everyone is the same. There is a picture of me at three, wearing Snoopy footsie-pajamas, holding a red dick-shaped log of Play-Dough (beget of much aforethought, AT THREE) to surprise my mother and the neighbor. You cant hide. But that also means I can't either. This is my toddler-esque existential conundrum, which is wholly unmitigated at 28. So, when jumping off the Hilton won't do, I get plastered and sing in front of strangers.
Sooo, it's karaoke night. I straighten myself, float to the space between the two JBL loudspeakers wearing my friend's rose-colored womens' over-sized polarized Ray Bans and point to the song selection card...
Tears for Fears - Head Over Heels. Yeah, you try that shit. Genuine-like, hitting every octave, pointing at courted-women while grabbing your chest and pleading they not take your heart and throw it away. Tango with the mic-stand while gyrating your cock-buldge against it like you are some sort of post-modern Elvis from Manchester as you're wrapping the mic chord around your neck, nailing every last "nah, nah, nah, nah, nah" and stretching out the final "eyeee" for 20 extra seconds like you've been parroting the singers voice in the shower for the past decade. That's what I do.
In between closing my bar tab and waking up alone, face buried in pillows.
Its not easy facin' up when your whole world is black