Karaoke

A few weeks ago, I narrowly escaped my first (and probably last) karaoke experience. Everyone raves about how fun and silly it is, but the whole idea of belting out a Bon Jovi classic backed up by a television screen looping videos of 80's kids running and jumping and smiling has always creeped me out. Nonetheless, it was my idea to let my friend Bernie do whatever she wanted for her 29th birthday, so down the screeching hole of vocal horror I fell. Kind of like Alice in Wonderland, if she was a member of The Spice Girls.

Please make note - you cannot go to karaoke sober. Not only because everyone needs a little liquid courage to do what they normally do in the confines of their shower (singing of course!), but because karaoke joints are disgusting. After a lengthy pregame, we wound our way down a claustrophobic staircase in central Chinatown and into a basement that was probably once prominent a brothel in very recent history. Dozens of tiny, dark rooms covered and padded and faux fur furniture drew us in like a colonic. You don't want to go, but you have to. I wouldn't normally admit to this, but thank goodness for the fully-stocked fridge of vodka cruisers! Everyone drank, everyone sang, and everyone was sick the next morning. And me? Why, "Bed of Roses" of course!