Here No Evil
February 12th, 2006As I cheerfully sauntered into Sing Sing Karaoke Lounge & Suites on St. Marks at 2:30 in the morning with my quick-witted, always-amiable, fun-lovin’, 35-year-old boyfriend and my chubby, ever-so-cuddly, pony-hair-purse-carrying, “joyous” friend Fredy, I never expected to see a strapping young man down on his knees amid the spilled sake and beer singing passionately and aggressively into the spit-covered mic. I mean, that’s something I would do, but…
“He’s cute,” Fredy said in a voice far from a whisper.
“Yeah,” I agreed (in a much softer tone, sensing the well-built, blond-haired, blue-eyed vocalist could hear the oh-so-flattering dialogue). “AND he can sing.”
So, unsurprisingly, after “cute” boy finished belting his beloved ballad, Fredy rushed to grab the seat next to him as I hurried to congratulate him on a job well done. That’s what we do; we gravitate toward the good/good-looking ones. That’s how I fell for my huggable, loveable Fredy almost four years ago. He was on stage at Nevada Smiths, a frat-boy-infested Irish pub on 3rd Avenue, rockin’ out to Cher’s “If I Could Turn Back Time,” or was it Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive”? I can’t remember the details exactly, but I do recall that it was irrefutable flove at first song. (Oh, I could just squeeze him right now!)
No doubt about it, making bona-fide buddies at karaoke is easy for the both of us, so it wasn’t at all unusual for Fredy and me — and Mike (Mr. Gregarious) — to instantly hit it off with “cute” boy, whose actual name is Corey.
To begin our early-morning night (with our new friend by our side), sweet-n-sexy Mike decided to serenade the sake-sipping ladies with the ever-popular, “ooh-ahh”-inducing Breakfast Club ballad — Simple Minds’ “Don’t You (Forget About Me).” And, after he finished his buttery smooth rendition, and the revved-up women (feeling hot! hot! hot!) cooled down a bit, it was Fredy’s turn to heat things up. So he sifted through his mental repertoire of sure-to-be show-stoppin’ tunes and found the perfect, rock-n-roll classic to impress our new friend (and everyone else in the bar and on the street nearby) — Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’.”
And, as soon as the first few notes of the oldie-but-goodie became audible, and thus recognizable, the crowd’s excitement level went from sort-of-chill to can’t-sit-still. The room instantly became smothered by heat and overwhelmed by applause. The women cried out in elation. The men pounded the air with their drink-free fists to the pulsating beat of the music. Simply stated, everyone was pretty much having a good time watching Fredy flaunt his beguiling, Broadway-bound voice.
Then, shortly after Fredy finished his crowd-rousin’, roof-raisin’ tune, something both wrongfully amusing and worthy of note was brought to my attention.
“I have this tick,” Corey said, acting timidly toward me for the first time. “But don’t worry about it.”
I wasn’t worried about it. In fact, I didn’t even notice it until he mentioned it, and that’s because it was no big deal.
Every so often, he’d stick out his tongue and tilt his head to the side so his ear would touch his shoulder, or he’d raise his middle finger two or three times in succession.
Fortunately for karaoke-croonin’ Corey (who just happens to be afflicted with two psychologically debilitating disorders – OCD and Tourette Syndrome), all that matters at karaoke, is the music – the tunes you choose and the performances you make, and most of the time, that doesn’t even matter.
It’s true. Disorders are not an issue at karaoke. Age is not a factor. One’s sexual orientation, race, religion, bank-account balance…they’re all inconsequential because when you’re at karaoke, amidst the sweet sounds of music and merriment, disparities – of all kinds – tend to disappear.
Thus, after learning of Corey’s minor eccentricities, nothing changed. My attitude/friendliness toward him remained the same, and the night carried as usual. Fredy and I sang a duet – “Suddenly Seymour” from Little Shop of Horrors – and the Broadway fanatics (being it New York City, there were a lot of them) adored it. Then, after we hit the final, pulse-tingling note (“Seymour’s my (your) man!”), we both reached for the karaoke bible (i.e., the song book) to pick another tune, but the bartender stopped us and said, “No. Sold out. No more song.”
So, clearly unsatisfied with the number of songs we were able to sing, we decided to, um, get a room. Sing Sing (God bless ‘em!) stays open ‘til six in the morn’ if you keep the singing/screaming to yourself – within a semi-sound-proof room with one comfy couch, two mics, and a big-screen TV.
With three 24 oz. beer cans tucked away under Mike’s winter coat, and a bottle of sake, courtesy of Corey, on its way to our private room, the four of us followed the karaoke keeper to our quarter, impulsively seizing two additional not-ready-to-go-home music addicts along the way. (Bonus: one of ‘em had a half-off the first hour coupon!)
And then there were six…
The two add-ons – one male, one female – graciously thanked us for randomly selecting them to be our guests. Indeed, the two complete strangers (albeit excellent singers from what I heard) joined us for song and sake in a small, enclosed space at four in the morning, and it all seemed positively normal. So we all sat down on the sofa, our bodies touching, and began to program our picks into the karaoke machine.
The hours passed. The sake spilled. The songs played on. The room slowly began to reek of sake and sweat, two more people joined us, and, like karaoke-singing insomniacs, we stayed in the sauna-like room ‘til six in the morning singing songs ranging from The Killers’ “Mr. Brightside,” to Sara McLachlan’s “Angel.”
And, after the bouncer angrily screamed, “Last song!” and kicked our butts out into the cold, the original four (Fredy, Mike, Corey and me) didn’t want to part ways, so we transported our party to Moonstruck Diner on 5th Street and 2nd Ave, humming our favorite tunes of the night the whole way there.
We grabbed a booth. Fredy and Corey sat on one side, and Mike and I sat on the other. And, as my eyes gradually became adjusted to the nauseating, artificial light, I began, for the first time in the fun-filled night, to notice the differences.
Corey’s head-to-shoulder-stick-out-tongue tick caused him to spit bits of food at me, and Fredy, with his fresh, Bumble and Bumble haircut, ordered the biggest, cholesterol-filled meal at the table – and Mike, almost 36, sat amongst a table full of 20-somethings. And I, the only girl at the table, didn’t have much to add to the man-controlled conversation.
Why were our differences so apparent in the brightly lit diner, but almost imperceptible at the karaoke bar?
Because when you’re at karaoke, there are no judgments. There is no evil. Unity abounds when music is in the air.
Karaoke, I do declare, can cure the world’s ills.
Someone please inform the President.