The Karaoke King

I'm in Flint, Michigan at the Super 8. They apologized when they told me that this is the place they were putting me up. They said, as if it were a shrug, "We got you reservations at The Super 8. Its not super classy, but its nearby." As if it were an apology. Like, "She's got an...um...GREAT personality..." But did they know? Did they know what a vortex of awesome they threw us into?

We were hungry. We asked. "Is there any place that will still serve us dinner at 10pm? We drove straight from Nashville. 9 hours. With a time change. We didn't eat." (well, that's not true: we stopped for a moment, or ...it was supposed to be a moment...at a Subway in Nashville, Indiana...yes, that's Nashville, Indiana...however, the moment was to be just that --a moment-- but the woman behind the Subway counter--perhaps, 19? 18? 25? Let's just say, her future in sandwich-making is suspect. It took her 30 minutes to make a 6" turkey-no-cheese-light-mayo-sub)

They said, 'well, at this hour, in FLINT, there's, um Applebee's (immediately, I remembered that everything there is fried and the veggie sides are always broccoli--FROZEN and then STEAMED--ick...watery and really really chewy...yick.)' I shake my head, 'Anything else?' They say, 'Oh! Next to the Super 8 is a Wally's, a family restaurant. Oh and connected to that is a bar/grill.' Thomm, who wants a beer, says 'perfect!'

We drive the 3.4 miles to the Super 8. We see the place. Wally's. Then, even better: The Firkin Fox. A kind of British Pub. Sort of. In Michigan. In Flint. Oh yeah. I want a glass of wine. Thomm wants a beer. I'm hungry.

Bonus: Its Karaoke night. We settle into this place, booths, but red velvet as if we're in Shropshire or London. But decorated by the ex-designer for TGIFriday's after they took the flair down. Seriously. Karaoke. Big screens. Loud. An MC Hostess. Some dude grabs the mic. The wireless mic. And dances his hip-hop-singing-Usher-pretending self over to some pretty lady at the bar and lays it on thick. THICK. With a really good voice. Seriously. Like, not totally in tune, but I'm sure with monitors and a bit less whiskey, the dude would sound great. Thomm and I watch, as if this is a 3-D movie and we are just there, like watching The Boy In The Plastic Bubble or one of those After School Specials where you sort-of relate, but sort-of are glad you don't live there... He's good. This Karaoke guy who I'm sure comes here every weekend. I sure hope if that's not his girlfriend he gets lucky tonight. He deserves it.

So to Karaoke and the subject of that. Thomm says, "What's your position on karaoke." And I say, definitively, "I don't do karaoke." End of the discussion.

Now, I love singing. Its my greatest joy. Second only to lying in bed with a lover and reading the New York Times Sunday edition, section by section, with nothing to do the rest of the day but just that, and cuddle and more, and make coffee and nap and watch football. But I digress....

I love singing. I don't love karaoke. I feel like an ass. The keys are always wrong. So I'm singing out of my range. And I don't dance. I play guitar for a reason. I like standing behind the guitar. I don't like dancing. I don't want to dance. I'm no good at dancing (well: that's patently untrue. I love dancing and in my fantasy-land uber-self I'm an excellent dancer. But I will never live up to my ideal of the greatest dancer in the world. Debbie from my college class. Cute Deb, who I remember for a time became one of those Doctors-Without-Borders-Saving-The-Planet and I thought....really Deb? really? You had to do THAT? You couldn't just rest on your "I'm the cutest girl who's non-threatenening and EVERYBODY likes me AND I stand in the center of the dance floor and you will stare in awe at my dance moves. Really, Deb? You had to go save the world and be perfect? Leave the rest of us something, ok?)

I once tried Karaoke. I was in Port Jervis, NY. Kal and Dana and Rob and I had gone to Port Jervis to tube down some river with beers in a cooler in its own tube. We drank a bit and decided to not drive home to Hoboken and instead, stay in Port Jervis, get a room or two, eat a good dinner and go to .... a local Karaoke bar. Good idea, right? Well, for Rob, yes. Because Rob is one of the smartest people I know. He's a scientist. He's a professor. He's good looking. He's tall. He's funny. He's ascerbic. And in his fantasy-version of his life, he's an actor. So he says, "YES! Karaoke! I'm doing "Thunder Road". I realize we're gonna be there for a while. (seriously? who does Thunder Road at Karaoke...?)

There's a guy there. Everyone watches him. He's in a 3 piece suit. Sears. Shiney greyish blue. With a red tie. Tall and skinny. Slick, black hair. He sings "Sweet Caroline" with 3 girls with enough Mousse between them to float the Parthenon, who sing the backup parts and dance in too-tight acid-washed jeans. Flourescent green shirts shirred at the bottom, showing just a touch too much belly around the button, if you know what I mean. The Karaoke King. He's there. He's always there. Rob's wife Dana pushed me out there, had signed me up for some Sheryl Crow song. I admit: I'd had a few tequila shots. I sang. I was out of tune. In my own head. But I was laughing and it was fun. All I wanna do....

