Throwing stuff at the internet to see what sticks
Tuesday, May 13, 2003 Des Moines After Dark
It’s a little sad to realize that Trash and I have experienced more of Des Moines’ nightlife in the past several months than we have of Minneapolis’s nightlife. If you’ve ever experienced any Des Moines nightlife yourself, you know exactly how sad that is.
Because, see, you already know about the karaoke bar that has a dance-floor-and-long-tables layout lifted straight from Feng Shui for VFW Halls. You’re aware of the fact that it uses racecar hoods for wall decoration. You probably don’t know the waitress who “served” us on Saturday night, since she told us she was only filling in for someone else. You know the “show, don’t tell” rule? It works well for storytellers and screenwriters, but when a server tells me she’s not up to speed, I’d just as soon take her word for it. I don’t need a demonstration as effective as the one she gave us over the next few hours.
And while you may not know our waitress, or any of our fellow patrons personally, you won’t be surprised at any of the goings-on. My tale of how a random woman inexplicably came up and stood next to Trash during the first verse of the latter’s rendition of “Son of a Preacher Man,” then returned to her table at the end of the song without a word to anybody, will hold no novelty for you.
I will be unable to raise your eyebrows one micron with the revelation of how Trash’s groupie and her fellow fortysomethings engaged in a four-way kiss at their table as if there were MTV cameras in the room.
I could describe the experience of watching a man with a mullet and a baseball cap sing “The Look” by Roxette, but any effect on you would be negligible.
I won’t even bother to launch into an interminable rant about the cornfed Midwestern girl who took the mic, started talking into it like Jamie Kennedy in Malibu’s Most Wanted, dedicated a song to “any girl who’s ever been cheated on,” and launched into “You Oughta Know,” even though that song is a) less about getting cheated on than the pain of seeing your ex move on, and b) directed at FREAKING DAVE COULIER FROM FULL HOUSE, because you not only oughta know, you already do. A’ight?
And there’s no need for me to waste your time talking about the new heights to which Iowa’s male terpsichoreans have brought the form of artistic expression known as the White Man’s Overbite, because you’ve seen it. You don’t need to hear about the woman who attempted to warble “Amazing Grace” to her significant other as if it were “Sexual Healing,” because you’ve heard it. You don’t need me to run down the drink menu for you (if two items may be described as a “menu”), because you’ve drunk it.
No, the only real shock of the evening was that I sang karaoke. Solo.
Unfortunately, I don’t have a lot to say about that, either.
Except this: a guy came up to me and complimented my on my performance, commenting that I didn’t look like someone who would belt out “Basket Case” by Green Day. Which is true enough. I could have responded that he didn’t look like someone who would sing Roxette, but it was pretty loud in there. posted by M. Giant 3:27 PM 0 comments