Put Your Pride on the Shelf…

July 17, 2007, 10:30 am; posted by
Filed under Articles, Humor, Job  | 1 Comment

Best of Job, from January 2006.

There was a Filipino party at the house last night. They set up a table full of the food I’ve grown accustomed to eating and making — lots of seafood, rice, and dishes with ingredients you have to travel to New Jersey to find. And after a little while everyone congregated in the living room for karaoke.

Filipinos love karaoke.

It’s our Scrabble, touch football and conversation over coffee, all rolled into one, and while they are an unflappably gregarious, gentle and generous bunch, they unleash their competitive nature in the world of sing-a-longs.

The karaoke microphone, which plugs right into the TV, is an elaborate machine, holding the lyrics of hundreds of songs and images of the Philippines. After each performance it scores you based on your knowledge of the lyrics and rhythm, whether you hit all the notes, and your stamina. 100 is the highest possible score. Everyone sang for one round, then the top half moved onto the next round. From twenty initial attempts, I made the top ten — then I made the top five.

It’s such a petty thing, karaoke on a Saturday night with a bunch of immigrants, most over 65, but I admit my competitive juices were absolutely boiling.

I wanted to win this one for the States.

I went first of the new top 5. My voice, never truly strong or good, had taken a serious beating on Sinatra’s “My Way,” so I knew I needed to try a song by a hack. But the Mick Jagger offerings were slim and I didn’t trust my ability with “Start Me Up.” “Semi- Charmed Life” by Third Eye Blind appealed to me, but that’s a long, breath-taking song.

So I took the dive and went with Elvis. “All Shook Up” is not as easy as it seems. I had to keep going and going — the lyrics crash right into each other and take little interesting curves. But it’s a quick song, and when the dust settled, I had scored a 94, a new high for the evening. I was competing with only the best now, but they were a little shaken by my knowledge of the King — I think every country thinks Elvis is exclusively theirs. Like a young Jane Goodall, I had earned their respect.

Pepsi went for the kill on “Hero” by Mariah Carey, scoring a 96. She takes voice lessons, you see. Remi took a dive on Billy Joel’s “Uptown Girl.” Eliminated. Lourdes butchered “Unchained Melody,” while Louis did a respectable “Let It Be.”

And so there were three.

I felt scared. Alone. I wanted to tag out. But suddenly a ghostly apparition of a young Ben Franklin, Paul Revere, and that other dude appeared. “Bring the victory home, Job…bring the victory home,” they softly whispered. I knew what I had to do.

Flipping through the song book I had seen “Song 2” by Blur; you know, the “Woo hoo!” song. I felt confident. No one in the room had ever heard it and they all sat in stunned silence as I screamed out “Woo-hoo!” every other second on my way to a 93.

Pepsi sang a song I’d never heard before, but owned a really pretty chorus that said “you were twenty-five minutes too late” or something. She hit a home run — another 93.

Louis, a 40-something from Manila, tried a Tagalog song, and he too scored a 93. This meant a re-do.

My throat was tired. I’m a weak one. I didn’t want to have to do it, but I dove way back into my youth and sang “I Just Called To Say I Love You” by Stevie Wonder. It was a breeze — 93. Pepsi sang Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, which I thought was a cheap shot, but earned her a 95. When Louis bailed on his Lionel Richie attempt, I was in the finals.

Aged 26, red in the face, sore in the throat — and locked in pathetic mortal combat with a 14-year-old girl, slyly smiling to herself.

She had a bunch of fans who oohed and ahhed her every note; I had an imagined peanut gallery of deceased forefathers, one of whom I couldn’t even accurately identify. I hung my head in shame. I’m pathetic. But my self-loathing demanded vindication. I was gonna ice this chick once and for all.

My shame was enhanced when she graciously agreed to go first (giving my pipes a little more rest) and did a positively moving version of “Livin’ La Vida Loca.”

98.

Ouch. I would need my ‘A’ game like never before.

The entire room giggled in delight. They knew I couldn’t beat a 98. I had been outgunned, outclassed. Throttled. It was time to hang it up, bogsok naneman.

But not so fast… There was one last place I could go to get help in this great and epic fight. One final Alamo in my defense of America’s honor. One last hope to get a good meal and get myself clean.

That’s right…

The YMCA.

The karaoke singer’s Nirvana. When I punched the code in and it popped up on the TV, the entire room grew hushed. Did I dare? Did I dare to go there? Would I truly go through with it?

I would. And I did.

“Young man,” and the fire was lit. I went in guns blazing. I could feel the disco beat, I could sense the mirror ball flashing across my skin. Every note, every sound, every pulse and every ounce of pure melody swam through my veins.

For one magical moment I was gay.

Everyone in the room clung to the walls, furniture, each other…whatever was available. They rode the waves of my performance, crashing into the surf of this sonic adventure.

And then the last note faded away. We all caught our breath and stared at the screen for the score.

65.

Forgive me, America…..


Comments

1 Comment to “Put Your Pride on the Shelf…”

  1. lisa d on July 18th, 2007 1:39 am

    i cried a little from laughter when my eyes met the words: “for one magical moment i was gay”. nice work absent jobie.

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