Thursday, November 11, 2010

It usually takes at least a couple weeks for people to realize how difficult I can be, and so it was yesterday when an invitation to hang out was amicably offered, then promptly vetoed. A co-worker had outlined a weekly ritual of going “on the prowl,” in the parlance of the Serengeti and single folk, and last night’s programming called for beer and karaoke. I listened politely, of course, but it was a lost cause. “To be totally honest with you,” I replied, “neither of those things sound appealing.”

Now, I wasn’t a complete Herr Douchenbagger about this, as the Germans call it, and you’ll see why in a moment. But for me, karaoke sits well north of Rock Band on the mortification spectrum, and it is roughly level with public displays of Dance Dance Revolution. I suppose computer-assisted musicality just doesn’t jive with me? You may also know of my general dysfunction with bars. There’s putting yourself out there, and then there’s running headlong into gunfire. Karaoke, in this case, would be both the running and the gunfire.

I appreciated the invitation, naturally, so after the veto I inquired about options. Were non-karaoke establishments in the weekly rotation? What other activities were available? Pool was by far the most compelling alternative, and I committed right then and there to any future outings that would fall under this label. You see, the ability to wield a cue stick proficiently has long been on my list, if only to smash offending karaoke machines.