The Glory of Karaoke

Currently many people are debating John McCain's choice of running mate, Sarah Palin. The general consensus is that it will be boom or bust. The same boom or bust decisions are made all over the world in karaoke bars every night, only with smaller consequences. There are a number of factors that determine what is a good karaoke song. Of course, you have to be able to pull it off on the technical level. If I stood up to sing a Mariah Carey song, that's a bad choice. I'd never pull it off. This is amongst the most basic and elementary decision making steps in song selection. I suppose knowing your audience should also be mentioned, as busting out some N.W.A. at a country bar would probably be met with some resistance. But my biggest disappointment is when your local American Idol goes straight for the Top 40. In my mind, this minstrel is so pretentious that he or she thinks they can perform this song, which is already pounding the airwaves, that the audience will appreciate hearing this even newer and improved version. On the other hand, maybe they are only uninspired. Harmless creatures that just don't know any better and are just trying to participate. The real glory of karaoke comes from the forgotten songs, the hidden gems. And before you get any great ideas about singing Don't Worry Be Happy by Bobby McFerrin, Top 40 from 20 years ago can still be dangerous. Helping the Baja Men let the dogs out ten years later is also a bad idea. Going back 30 years, you can sing almost anything you want without the same danger, but go back 40 years, and you have to be reverent of the songs that nobody deserves to sing. Yes, you are allowed to sing Dock Of The Bay, but nobody is allowed to cover Sinatra singing My Way - show some respect. (Props to karaoke bars in the Philippines for removing it from their play lists)
So sing your Tom Jones and your Neil Diamond. Bring Elvis back in the building. Rock some Queen if you can. Explore some Bobby Bare for some real fun. But above all, remember this quote from the Karaoke King, "It's not about the voice, it's about the choice."

Gypsy Love/Hate

I have a love/hate relationship with gypsies. Specifically the Gitanos of Southern Spain. On one hand they have given Spain and the world Flamenco, which of course, is amazing. If I had way more time on my hands, Flamenco is why I would play the guitar. Some of my favorite travel memories were watching Flamenco performances. Thank you Gypsies.

On the other hand, you have the common hustling Gypsy. I'm walking between the cathedral and the Alcázar in Seville, when I am approached by a young Gypsy woman offering me a small branch. I refuse. "Gratis, gratis," she says. Naively thinking she will leave, I accept her branch and turn to leave. But my hand is anchored in her grip, and suddenly my palm is being read. In my limited Spanish, even though she may be speaking Caló, I can tell she is saying I am awesome, and my future is at least above average. Even so, I'm still looking for her little Gypsy friend who might try and pick my pocket. When she finishes, she shows me her palm, asking for money. It's been a couple of years, and I honestly don't remember if I gave her any money or not, but I'll tell you what I do remember. I stuffed that little branch in my back pocket, and every time I saw a Gypsy approaching I whipped out that branch like a crucifix towards a vampire.

So thank you, Gypsies, for your Flamenco, and next time I go to Spain, I'm bringing my own branch.

Olympic Sized Problem

I am thoroughly enjoying the 2008 Beijing Games.  The chance to play expert viewer in obscure sports that nobody has cared about since four years ago, automatic conversation pieces for just about anyone you will run into and thoughts of joining the band wagon and jumping into the pool to be a swimmer.  This also a time to be proud your country, for national pride and patriotism.  As an American this can be exciting.  As a man, this can be more problematic.  The Olympic Games are testing whether I am a better man or countryman.  The patriot wants to cheer for the Americans.  The man wants to cheer for the hot chicks.  Granted, there are events that are void of good looking athletes, but the dilemma lurks around every smoggy Beijing corner.  I try to rise above my more basic instincts and root for a purer cause, which is much easier in the men's events.  Maybe I'll grow up someday.  Maybe not.

Equal Opportunity Enjoyer, But...

