Day 21: Throwback Thursday: Nice Fresh Trout

It's been a long day, my friends. I worked and drove a lot and mopped a big room with a big mop. So tonight I chose one of my favorite posts from the past to share with you. It's a snippet from a conversation at karaoke night. A couple of you will remember it. I hope I don't bore you by posting it again or give you existential angst when you realize it's over six years old. And yet my vagina still smells like .... Oh, just read the post.

A karaoke snippet: Something smells a little fishy....

From February 22, 2013

Fishmonger*:  You know that's what the gay men say, don't you? Vaginas smell like fish.

Me: Vaginas do not smell like fish. My vagina does not smell like a fish.

Fishmonger: I'm just repeating what they say. And it's not all vaginas. It's just some vaginas.

Me: I'm telling you the gay men lie. What would they know about vaginas anyway? They don't get close enough to a vagina to smell one.

Fishmonger: But I'm not saying all vaginas, and maybe not under all circumstances.

Me: OK, maybe if she ate tuna or salmon and the fish smell came out in her .... you know.

Fishmonger: Well, as someone who has a lot of experience on both sides, I can vouch that some vaginas smell like fish.

Me: Mine doesn't. And I don't think vaginas smell like fish in general.

Maria*: (Who has just finished a production of The Vagina Monologues, quotes in a singsong voice.) "My vagina smells like .... rain!"

Me: That's it. Me too. My vagina smells like rain.

Maria: Not really though....

Me: Yes, it does. It smells like rain. It really does. (To Fishmonger) It does not smell like fish. My vagina smells like rain.

Fishmonger: It's not necessarily a bad thing. It can be a good thing. Sometimes vaginas smell like nice, fresh trout.

Me: Nice, fresh trout!!! You call that a compliment? OK, I'm calling in an expert. (I turn to Martini, who has for some reason not been listening to this vagina conversation.)  Martini, give us your honest opinion. Do vaginas smell like nice, fresh trout?

Martini: (long, thoughtful pause) I have not actually encountered that much trout.

Wait a damn minute! Are you saying I smell like a vagina? I smell like fish. Everybody knows vaginas smell like rain.     (Credit: US Department of Agriculture)

Day 20: Wordless Wednesday: A view from the stool at karaoke

Note 1: Tonight  went to karaoke for the first time since I was roofied there. I will admit to some trepidation. I only drank water, and I asked the server for a pitcher. It might take a minute before I feel safe there again.

Note 2: I didn't publish a post last night, because it was my birthday, and I was sitting on my porch until 5:00 am drinking bourbon. I hope you saw my full moon. It was gorgeous.

Note 3: These aren't really words.

Taking a break for station identification...

I'm working on a post tonight for my classroom blog, but never fear. Tomorrow night I'll return to Reticuland with the reasons why I've decided not to have sex with a hooker .... yet.

In the meantime, here's a funny for my karaoke friends, whether we've sung together or not.

Posting this made me wonder if anybody has ever undertaking a karaoke trip and written about it. I think I see my own HGTV show opening up right in front of me! Reticulated Karaoke on the Road. What do you think?

No, seriously! I'm looking for my next life right now. This could be it, right? Because otherwise, my next life might be sex with a hooker .... unless you guys come up with a better idea.

Wordless Wednesday: Blue Story

Post-karaoke snippet #23

I left karaoke early tonight and
walked out to my van at 1:23 am,
alone in a parking lot behind two closed bars,
Ned Peppers and Hank's Hole in the Wall.
As I pressed my key fob and unlocked
my driver's side door, a young black woman -- 
maybe 25 .... maybe 30 ....
walked around my van from the other side
and when she saw me she
held up her hands
like she was surrendering to the sheriff in an old-time western,
and she said, "Don't worry. I ain't a thief.
I ain't gonna rob you."
At the same time I opened my mouth to say,
"Hi ...."
But instead I said, "OK?"
She walked by me with her hands raised
high above her shoulders.
I said, "Why did you say that to me?"
She said, "Because I'm black, and you're
a white woman."

I said, "Sweetie, I never thought you were going to rob me."
She put her hands down
only after she had passed me.

I wanted to say, "I feel vulnerable too.
I have to be careful too,
but not because you're black,
and not because you're a black woman.
You are not my boogie man ....
and I am not your boogie man."

But I didn't say anything else,
and she didn't say anything else.
I got into my van and put my head on the steering wheel
for just a second.
And she walked on down the alley toward 5th Street.
And then I drove home.

I'm not sure which of us felt worse:
she because I might think she was a thief because
of her brown skin ....
or me because she thought I 
would think she was a thief because of my white skin.