So...afterwards, I excused myself to go to the ladies room. The 3 KK's backup singers were there, spraying their feathered bangs. I say hello. They start in on me. You've got a good voice...you can sing...you should do this...etc. At first I simply say thank you, while drying my hands, but then I feel like an imposter, so I confess. Say, "Oh this is what I do. I'm a singer." And they stop, mid-spray. Like as if in a movie. Look at each other. Smile fakely. "ooooooooooooooh" They say in a three part harmony arc of discovery "ooooooohhh". I smile and leave. Go to my friends. The Three Muses scurry out, scoot to the 3 Piece Suit. Whisper in his ear. His head whips to me. They point. I'm laughing with my friends. And then it happens:

I'm called out by the Karaoke King.

I sense a presence. A shadow. Stetson wafts over me. I look up. There he is in all his greasy glory. He taps me on the shoulder. I look up.

"So...I hear you're a ringer."

"Excuse me?"

The Three Muses nod and twirl bits of their Ogilve perms.

"I've been told you're a professional."

"Singer?" I ask.

"Yes. Ringer. Singer. Yes. From New York." He threatens. His pointed Capezio toe taps, in exasperation.

A beat.

Another beat.

His eyebrow raises. I try to not laugh. Or burp.

"Um...yeah...but .... really... I'm...well, I make NO money...I'm EMERGING...." I try to explain....

He is having none of this. And he looks at me with complete indifference.

"I'd better not see you in Wilkes-Barre next week for the $500 prize. You get that? You get it?" And then he leans in, finger wagging at my face: "Wilkes-Barre"

And so, ladies and gents, my story of having been threatened by the Karaoke King in Port Jervis, NY. And why I will never, ever, ever sing Karaoke. And that's why I sat and ate my Mushroom Swiss Burger and drank my house cabernet at the Firkin Fox in Flint, Michigan, listening to the good folks of the bar make their attempts at 20 year old songs like that bee girl song by that band I forget their name but it was really sad because the lead singer committed suicide and I never liked that song anyway but the video with the bee girl was hard to not love... or one of my favorite 90's songs by DeLaSoul or Arrested Development. And then I think, why doesn't someone bring back Arrested Development, because that album, that first album with "Tennessee" on it is, um, kind of relevant today. Isn't it? Or is just me being nostalgic.

In my show, I talk about getting off the major highways in order to find better food options than Cracker Barrel. But what I love is getting to go to a place like this tonight and check out the scene. And it may seem like I'm mocking. But I'm not. At all. I heard some amazing voices tonight. Seriously. And I heard old songs I miss. And there was a scene there. I can imagine those 4 guys who are good singers meet there every weekend to sing.

In high school I was in show choir. Oh yeah. I've got the photos of me in the red and white sweater with my name embroidered into the bust. Very Mickey-Mouse club. Or, now, Glee. Oh yeah. I was that girl in Glee. I wanted ALL the solos. I was pretty damn amazing at the jazz hands, step-ball-change. I sucked up to Mr. Gallup and Ms. Herrick to get the part of Maria in "West Side Story". I wanted to beat out Stephanie Sikora for that. It was my life's ambition. She was good. Stephanie was a great singer. I was kinda jealous of her. Seriously. And tall. And thin. And beautiful. And I was short and didn't feel pretty. I could sing. But I wanted to sing like Stephanie. So when I got Maria and she got Anita. I have to admit to a very petty feeling of superiority. Hell, its 25 years later, so I'll forgive myself, and I'm pretty sure, although I haven't seen Stephanie in 25 years and I don't know what her life is like (I hear she's a veternarian), she probably didn't care as much about that as I did. But yeah. I've seen a few episodes of "Glee" and saw myself in there. And I went to high school in a small, cloistered town. And I haven't really been back. And my 25 year reunion is in a few weeks and I doubt I'll go. Even though, I have to admit, I kind of want to...just to see....

The Karaoke King. At least he knows he's the King of something. Most of us are lying in wait to sit in confidence at our own royalty.

Ten Years...

Somwhere, in a box of rolls of undeveloped analog photos there is a roll I never developed. It might be in one of those forgotten boxes full of knickknacks and bits of nostalgia, hastily packed in the upheaval of separation and moving. I'd love to find that roll of film. There would be my friend Amy, her blonde hair and blue eyes against the blue blue sky. Out of focus, blurry, twin streams of smoke over a wide river, black fog cutting into blue sky behind her head. Hazy, like my memory of that day.

I was living in Hoboken, New Jersey. At 1116 Hudson Street, one block off the river, across from the 20's in Manhattan. I was playing music, not yet for a living, but certainly working towards it. For a living, I worked as a temp secretary in NYC law firms. Downtown and uptown. Monday night football ran into double overtime and that night, I remember having a ... well, now I might in retrospect call it a premonition...then, it was more like a mental hitch. A little voice that suggested I call in 'sick' to my temp job, play hooky, take the day off. So I did. I remember the quiet argument that ensued the next morning when Kal woke early to shower and get ready and I lingered in bed, making excuses. He worked about a mile away, in Weehawken, in a glass office on the river with a clear view of Manhattan. He walked to work. He left around 7:30 am and I remember his annoyance. It was a usual silence between us. We were navigating the uncomfortable non-fitting of each other after a few years, neither of us ready to say aloud what was creeping around like an undercurrent.

