SKAREOKE

February 7, 2004

I headed to my old 'hood under the auspices of seeing my neighbor's brother's band at Luna, but quickly made other plans when Luna was at its predictably horrid weekend state of too many people and not enough bartenders. One Brooklyn Lager later, I met up with Dens and Co. at ol' standy Local 138. Most were headed to Brooklyn to see Dizzie Rascal later that night, but all decided to stop by Club Battjer for a party. From the looks of the pictures on the interweb, most of ikeepadiary's parties (d)evolve into balls and nips. I'm cool with that. I was also cool with the fact that I wasn't invited. Had I been, the chances of a lame party would have increased exponentially. Not wanting to show up without some sort of look/angle that might actually disguise us as hipster invitees, someone mentioned we should go show up with Brass Monkeys. I always thought Brass Monkey was a liqueur or mixer - and to be honest, I still do - but apparently for this night it would be a 40oz. and orange juice. If that sounds obnoxious, it's because it should be, but woo and behold, it actually tasted fantastic. Nothing like being in your late-20s and being pysched about 'finding' a new drink. Pathetic. We timed our entrance perfectly - just enough people so we didn't get eyed by everyone, but not enough people to have the bathroom line 12 deep. Anyway, no sooner than we arrive, somebody starts to get their kareoke-on. Battjer had imported not only a kareoke machine for the party, but also Sid and Bud, who run kareoke nights around town. Mike, knowing his time was limited as Dizzie beckoned in Brooklyn, decided to wade right into the kareoke waters with DMX's 'Up in Here'. Despite the relatively early hour, it hit a sweet spot. The crowd had their pale arms in the air, waving them like they just didn't care...or something like that. But Mike soon fell prey to the dark side of the Brass Monkey. Look at the poor thing. He's holding the Brass Monkey out,hoping against hope for somebody to help him...and he's barely halfway through it. The Brass Monkey made him look like a sorority girl on her 21st birthday. Even the Kareoke Whore had a swig and was down for the count. Killa stuff that Monkey...that funky Monkey. With Mike looking more shaky than Foreman in Manilla, host/kareoke extraordinaire Battjer grabbed the mic (no, not that Mike. Mike was stuffed in a cab and summarily sent to Brooklyn) and belted out some musical selection, which now escapes me (as does much of the night -f(&R@$ Brass Monkey), much to the delight of all. But all good things must come to an end. Unfortunately that end usually takes place at the intersection of Dennis and Crowley. Sufficiently pie-eyed, and with out-of-town friend to impress, Dens decided to step into the ring. To say the least, the results were ...well, you judge for yourself. Take a look back at the earlier kareoke photos. Mike had the crowd swaying. Battjer grabbed the baton and ran with it. Dens then took that baton and proceed to beat our eardrums senseless. Of course, he was as giddy as all get out when he stepped up the mic. He thought he would slay an anxious crowd with his unique blend of suck and ass. The Kareoke Whore, who's seen it all before, could only smirk. Not content to just kareoke with reckless abandon, he had to do it to the tune of the white man's kareoke double-bill of Jon Bon Jovi's 'Dead or Alive" and Poison's "Every Rose Has It's Thorn". I had never seen 75 hipsters collectively yawn, but I soon did. Dens might as well have said "Before I sing this tune, I'd like to talk a little bit about the Schedule A forms for your 1040 tax returns." Simply put, he laid a big fat kareoke fart. There was a mass exodus to the respective stairwells, patios and fire escapes. Dens was able to do in one song what union officials have tried to bargain for for years: a mandatory smoke break. To complicate matters, he sang his songs like a rapper complete with crotch grabs and "yo yo"s. It was truly horrific. Luckily, I was firmly ensconced in my fierce Brass Monkey buzz and was able to laugh at Dens...along with the rest of the party. Having pissed on the party, pissed everybody off, Dens completed the trifecta and pissed off the roof. He came, he saw, he pissed. Oh, and finally, on the piss theme. As we left the party, we saw what looked like beer raining down on the sidewalk. But when we gandered up, we saw a girl just relieving herself off the fire escape. She wasn't the least bit intimidated by the tens of people on the sidewalk. She carried on about her business amongst the catcalls and flash bulbs. I'm pretty sure I had a sweet Swank shot with my digicam, but somehow my conscience (damn you Brass Monkey!) kicked in and I deleted the photo immediately. Eh.