Hari-Karaoke
by Your Diva, Robin Pastorio-Newman

Weeks ago, this column politely suggested you shut off the radio and find actual humans playing live music. The search is fraught with peril and a few evenings of If I Never Dropped Acid, Am I Hallucinating That Guy In A Chicken Suit? You might expect that. Having thrown down the gauntlet, Your Diva now places a delicate gloved hand in yours. In the search for your genuine and personal cool, you're going to find yourself in a dark forest, and here come the flying monkeys.

In an expensive Italian restaurant, the One True Tami left our table to powder her nose. Yes, she was fiercely missed. While pondering lipstick shade options, Your Diva noticed the restaurant was nearly empty, and the Muzak audible. The notes sounded odd, a misshapen rhythm, perhaps. That song sounded like - no, it couldn't be. Could it? It couldn't. Suddenly, the rhythms made sense, stringed instruments smoothed the lumpy, piquant Papa, Don't Preach into a flavorless aperitif. No weight to it, no angst. Drink up! Diners sit in less agonizing silences while music plays, because sound means motion and lulls means Pal, This Date's Dead In The Water. Even though you don't date anymore, you know when music stops you might have to talk with your friends, and what could be scarier? You're grateful someone pasteurizes songs you wouldn't be caught dead warbling to in traffic.

What, then, to do when one's friends form a cover band? It's an etiquette nightmare Emily Post never faced, and we're sure Miss Manners is too refined to declare, "If I hear Last Cigarette one more time, I'm taking a hostage." Last weekend, Your Diva and her stylish compaņeras found themselves in an unfamiliar venue in which bathing and complete dental work were optional, three fastidious women wearing black misplaced among bar patrons who apparently survived the terrible explosion of David Lee Roth's closet. Halfway through the band's first song, it became necessary to retreat hastily. No matter how skillful the friend's cover band, no matter how loud, it could not drown out baby pink lipstick and halter tops.

Adept musicians can make their living in cover bands because you're getting married and tux-wearing characters should play In the Mood. Your parents insist. These musicians know your parents insist, probably before you do. If your parents back up insistence with cash, you can hire a fantastic wedding band with which you'll be very pleased (though the words "fantastic wedding band" have never before issued from these crimson lips) but we're not talking about a fantastic wedding band. We're talking about discovering you'd rather be braised in a gasoline-butter sauce than crack your head against the IQ limbo pole that is your friend's band playing another hick bar in which the jukebox irony of Lynyrd Skynyrd next to Marvin Gaye goes unnoticed. What to do, what to do?

Not to worry! After your coma and subsequent memory loss, you may decide your friends' lack of talent and self-respect can be yours as well. It's not stopping them, right? At this crucial moment, take yourself to a sports bar, down 3 Jack & Cokes and declare yourself a star.

Some karaoke is wacky fun, as when one's tallest, smartest friend delivers Red Rubber Ball while frugging like a Nancy Sinatra dancer. He's a genius; it's funny. Another possibility: your opera-singing companion plays karaoke roulette, letting you pick the ditties. It's a blast. A sure bet: the fellow who plays the meanest guitar belts out I Write the Songs, causing barmaids and electrical engineers to dab their eyes on the nearest Goth sculptor. That's funny. Even the sculptor weeps for joy - showmanship is all! Perhaps you too have the style and charisma to wow a crowd and emerge from the fray a hero, a pop star, belle of your own ball. Watch out, now. There's a dead man's curve in the road, a steep drop, a rocky landing, and your seat belt's stuck.

Some karaoke is a gut-twisting, brain-spraining horror, as when one's fourth cousin twice removed rounds up her herd of identical twenty-something friends for a gala evening of tone-deaf vanilla too-much-money fake debauchery. What life lesson prepares one for twitch-inducing multiple off-key renditions of White Rabbit? You hope for coma and subsequent memory loss when ten dudes in khaki slur Paradise By the Dashboard Light at 110 decibels. Your plight will elicit sympathy in Twelve Step circles when you announce: My parents locked me under the stairs and that trailer trash stock broker sang I Touch Myself.

Patience! No one said entertaining oneself would be easy. The key to surviving these life-threatening events is preparedness. Next week, Your Diva will help you pack for this journey. You're on the road, and this time, trade the ruby slippers for blue suede shoes.

©2001 Robin Pastorio-Newman