Hair bands in Houston

Today was a wretched day at work. Wretched. I can't even get into the wretchedness because I just can't. I can't relive it.

But what I can do for you, my faithful blogging audience, is paint a picture of the funniest bar in Southeast Houston--no, scratch that, Clear lake.

First, however, I must paint a picture of idyllic Clear Lake. Think NASA people--engineers and their spouses who are either also engineers (the cool people) or are bubbleheaded, plastic faced women perpetually clad in tennis skirts or maternity tops, depending on their condition. Think chain restaurants and bars attached to ritzy hotels, where you moor your boat and then step up to the bar for a $15 well drink. Got the picture?

So I end a horrible day with dance class, where I just make a fool out of myself because 23 years of ballet does not an Irish dancer make. I meet up with the cool pastor at Finns. Now 2shirts knows this bar--it's across the street from his pad. I figure if the doubleshirted wonderboy likes it, then I will, too.

I walk in and sit at the bar, waiting for the CP. The Cards/Mets game is on. Score is 3 to 2, Cards favor, dominantly displayed on the screen. A man, exceedingly drunk at 9 pm, says to me, "Who's winning?" I say, "um...St louis, and point to the screen." He then says, "NO, who's winning?" Then I say, "you mean the series?" thinking that maybe he's not a complete idiot. He proved me wrong: "No, the game. Who's winning?" "Um...cards. St Louis." He then asks me to play pool, and I say, I'm waiting for someone, and he says, "Stop. Retract that. Done." Sad thing was that he was probably one of the more sober ones of the bar.

CP shows up. We talk shop for a bit. Crazy ass place. Then Kareoke starts. Lord help us all. Out of the chute first, my friends, steps up a man--and I don't mean just any old man, but this man was, well, how should I put it...um, he was C. C. Deville. In fact, he began by singing, "Every Rose Has it's Thorn." Here's the thing: I hear the beginning of it, but I'm at a table with my back to the stage. I look at CP's face, and he says, "Dear God, you...you...you have to turn around and look, Kim, omg, he's...he's...he's got the microphone. HE"S SLINGING THE MICROPHONE!" I turned around, and he had the microphone stand over his head and was swinging it in a circular motion. His voice--not so bad. His stance--just like a freakin hair band. knee cocked inward, skinny legs in latex. I was almost on the floor laughing.

Singer2--Lydia. Lydia is the only name I remember from the night because Lydia was SO BAD! Lydia likes to sing songs by Sinead O'Connor and Cher. Lydia truthfully sounded like Rosanne Barr singing the national anthem, only Lydia was serious. For this song, though, she sang Material Girl, as if she had never heard it before in her life. I've never heard anyone sing it quite like that.

Singer 3--Raul. Raul could sing ok, but Raul liked to rap better. Raul shouldn't rap.

Then we start the rotation over. DJ begs for other singers as he calls C. C. back up to the mike. That's when the intro to Home Sweet Home starts. Ok, now you can't really appreciate kareoke until you hear C. C. singing Crue and then midway through, he pulls out a pistol shaped lighter which sends off a bright red flare and then leaves a flame that he holds over his head, waving it back in forth, singing the chorus to himself. Each song, btw, he keeps getting closer and closer to the audience.

Lydia gets up again, and DJ asks Raul to sing a duet with her. It was the Kid Rock/Sheryl Crow song, and jeezalmighty, nothing could make my skin crawl worse. Truly, it was bad. So so so so so bad. For the record, in 3 hours, Lydia sang 6 times. All bad.

C. C. is back up again. This time, he sings another hair band song, but I can't remember what it was. The microphone stand swirling over his head mesmerized me.

Then a guy who is the spitting image of Trent Reznor, gets up and sings The Whipping Post. Not bad, actually. Odd song choice. His friends were in the back kicking each others' asses--men and women. No one seemed to care about the bloody faces they gave each other. Just another day at Finns.

I sang, and the waitress was enamored. I think she almost asked for my autograph...wait, she did, though it was on my bar tab. Still, though, she touched me funny, several times, and I think she wanted to take me home, lock me up in a cage, and make me sing to her. If I could just make people throw money at me for my voice! Wait they do that for my smile...hmmm...I could really use some things to my advantage. Note to self. The CP thought I did a good job, though he liked my "gravelly" tone, which I take as an insult, but he seemed to mean it as soulful and Melissa Etheridge like. CP used to sing in a band. He wouldn't sing kareoke. He sucks. After 2 cocktails, though, he was leafing through the book, so I think one more rum and coke would've prodded his ass up on the stage.

So, more bad kareoke, and then the DJ notes that Halloween is on a Tuesday, when they will be having Skareoke, which prompted the CP and me to both say at the same time, "As if tonight isn't scary enough."

Finns. What an odd little place. Skareoke anyone?