Then I remembered, oh, yeah, the karaoke club.
Friday night we were invited to celebrate an old friend's birthday at a karaoke club. It was on 35th Street, up a dingy flight of stairs that could just as easily have led to a massage parlor. As we trudged up the stairs the thought actually occurred to me, "Is 'karaoke club' a euphemism? Should we make a run for it?"
Inside were a series of private rooms, and inside each room was a group of people singing karaoke at the tops of their lungs.
Our room looked like the inside of a Winnebago.
A waitress brought us drinks, and we proceeded to thumb through a phonebook-sized catalog of karaoke songs, which then played on a large, electronic karaoke machine that looked like a prop from "Spinal Tap."
I'm gonna go out on a limb and say it was very high-tech in 1991.
Was it fun?
Yeah, it was nice to be with old friends.
Samuel and Ethan were pleased that we allowed them to play a song by Cee Lo Green containing the F word. Jennifer was pleased that she got to sing a duet of "Barracuda."
And I don't think it's bragging to say that the highlight of the evening was my rendition of "Folsom Prison Blues," which broke the long monotony of Katy Perry and Pink songs.
Yeah, it was fun.
Would I do it again?
You know...probably not this year.