So my good friend The Alex Peters posted a funny little note on his Facebook page today, outlining what he wants to happen at his funeral. It got me thinking of all the things I've demanded be done with my body throughout the years, many of them extremely ludicrous and bitchin'. And now, with my compliments, enjoy reading about some of the things I want done with my fetid, rotting corpse.
1. I want my final remains to be tossed into an active volcano. Now, let me clarify: I do NOT want to be cremated. I want my whole, unspoiled body (assuming I wasn't mutilated by a panda as a cause of death) tossed into a bubbling, steaming, flaming volcano. Rent a helicopter, steal a plane, grow some wings, I don't care. Just get me up in the air, away from the Sky Police who I assume will exist in the years near my death, and drop me in a giant, naturally formed cauldron of magma.
2. When I die, I want my body put into a mausoleum. Not very interesting, you say? Here's the creepy/cool part: I want the mausoleum to be an exact replica of my living room at the time. I want my couch, my lamps, my recliner, my 6D TV with 12G sound system which I predict will exist upon my demise. I want my body preserved, stuffed and lacquered, positioned on the couch, holding the remote in one hand and a Labatt Strong in the other. I want the TV to cycle through al my favorite shows, so that when people visit me behind the stinkproof glass, they can watch TV with me for eternity.
3. Do it the old fashioned way. Drop me in a coffin and stuff it in the ground, with one little difference: the coffin is made of balsa wood and buried very shallow. This way, when the inevitable zombie apocalypse comes around, and the dead start to rise, it's easy for me to climb out and and eat me some brains as quickly as possible. I don't want to be the last zombie to get a taste of those sweet, sweet brains because someone locked me in an oak vault ten feet below the surface. Hook a zombie brother up, and maybe I'll retain enough knowledge of my former life that, while I'll still probably eat you, I might at least think twice about it.
4. Strap me to a rocket ship, shoot me into space. This needs no embellishmet. Me and Gene Roddenberry will hang out, if Urban Legends turn out to be true. Points scored.
5. Finally, we come to my most sinister of post-earthly plans. I have been plotting this for eons, or more accurately, supereons, a term I just coined. I want my body cremated, and the ashes ground into a fine powder afterwards. Then, I want my remains split up amongst my nearest and dearest. Sweet right? They all get a piece of Mark to cherish forever. Not so fast, Cherishers! My remains are not to be hugged, coddled, fondled, loved, loathed, or any other verbed. I want these little baggies (I will be distributed in baggies furnished by the good people at Glad) of my remains taken to the finest restaurants in the all the world. I want you to order the finest meal you can imagine (a discretionary budget will be furnished by the fine people at Glad). And when the meal is done, and your bellies are full of lobsters stuffed with tacos, I want you to open the nearest pepper shaker, and deposit my ashes within. I want the the cultural elite of the world to sprinkle me on their eggs, their steaks, their soups and their salads. Of all things, this is what I want most: for rich assholes to have to digest my crispy, smoky, slightly mesquite-flavored (again, provided by Glad) remains. For when they do, my spirit will visit a bowel reeking vengeance the likes of which the world has never seen. Eat me, America. Eat me and I will haunt your duodenum.
And now, my song of the day:
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Monday, March 14, 2011
Comedy Ain't Easy...
Going through an old notebook, searching for notes on a screenplay I started eons ago, I came across a page of sketch premises I came up with...clearly while drunk and/or drunk. I bring them to you, in all their amazing glory, with some of the stories that may have inspired them. NOTE: I am typing these EXACTLY AS THEY APPEAR ON THE PAGE. And frankly, they look worse on me when typed.
-Journey ends for Journey when Neil Schon dies on pilgrimmage in Egypt; remembered as a "Foreigner"
-Unlikely Porno Set-Ups (Senate Sub-Committee, janitor and drunk girl, cable guy and TV set)
-White Castle Vs. Burger King debate leads to bloody carnage
-Golden Ghouls - trio of retired ghosts toss zingers; eat cheesecake (NOTE: Honestly, if no one has done this yet, they should. This is an idea I had for ages. I believe it's inspired by the John Ritter vehicle "Stay Tuned.")