Blame it on Dave Chapelle

I posted a teaser on Facebook about what should have been tonight's post. It went something exactly like this: "As I was driving home I saw a guy standing on his porch with a big tattoo that said 'ghetto' across his belly. So I stopped and asked him if I could take photos. I not only got the photos, I learned how they make tattoo guns in prison. Sometimes a blog post comes out of nowhere." All true and a whole lot more.

Here's the problem. I stayed too late at karaoke and then I got home too late to write that post and do it justice. And I really want to do it justice because there are photos.

In my own defense though, this is really Dave Chapelle's fault. See, I planned to leave karaoke early earlier than I did, but the karaoke host, Nancy, announced Dave Chapelle was singing 4 or 5 people deep. And then we all said, "Is Dave Chapelle here? I haven't seen him tonight." (We all call him Dave Chapelle. Nobody calls him Dave. Or Chapelle. It's always Dave Chapelle. Probably because he's famous. He comes in often enough we should be calling him Dave by now because there's nothing fucking special about him showing up. But because he's famous, we call him Dave Chapelle. Even to his face. Dave Chapelle. Kind of like "Rick James, bitch*," only we do it without being told.)

Now, I'm going to be bold and say I really don't give a shit about Dave Chapelle. He seems to be a nice guy. I've talked to him a couple of times and neither of us remember it. He's funny, no doubt. His Prince vs Charlie Murphy is a classic.

Just because he's funny on TV doesn't mean I have to stay late at karaoke just to hear him sing though. Except .... I've been at karaoke millions a dozen times when Dave Chapelle was there, and he never once sang while I was there. Every time he's sung at karaoke, he's done it after I left and then somebody posted it on Facebook to mock me.

So what the fuck was I supposed to do? I stayed to hear Dave Chapelle sing.

Here's what it looks like when Dave Chapelle sings at karaoke.

Not kidding. That's what it looks like when Dave Chapelle sings. A bunch of fucking drunks with their cell phones in the air taking photos and videos. And he didn't even sing that well, but because he's Dave Chapelle, he got to sing 2 songs in a row.

What? You don't believe it was really Dave Chapelle? Fine. Here's this one.

And this one.

The guy with "ghetto" tattooed on his belly was much more interesting, but I'm an idiot like everybody else so I stayed and watched people record Dave Chapelle singing at karaoke instead of coming home and writing about the guy with the ghetto tattoo.

I suck.

Tomorrow I will make up for sucking tonight. Dave Chapelle is on his own. Fucker. He wasn't even that good.

Ghetto tattoos tomorrow. Promise.

* Just in case you're the last person on the planet who hasn't seen the "Rick James, bitch" video. It's pretty funny. And it's Dave fucking Chapelle, bitch.

Wednesday night, after karaoke

Listen.

1:00 am

Main Street

Driving home from Wednesday night karaoke

and everybody was ON tonight.

Streets glassy with rain, shining wet,

clean

Stop lights, reflections stretch red … green … red

The RTA bus pulls up beside …

A lone woman rides

fluorescent lights shiver inside.

Long, green limousine.

The bar… earlier,

gin and tonic tall, with a lime.

Remember?

That man who sat at a table by himself,

turned to talk to me and wanted …

he wanted what we all want.

He asked me to please sing “Angel of the Morning,”

the Billie Davis version from the 60's, not Juice Newton.

He asked me to change the song I’d given to the DJ,

sing a song for him.

But I ….

I don’t do requests now --- closed for business.

Another night, I said.

He smiled and said, Yes, another night.

1:00 am.

Driving home from Wednesday night karaoke.

Jessica Williams playing Miles Davis on her piano and

I wonder why I don’t touch those black and white keys   

like I used to.

Those jazz chords so close

so tight …. they clash and resolve.    

They resolve….

I miss …. the jazz ... and you, but

the light turns green

rain mists the windshield …wipers on low,

legato.

I slide through the reflections of the night.

Main Street.

I could go anywhere and the name would be the same…

anyplace else, but I love this fucking city.

I could leave my fractured heart here on Main Street and run

and run…

But I won’t this time …. not tonight.

1:00 am.

Driving home.

Fucking Dave Chappelle showed up to sing karaoke

right after I left

again.

I don’t care.

The wipers

Coltrane

this city

this night

these shiny streets

red … green … red … green

home.

And Melvin, the alcoholic who lives across the street,

sitting on his porch smoking, drinking gin and juice,

he shouts, How you doin’, baby?

I’m fine, I say.

I know you are, he says. You are so fine.

I love you, baby. You know I love you?

I know you do, Melvin. I love you too.

Good night, baby.

Good night.