I hate it when people ask me what "my type" is. I don't really have one. I like a lot of different "types." I've been accused of having different persuasions, Asian, Latin, Black, White, etc. Good is good. Hot is hot. Nice is nice. You get the idea. I'm not particular with"plain" vs. "cute" vs. "gorgeous," or anything like that. Some things kind of freak me out, such as violent fetishes, tattoos on breasts, armpit hair and such. But there is apparently a less obvious deal breaker that knows no bounds. It is found anywhere from trailer parks to Orange County. You don't always see it coming, and might not see it at all until it's an inconvenient complication. It's simple to bring up as a joke before it's actually discovered, but awkward to talk about once it's there. It's easily remedied, yet it's presence speaks to me of a woman's inner soul and identity. It is... toe hair! You're already shaving your legs, what's an extra couple of seconds to finish the job? I've had some ladies tell me that women don't grow hair on their toes, but I've seen it way to many times to believe I'm seeing the exceptions to the rule. Once it's there, I can't get it out of my head. I've probably just lost interest all together. It might be my way of finding fault with people to rationalize my bigger issues. No--on second thought, it's just gross.

Picking Her Poison

So last week I am leaving work, heading out to the parking lot, and I see a woman walking ahead of me with a black umbrella.  I figure she must be using this to block the sun, as it's 95 degrees outside.  I figure she's not the fancy type, substituting a black rain umbrella for a nice summer parasol, if one is so inclined, but to each her own.  Whatever keeps her from getting her inevitable skin cancer, I suppose.  A couple of seconds later I see the umbrella flopping around, and to my surprise, she is lighting a cigarette.  So now I'm confused, how she can fear the sun and it's potentially damaging rays, but welcome much more certain carcinogens voluntarily.  I did not care enough to ask her, so I will never know.  

This brings me to another point.  Who really gets sunburned anymore, anyway?  People do.  Friends of mine.  And it's funny every time.  I'm so pale I respect the sun, but do not fear it.  I don't intentionally stay indoors between 10 and 4.  I've been burned in the past, but kind of think I've got this whole thing figured out.  This is why I think it's so funny when people get burned.  It's always a surprise--like it's their first time.  Especially my brown friends.  "Dude, I don't need sunscreen, look at me, I'm Mexican!"  Whatever.  You burn.  Watching you squeal and peel was extra satisfying for this pale face.

If you get skin cancer, it's probably your own fault.  If you get lung cancer, it's probably your own fault.  But it will probably be a surprise.  But not to me.

No close-ups

Name a famous flutist.  You probably can't.  But while you think about that, think about this.  A couple of weeks ago I went to one of those big churches with half a dozen huge video screens above the stage.  Everything goes pretty well, nice service, interesting change of pace, whatever.  Then comes special music.  A flutist.  A male flutist.  Big deal.  Until the AV guys, against better judgement take these big screens and plaster this dudes face up on all the screens.  This was probably not a bad looking guy, but the sad fact was, that we only saw his face in flute-playing mode, which is not the most flattering of faces.  The positive:  a big, salt-and-pepper mustache (got to respect the 'stache).  The negative:  a voluntary overbite.  People have those surgically repaired.  Because they look funny.  Even before you do that funny thing with your lips.  

There are many wind instruments that can distort the face a bit, but with varying results.  Trumpet players, with Dizzie Gillespie's iconic cheeks or the intensity of Miles Davis are nothing to be ashamed of.  Saxophone players vary a bit.  Candy Dulfer would look good doing anything, but don't ever disgrace John Coltrane by comparing him to that no-talent hack Kenny G (he bothers me something fierce).  I cannot say all flutist look silly, as Ivana Zahirovic looks alright, and Ron Burgundy rocked the jazz flute to rave reviews.  

In summary, I would suggest to performing flutists that they not take themselves too seriously.  You're already fighting an uphill battle in the style department, so take a lesson from your brother, Ron Burgundy, and goof off a little and have fun with it, because it's hard to pull off the serious flutist.