-Pirate Blackbeard slaughters entire crew; spares man with exquisite beard
-Man robs Thomas Kinkade gallery; Public rejoices (NOTE: This was way before it turned out Tommy K was a giant ass-raisin and shoddy businessman. If I had to date this list, I'd say 2005 or so. That said, I hate Kinkade and his lit up BS cabins.)
-Hitler returns as giant robot; Power Rangers baffled by bad robotic combover
-Norman Rockwell the painter and Rockwell the washed up musician trade bodies; "Norman Rockwell" becomes listless corpse. "Rockwell" rises from grave and paints sequel to "Somebody's Watching Me." (NOTE: Terrible sketch. Awesome if it happened.)
-Original Planeteers reunite minus wussy "Heart" dude and summon Captain Planet, who promptly dies due to lack of actual beating heart (NOTE: I may still do this some day.)
-Journey ends for Journey when Neil Schon dies on pilgrimmage in Egypt; remembered as a "Foreigner"
-Unlikely Porno Set-Ups (Senate Sub-Committee, janitor and drunk girl, cable guy and TV set)
-White Castle Vs. Burger King debate leads to bloody carnage
-Golden Ghouls - trio of retired ghosts toss zingers; eat cheesecake (NOTE: Honestly, if no one has done this yet, they should. This is an idea I had for ages. I believe it's inspired by the John Ritter vehicle "Stay Tuned.")
-Pirate Blackbeard slaughters entire crew; spares man with exquisite beard
-Man robs Thomas Kinkade gallery; Public rejoices (NOTE: This was way before it turned out Tommy K was a giant ass-raisin and shoddy businessman. If I had to date this list, I'd say 2005 or so. That said, I hate Kinkade and his lit up BS cabins.)
-Hitler returns as giant robot; Power Rangers baffled by bad robotic combover
-Norman Rockwell the painter and Rockwell the washed up musician trade bodies; "Norman Rockwell" becomes listless corpse. "Rockwell" rises from grave and paints sequel to "Somebody's Watching Me." (NOTE: Terrible sketch. Awesome if it happened.)
-Original Planeteers reunite minus wussy "Heart" dude and summon Captain Planet, who promptly dies due to lack of actual beating heart (NOTE: I may still do this some day.)
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Saturday, February 26, 2011
The Saddest Story Of The 20th Century...
The saddest story of the 20th century is Super Mario Bros. Go ahead. Laugh. It's okay. It's totally okay to giggle in amusement at the pain. It's absolutely normal to guffaw in merriment at the hardship. And please, by all means, go on and chortle, tittle, snicker and grin at the sorrow of an Italian plumber and his Tanooki suit.
Prick.
Imagine if you will: you are Mario. Middle class kind of guy, decent job. Union and what not. One day you're tightening a Float Valve and the next thing you know you're sucked down the cistern into a world where everyone is made of mushrooms. Before you can even begin to wonder why there are bricks floating in midair, these little 'Shroom heads demand you save some chick you've never met. Apparently, in the Mushroom Kingdom, the qualifications for hero are "fixes pipes good." If you have a way with a monkey wrench, obviously you have what it takes to defeat a fire breathing, anthropomorphic turtle dragon.
Not crying yet? Well, it gets worse, because now you will spend every day jumping on, kicking or raccoon-tailing living creatures to death. You will be forced to swim in squid-infested waters. You will be shot at by angry, sentient bullets with eyes. Ever had a turtle throw hammers at you? You will. Every day. Get used to it. Never mind the soul crushing disappointment that awaits you at the center of almost every castle. You think you got the Princess? No such luck. Some little Fungi is just chomping at the bit to tell you she's in another heavily guarded fortress stocked with spinning fire columns. Sorry.
Starting to tear up now, I see. Congratulations, pansy, you didn't even get to rock bottom. You eat a mushroom, you grow three times your size. Oops! Something touched you, and you shrink back immediately. Your body, stretched and smashed like a piece of Italian taffy, will be in tatters. And if the pain of instantaneous growth and shrinkage isn't enough, the slamming of your mustachioed cranium into floating bricks is. In no time at all, you will be a pill popping, alcoholic shadow of the plumber you used to be. By the way: can you carry hundreds of coins the size of your head? It's sort of a qualification.
