Last night, I went to a local townie bar with a girlfriend from high school, Jessica to catch up over a glass of wine. The last time I saw her was in Paris last summer. She was studying in Barcelona and flew up to Paris for the weekend where Monsieur Flâneur and I picked her up from the airport. With the help of facebook, she knew what had happened and was sad because the last time she saw me, I was very much in love, almost to the point of making her sick, to the present, where I don't even speak to said provider of happiness. It's so sad when someone who was once your life, 'the lead role' is suddenly not even an extra.
Just as I was about to bring the house down with my tales of lost love, an MC announced that it was karaoke night! Thank god. Anything to bring up the mood and not make Jessica feel that she had made a mistake by calling me up for a drink. Flipping through the 10 pound catalogue, I was disappointed that they didn't have "Celebrity Skin" by Hole or "Mother" by Danzig; my two 'go-to' songs. I was left with Plan C; "9 to 5" by Dolly Parton which is a harder song to sing than it sounds. Its been years since I've sang it and was out of breath by the chorus and couldn't reach those high pitches that Mz.Parton hits. It was a mess and hopefully no one in the bar was on their first drink. Following my screeching, Jessica did an equally painful version of "Whoop! There it is!".
After laughing at how horrible we were and took comfort in the fact that we're not supposed to be good at karaoke, the cute blonde bartender went up and did an award-winning, American Idol worthy, killer version of "Black Velvet". This girl had pipes and Jessica and I sat there with our mouths open feeling ridiculous over our rinky-dink little songs. We ordered another drink.
Jessica is going through a break-up with someone she loves as well and between the two of us, we had enough to talk and sing about. Both being single, not close to marriage, watching all of our classmates get married and still figuring life out; our similarities were endless. To let out our frustrations, Jessica and I 'treated' the bar with a horendous version of Alanis Morrisette's "You Outta Know" which always baffles me that it's about Dave Coulier. What possible goods to he have over Alanis? It just doesn't make sense.
After we sufficiently tortured the bar with our singing, we called it a night and stubbled out of the bar in good spirits and walked home imitating each other. I've been told that there is Karaoke in Paris but getting someone to go with would be close to impossible. Karaoke is just not cool. Especially in Paris.
Tonight was about letting loose, enjoying the company of old friends and thinking about Dave Coulier in compromising positions in 'the theatre'.
