This week I was asked out by my morning commute bus driver. This is the third bus driver to ask me out in as many months. At first, I was flattered, but then I started thinking .... Wait. I actually seem attainable to these guys! What on earth would make them think that? Because I ride the bus every day? Might as well stop at the Starbucks along the way for a quick coffee date? This just cannot continue. It cannot. Time to get a bike.
So I think I broke karaoke's cardinal rule on Thursday night: Leave no man behind. Or is that the Army's? In any case, I was brought up "on stage," which was more like a slightly elevated section that didn't have quite as many beer puddles as the rest of the room, to sing Dirty Diana. Now, I don't know the lyrics to the song, I don't even know how it's supposed to sound like aside from the refrain, so I don't know what possessed me from agreeing to it in the first place. All I can think is that I was still on a high from my performance of my fellow Jersian's Livin' on a Prayer. Not getting booed off the stage or hit with any flying objects is a success in my book.
As soon as I grab the microphone and look at the screen, I knew I was in trouble. The lyrics were all there for the taking, but the music was throwing me off. How is this damn song supposed to go again? The last time I'd heard it was on MTV ... right after an episode of Remote Control. And the neon green test tube shot I'd downed moments before was not helping to jog my memory much either. I stood there for what seemed like an eternity, and although I miraculously refrained from going into any awkward Ashlee Simpson ho-downs, I did something even worse: I left my friend on stage to work her way through the evil song I now know to avoid like neon green test tube shots.
Luckily, she's very pretty and a guy from the audience was quick to rush to her rescue to suffer through the rest of the song with her. I felt horrible. Like probably the rest of the people in the bar who'd been subjected to the song. Actually, to be honest, I don't think anyone was paying much attention anyway. They were too busy dodging what I hoped was water that kept dripping from the ceiling at two-minute intervals.
Unbelievably, we were not to be deterred. After the song finally, mercifully ended, we went right back into the fire with a little Bryan Adams. The "Summer of '69" totally redeemed us. To the only dry couple left in the place, anyway.