Oh, and forget about seeing your family again. Know that while you're off climbing vines, playing magic flutes and masquerading as a doctor, your next of kin are filing missing persons reports. Thousands of tax dollars are being wasted searching for you. You will be all alone. Sure, your brother will be there. More tax dollars wasted. More tears shed. And he'll always be taller than you, too.
Like all tragedies, there is a minor bright spot: you have a dinosaur for a best friend. You can ride him, race him in go-karts or...well, that's about it. I doubt a relatively small dinosaur with a frog tongue is good for all that much. Sticking his tongue on things, perhaps? Maybe he tastes good.
There, I found your silver lining: Yoshi's are delicious.
Prick.
Imagine if you will: you are Mario. Middle class kind of guy, decent job. Union and what not. One day you're tightening a Float Valve and the next thing you know you're sucked down the cistern into a world where everyone is made of mushrooms. Before you can even begin to wonder why there are bricks floating in midair, these little 'Shroom heads demand you save some chick you've never met. Apparently, in the Mushroom Kingdom, the qualifications for hero are "fixes pipes good." If you have a way with a monkey wrench, obviously you have what it takes to defeat a fire breathing, anthropomorphic turtle dragon.
Not crying yet? Well, it gets worse, because now you will spend every day jumping on, kicking or raccoon-tailing living creatures to death. You will be forced to swim in squid-infested waters. You will be shot at by angry, sentient bullets with eyes. Ever had a turtle throw hammers at you? You will. Every day. Get used to it. Never mind the soul crushing disappointment that awaits you at the center of almost every castle. You think you got the Princess? No such luck. Some little Fungi is just chomping at the bit to tell you she's in another heavily guarded fortress stocked with spinning fire columns. Sorry.
Starting to tear up now, I see. Congratulations, pansy, you didn't even get to rock bottom. You eat a mushroom, you grow three times your size. Oops! Something touched you, and you shrink back immediately. Your body, stretched and smashed like a piece of Italian taffy, will be in tatters. And if the pain of instantaneous growth and shrinkage isn't enough, the slamming of your mustachioed cranium into floating bricks is. In no time at all, you will be a pill popping, alcoholic shadow of the plumber you used to be. By the way: can you carry hundreds of coins the size of your head? It's sort of a qualification.
Oh, and forget about seeing your family again. Know that while you're off climbing vines, playing magic flutes and masquerading as a doctor, your next of kin are filing missing persons reports. Thousands of tax dollars are being wasted searching for you. You will be all alone. Sure, your brother will be there. More tax dollars wasted. More tears shed. And he'll always be taller than you, too.
Like all tragedies, there is a minor bright spot: you have a dinosaur for a best friend. You can ride him, race him in go-karts or...well, that's about it. I doubt a relatively small dinosaur with a frog tongue is good for all that much. Sticking his tongue on things, perhaps? Maybe he tastes good.
There, I found your silver lining: Yoshi's are delicious.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Karaoke Pt. 2
I didn't perform karaoke again until halfway through my first year of college. I was a strange, American man in a strange, Canadian land. Everyday I was introduced to all manner of bizarre, Canuck delights. Labatt Strong. Tim Horton's. Poutine.
Delightful.
One night I was persuaded to attend a party at the Gladstone Hotel, a historically skeezy bar/performance space/drug den, to indulge in a little bit of the sung word. I promptly signed up to sing "Only The Good Die Young." Yes, again with the Billy Joel, and again, I was thwarted. The backing track jumped and skipped, probably because the sound system realized what evil it was partaking in. In a move of either inspired brilliance or brilliant inspiration, the KJ threw on "Uptown Girl," the mid-80's Joel pile of excrement known better as Homer Simpson's hippie freakout song than the original chart topper it was.
I crushed it.
I loved it.