I got up, made coffee. Our two dogs, Clyde and Siggy, needed to be walked and our dog run was in Elysian Park, on a hill overlooking the river. I took my time with this part of my morning. I loved our kitchen. Black and white tiled backsplashes, an old 60's era refrigerator, wood floors, a 4th floor fire escape overlooking the courtyard. I drank my coffee slowly, enjoying the idea of a full day off. Then I took the dogs down the 4 flight of stairs, down the block, across the street to the park to the dog run and let them go. A familiar woman walked toward the run from the edge of the park, closest to the river, and with a concerned look said to me, "Where is Kal?" I said, "At work." She said, "Where? He's in finance, right?" I said, "Yes" she said, "where?" I said, "Weehawken. Why?" Her face was ashen. She said, "A plane hit the Trade Center. Call him." She might have said planes and centers, plural. I can't remember. I got my dogs and ran to the edge of the park and saw the smoke and then ran back to the apartment, ran up the stairs and turned the TV on. My downstairs neighbor, Amy Fairchild, another singer-songwriter, heard me bounding up and came running up as I turned the TV on.

To be honest, I don't remember that much. I remember we watched TV together for a while. I'm not sure what we saw on TV and what we saw in person. What was happening was happening a stone's throw away from my open windows. The TV seemed surreal. I remember the newscasters talking about a small plane, then terrorists, and then Amy and I grabbed our cameras and headed to the river, just across the street and down the curve of the road a bit.

We joined a small crowd that had gathered. About 20 people. Someone had a transistor radio, Bloomburg radio I think. I barely remember. I could swear as we sat there we watched a tower, maybe both fall. I remember that moment, the silent scream inside my throat, caught in the lump, looking up at the sky, wondering when the sky would fall. I remember someone saying something like "there goes thousands of people". I remember the urge to laugh. To really laugh outloud in that shock-wave kind of giggle that happens to me when something out of the bounds of understanding punches me in the gut. The completely inappropriate laughter that masks a keening wail.

It was only the week before that I had ridden the elevator up to the top of the Trade Centers, to put my face against the glass at Windows on the World, to look down, the air around me closed in and I experienced a wave of vertigo. In the years I'd lived in NYC, I'd only gone to the top once and it was the week before they disappeared.

I don't know how long we sat there, but both Amy and I took photos and neither of us have those photos. Neither of us ever printed them.

I remember walking down Washington Boulevard to meet my friend Karen who worked in the towers but was, thankfully, late to work and didn't make it in that day. I sat with her in her apartment with another friend for hours. Then we walked up the boulevard, men and women in business suits caked ash grey and wet from being hosed off as they disembarked the ferries that dropped them in Hoboken. The bars in Hoboken were full and silent of these chalky faces. It was a beautiful, warm September day.

We walked to the hospital to give our names to give blood.

We made a list of everyone we knew who worked downtown. We tried to call people but our cell phones wouldn't work.

I sat for hours alone later that afternoon, staring at the black streaks in the sky.

I thought about the stores underneath, the greek man who sold me coffee in those blue paper cups and a pre-buttered raisin bagel wrapped in cellophane for $1.50. The man at the flower/newspaper kiosk where I'd buy tulips after working at one of the law firms in the towers. I thought of those people I'd seen on days I'd temp, crammed into the elevators, crammed into the lobbies.

Later that night, we went to my brother's apartment in Hoboken as our gang gathered, waiting to hear from all of our friends who worked in the Towers, a bottle of Jack Daniels was passed. We were all sober-drunk. Nobody was crying. We were all in shock. We waited for Harry. I remember waiting for Harry, who was the last to show up, at midnight, piss-blind-drunk, in complete shock.

Kal and I walked home to our apartment after that. Silent. There was already a crack in our earth, but that day opened the ground below us into a canyon we wouldn't quite understand nor recognize for years.

I remember that I had a cough that lingered for month. A bronchial infection. There was an acrid smell to the air for a long time, a burning. We went to the city as soon as the subways opened up again. We went to the Union Square makeshift memorial where photos were taped to a wall, where candles and flowers lay. Where "Have you seen ...." notes were taped anywhere and everywhere. We awaited news of rescues that never came. I remember how New York City wrapped itself tighter around itself like a hand-knit scarf on a chilly Autumn day, including all. I remember noticing that people looked each other in the eye from that day forward. There was kindness everywhere.

What I wrote that week, the only thing I wrote was this:

I just watched Dan Rather break down on tv tonight. Of all the things that I've witnessed and heard about this terrible and unbelievable week, that was the most jarring to me. Its like seeing your father cry. It makes the world less safe.

I didn't go down to that area of the City for a full year. Then one night, I was driving home from a gig and got lost on my way to the Holland Tunnel and found myself driving down near the huge holes in the ground and looked up to two towers of light, illuminated from the ground up, dissipating into mist in the starless sky.

Ten years....