I was at home on the stage. Later that evening I tore up Aerosmith's "Same Old Song And Dance," finally leaving my Billy Joel comfort song forever. After summer break, my Canadian college chums and I began to take over the James Tavern on Dufferin, where Brian the DJ, with hands like kielbasa sticking out of meatloaf, would let us sing all night long. It was there that I received my true karaoke education. I experimented, trying all manner of styles and rhythms, from REM's "Losing My Religion" to Bon Jovi's "Bad Medicine" to my beloved Elton John's "Saturday Night's (Alright For Fighting)." My roommate Gord serenaded me with "He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother," and was tragically wrong on both counts. My hometown friends came to visit, and after a rousing group rendition of "Stairway," we found our group outside, freestyle rapping so all downtown Toronto could hear the greatest refrain in hip hop history:
"CHICAGO! CHICAGO! CHI-CHI-CHI-CHICAGO!"
Sadly, it was not recorded for posterity, and thus lost to the depths of my memory.
NOTE: William Turbyfill was also in attendance.
Most amazingly, at the end of every evening, Brian the Gigantic Handed DJ would sing Creedence Clearwater Revival's "Midnight Special," blowing our minds every time with his uncanny John Fogerty impression. Then, to cap off every lovely evening, the topper to top all toppers.
Donna Summer + "MacArthur Park" = Best nights ever.
My Toronto karaoke fun was not limited to the James, however. The Blue Lagoon, on Lakeshore, provided me with a front row seat to my first bar fight. On the night Ryan Hipgrave and I rocked/cocked out "To Be With You" by Mr. Big, on the night I finally tackled The Doors' "Love Me Two Times," Cody Mitchell sang "Under The Bridge" by the Red Hot Chili Peppers. And when the chorus erupted with "Under the bridge downtown!," two men did battle in the bar, spilled into the street, took their shirts off, and brawled like wonderful drunken idiots. Later, we had a street fight versus some garbage.
Allow me to clarify: I'm not talking about stumbling about and drunkenly throwing some pop cans at each other. I'm talking "so drunk that the garbage was giving us the evil eye, and this aggression will not stand" fucked up. It ended with a mock wrestling match in front of Cody's apartment, with him screaming " I can kick all of Chicago's ass!" over and over. When a desperately tired mother leaned out her window and threatened to call 5-0, we stopped. Paused. Cody looked her dead in the eye, somewhat saddened, and pleaded his case as plainly as an inebriated Canadian could. "But I can kick all of Chicago's ass..."
It's one of my top 5 All Time Nights Out ever.
Before I move on, let me just reserve a moment of thanks for Mr. Ryan Hipgrave, for getting me out of my room, getting me off "Final Fantasy XII," and getting me in front of a mic. Ryan, you truly are...a King among Men.
By the way, I said that last part with a supernaturally bad Charlton Heston accent. Just so you really get the joke. I know Ryan does (or will).
Delightful.
One night I was persuaded to attend a party at the Gladstone Hotel, a historically skeezy bar/performance space/drug den, to indulge in a little bit of the sung word. I promptly signed up to sing "Only The Good Die Young." Yes, again with the Billy Joel, and again, I was thwarted. The backing track jumped and skipped, probably because the sound system realized what evil it was partaking in. In a move of either inspired brilliance or brilliant inspiration, the KJ threw on "Uptown Girl," the mid-80's Joel pile of excrement known better as Homer Simpson's hippie freakout song than the original chart topper it was.
I crushed it.
I loved it.
I was at home on the stage. Later that evening I tore up Aerosmith's "Same Old Song And Dance," finally leaving my Billy Joel comfort song forever. After summer break, my Canadian college chums and I began to take over the James Tavern on Dufferin, where Brian the DJ, with hands like kielbasa sticking out of meatloaf, would let us sing all night long. It was there that I received my true karaoke education. I experimented, trying all manner of styles and rhythms, from REM's "Losing My Religion" to Bon Jovi's "Bad Medicine" to my beloved Elton John's "Saturday Night's (Alright For Fighting)." My roommate Gord serenaded me with "He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother," and was tragically wrong on both counts. My hometown friends came to visit, and after a rousing group rendition of "Stairway," we found our group outside, freestyle rapping so all downtown Toronto could hear the greatest refrain in hip hop history:
"CHICAGO! CHICAGO! CHI-CHI-CHI-CHICAGO!"
Sadly, it was not recorded for posterity, and thus lost to the depths of my memory.
NOTE: William Turbyfill was also in attendance.
Most amazingly, at the end of every evening, Brian the Gigantic Handed DJ would sing Creedence Clearwater Revival's "Midnight Special," blowing our minds every time with his uncanny John Fogerty impression. Then, to cap off every lovely evening, the topper to top all toppers.
Donna Summer + "MacArthur Park" = Best nights ever.
My Toronto karaoke fun was not limited to the James, however. The Blue Lagoon, on Lakeshore, provided me with a front row seat to my first bar fight. On the night Ryan Hipgrave and I rocked/cocked out "To Be With You" by Mr. Big, on the night I finally tackled The Doors' "Love Me Two Times," Cody Mitchell sang "Under The Bridge" by the Red Hot Chili Peppers. And when the chorus erupted with "Under the bridge downtown!," two men did battle in the bar, spilled into the street, took their shirts off, and brawled like wonderful drunken idiots. Later, we had a street fight versus some garbage.
Allow me to clarify: I'm not talking about stumbling about and drunkenly throwing some pop cans at each other. I'm talking "so drunk that the garbage was giving us the evil eye, and this aggression will not stand" fucked up. It ended with a mock wrestling match in front of Cody's apartment, with him screaming " I can kick all of Chicago's ass!" over and over. When a desperately tired mother leaned out her window and threatened to call 5-0, we stopped. Paused. Cody looked her dead in the eye, somewhat saddened, and pleaded his case as plainly as an inebriated Canadian could. "But I can kick all of Chicago's ass..."
It's one of my top 5 All Time Nights Out ever.
Before I move on, let me just reserve a moment of thanks for Mr. Ryan Hipgrave, for getting me out of my room, getting me off "Final Fantasy XII," and getting me in front of a mic. Ryan, you truly are...a King among Men.
By the way, I said that last part with a supernaturally bad Charlton Heston accent. Just so you really get the joke. I know Ryan does (or will).
Monday, February 14, 2011
Terrible Song Sequels...
1. Only The Good Die Of Spinal Bifida - Billy Joel
2. We Built This City (On The Virtues of Good Masonry) - Starship
3. Mildly Irritating Woman - ELO
4. Rock and Roll and Fondle A Small Thai Boy (Pt. 2) - Gary Glitter
5. Rocket Man (I Think It's Gonna Be, Like, 5-10 More Minutes. For Real This Time!)
6. Bron-Y-Aur Running Man - Led Zeppelin
7. Malleable Ore Man - Black Sabbath
8. Turtle Power (Mitch Miller Remix) - Partners In Khryme
9. Secret Agent Transgendered Person - Johnny Rivers
10. Up On Handicapable Creek - The Band
2. We Built This City (On The Virtues of Good Masonry) - Starship
3. Mildly Irritating Woman - ELO
4. Rock and Roll and Fondle A Small Thai Boy (Pt. 2) - Gary Glitter
5. Rocket Man (I Think It's Gonna Be, Like, 5-10 More Minutes. For Real This Time!)
6. Bron-Y-Aur Running Man - Led Zeppelin
7. Malleable Ore Man - Black Sabbath
8. Turtle Power (Mitch Miller Remix) - Partners In Khryme
9. Secret Agent Transgendered Person - Johnny Rivers
10. Up On Handicapable Creek - The Band
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Karaoke Pt 1
As a grown man of indiscriminate age, it's certainly unreasonable for me to partake in a wide variety of activities. Roller derby is out, as is double dutch and hand clap games. I was never much for extreme sports or sports where you can't use your hands.
Sorry soccer, futbol and shirling.
There is one thing I love that, despite my late-20's decrepitude, I still partake in whenever possible.
Karaoke.
Go ahead. Laugh. Get it out of your system. I'll wait.
Done? No? Sorry to interrupt.
Okay, now you're just being an asshole. I'm pressing forward. See, karaoke has been a huge part of my Dionysian lifestyle since I learned what the word Dionysian meant, or approximately a decade. There's a feeling of power, of euphoric splendor, when I take the stage and bust a move and/or moves. It doesn't matter if it's in front of a shitty TV screen with too-hot microphones or with a lyric sheet on a music stand in front of a badass cover collective cranking it out live. Karaoke gives me thrills akin to what heroin users must feel when they overdose, die on the table and come back to life. One more karaoke night and I might write a tune as bitching as "Kickstart My Heart" is what I keep telling myself.
I can definitively say that karaoke has led to some amazing moments in my lifetime. Not life changing events, necessarily, just great times that I will never forget...at least until the vengeful Spirit of Senility descends upon me.
My first experience with karaoke takes me back to the distant past of the year 2001. Interesting events of the year include: the constitution of Finland was finally rewritten, Tuvalu joined the United Nations, and I was a 17-year old kid who liked a girl. I won't mention her name, not to save her from embarrassment, but because her name isn't important. It could be anything. Chris...or Tina...or some combination thereof…anyhoo…
College was right around the corner. I would soon be shipping off to the far reaches of Northern Toronto. I knew that if I were to have any chance of courting (read: fucking) this girl, I was going to have to act fast. As a pop culture squire training for knighthood, I delved into my movie obsessed brain to find the perfect way to impress (i.e. fuck) this girl. What I found was disturbing, to say the least.
I came away from my 1-man strategy session convinced that a big(stupid), bold(dumb) and romantic(ridiculous) gesture was my only option. I clearly recall driving around with some friends, detailing my awful, awful plan.
MARK
So there's this girl...
Or something like that. I should probably mention that this is all hearsay from my everything-addled brain.
MARK
I really like her, but she doesn't know. But I want to tell her. So at this karaoke thing tomorrow night, I'm going to dedicate a song to her.
What song you ask?
DAN
What song?
Thanks Dan.
MARK
"Need You Tonight," by INXS.
That's right. I knowingly chose to not only perpetrate one of the most shameful exhibits of crass romanticism ever in the history of fat, beardy 17-year olds, I chose to do it with an INXS song.
On purpose.
NOTE: William Turbyfill was there as well. Just giving credit where credit is due.
Had Michael Hutchence been alive at the time, he would have been well within his right to murder me with the scarf he would soon erotically hang himself with. Hell, a zombie Michael Hutchence with a craving for brains and killer stage presence would not have been out of the question. Either way, looking back, I would have deserved it for conjuring up such a massively boneheaded idea.
When karaoke started, I was still more than happy to make a colossal ass of myself just to get in this girls pants. I quickly made my way to the book of songs, rushed to INXS and pointed my finger at-
"Suicide Blonde?"
What manner of bullshit was this, I thought. How can you have INXS and not have "Need You Tonight?," I pondered. You have every Clarence Carter song in existence, including those from 1976's Heart Full of Song, but you don't have "Need You Tonight," I gerrymandered. My plan was ruined. Obliterated by a KJ who had clearly lacked the foresight to stock the one song necessary for my (hopefully) triumphant final stand. What would I do now? I couldn't possibly impress her with something else, something...inferior. Could I?
No. I chose Billy Joel's regrettably immortal "Still Rock and Roll To Me." Plan averted. Feelings reigned in. Love (or at least balls-infected like) devastated. I never told her how I felt, and by the time sunrise came around, I forgot. Sure, I'll always remember the circumstances that almost led me to make an almost demigod-like doofus of myself, but almost as soon as I finished singing about "hot punk, cool funk" and "next phase, new wave, dance craze, anyways" my crush was kaput. Why? A new crush had taken her place. A deep, yearning crush for the exhilaration I felt standing in front of fifty people, belting out a complete trifle of a song (should have gone with "Zanzibar"). A new crush called...marionette operation and repair.
Just kidding. It was karaoke.
Sorry soccer, futbol and shirling.
There is one thing I love that, despite my late-20's decrepitude, I still partake in whenever possible.
Karaoke.
Go ahead. Laugh. Get it out of your system. I'll wait.
Done? No? Sorry to interrupt.
Okay, now you're just being an asshole. I'm pressing forward. See, karaoke has been a huge part of my Dionysian lifestyle since I learned what the word Dionysian meant, or approximately a decade. There's a feeling of power, of euphoric splendor, when I take the stage and bust a move and/or moves. It doesn't matter if it's in front of a shitty TV screen with too-hot microphones or with a lyric sheet on a music stand in front of a badass cover collective cranking it out live. Karaoke gives me thrills akin to what heroin users must feel when they overdose, die on the table and come back to life. One more karaoke night and I might write a tune as bitching as "Kickstart My Heart" is what I keep telling myself.
I can definitively say that karaoke has led to some amazing moments in my lifetime. Not life changing events, necessarily, just great times that I will never forget...at least until the vengeful Spirit of Senility descends upon me.
My first experience with karaoke takes me back to the distant past of the year 2001. Interesting events of the year include: the constitution of Finland was finally rewritten, Tuvalu joined the United Nations, and I was a 17-year old kid who liked a girl. I won't mention her name, not to save her from embarrassment, but because her name isn't important. It could be anything. Chris...or Tina...or some combination thereof…anyhoo…
College was right around the corner. I would soon be shipping off to the far reaches of Northern Toronto. I knew that if I were to have any chance of courting (read: fucking) this girl, I was going to have to act fast. As a pop culture squire training for knighthood, I delved into my movie obsessed brain to find the perfect way to impress (i.e. fuck) this girl. What I found was disturbing, to say the least.
I came away from my 1-man strategy session convinced that a big(stupid), bold(dumb) and romantic(ridiculous) gesture was my only option. I clearly recall driving around with some friends, detailing my awful, awful plan.
MARK
So there's this girl...
Or something like that. I should probably mention that this is all hearsay from my everything-addled brain.
MARK
I really like her, but she doesn't know. But I want to tell her. So at this karaoke thing tomorrow night, I'm going to dedicate a song to her.
What song you ask?
DAN
What song?
Thanks Dan.
MARK
"Need You Tonight," by INXS.
That's right. I knowingly chose to not only perpetrate one of the most shameful exhibits of crass romanticism ever in the history of fat, beardy 17-year olds, I chose to do it with an INXS song.
On purpose.
NOTE: William Turbyfill was there as well. Just giving credit where credit is due.
Had Michael Hutchence been alive at the time, he would have been well within his right to murder me with the scarf he would soon erotically hang himself with. Hell, a zombie Michael Hutchence with a craving for brains and killer stage presence would not have been out of the question. Either way, looking back, I would have deserved it for conjuring up such a massively boneheaded idea.
When karaoke started, I was still more than happy to make a colossal ass of myself just to get in this girls pants. I quickly made my way to the book of songs, rushed to INXS and pointed my finger at-
"Suicide Blonde?"
What manner of bullshit was this, I thought. How can you have INXS and not have "Need You Tonight?," I pondered. You have every Clarence Carter song in existence, including those from 1976's Heart Full of Song, but you don't have "Need You Tonight," I gerrymandered. My plan was ruined. Obliterated by a KJ who had clearly lacked the foresight to stock the one song necessary for my (hopefully) triumphant final stand. What would I do now? I couldn't possibly impress her with something else, something...inferior. Could I?
No. I chose Billy Joel's regrettably immortal "Still Rock and Roll To Me." Plan averted. Feelings reigned in. Love (or at least balls-infected like) devastated. I never told her how I felt, and by the time sunrise came around, I forgot. Sure, I'll always remember the circumstances that almost led me to make an almost demigod-like doofus of myself, but almost as soon as I finished singing about "hot punk, cool funk" and "next phase, new wave, dance craze, anyways" my crush was kaput. Why? A new crush had taken her place. A deep, yearning crush for the exhilaration I felt standing in front of fifty people, belting out a complete trifle of a song (should have gone with "Zanzibar"). A new crush called...marionette operation and repair.
Just kidding. It was karaoke.
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