Be Still My Bleeding Ears
Q: What's worse than coming home and finding the disembowelled corpses of your flayed housemates littering the loungeroom and drenching furniture with their blood because you forgot that today was the day you were supposed to pay the ransom and so you went ten pin bowling instead?
A: Finding them very much alive and singing crappy Karaoke at 2:00 am when all you want to do is get some friggin' sleep.
I'd been to the going away party for Ben Weisner and his new wife Olivia at the Terminus Hotel- home of the $5 steak- in Richmond. They had decided to leave for Lud's Town in England to enjoy a lifetime of being drenched every day, warm beer, football hooligans, East Enders, cross-dressing politicians, boiled food, Spotted Dick, royal scandals, etc. and had invited a few close friends (essentially every musician in Melbourne) for their farewell. The beers had found a cozy home in my belly, I was warm but not ex-con slappingly drunk, happy (despite running into Jenks and Paulie. Ha!) and was gearing myself for a nice lie down at home where I could enjoy fantasising about Erika Christensen before going to sleep. Even as I got out of the cab I heard a collective warbling coming from our front door. That can't be good.
Ten years ago to the day I'd bumped into a nerd at an airport and he went crashing into some luggage. 'You'll pay for this one day!' meeped the nerd. 'What're you going to do?' I asked as I poured the rest of my Sprite over his geekly head, 'Invent a Karaoke game for the Playstation 2 where players get rewarded points depending on the notes they hit and filled with every annoying trite from the 80's? I'd like to see that.' Well, it looks like the bastard got his decade-old revenge.
Living with a gay guy and a 20-year old girl has some disadvantages. They unite in unexpected kitsch ways like horrible, horrible pop music. I enter a loungeroom filled with a bunch of people singing off-key. No, not singing. Shouting. Shouting songs of Duran Duran. Screaming to the lyrics of Foreigner. Wonderful.
'Who are these people?' I yell at Megs over the loud discordant din of noise.
'WHAT?'
'I said: WHO THE F-CK ARE THESE PEOPLE?'
'WORKMATES. SOME OF 'EM.'
'I LOVE COMING HOME TO A HOUSE FULL OF STRANGERS.'
'GOOD. WHY ARE YOU YELLING THEN?'
'BECAUSE THEY ARE SINGING SONGS THAT THEY PLAY IN THE WAITING ROOM OF HELL! I'LL READ YOU THE F-CKING SET LIST: BELINDA CARLISLE, CULTURE CLUB, KATE BUSH, TEARS FOR FEARS, WHAM!, VANILLA ICE, SOFT CELL....' I pause as I peruse the rest of the list. Starship, We built this City is my favourite song. And I mean EVER.
'HAND ME THE MICROPHONE. I'LL SHOW YOU HOW IT'S DONE.'
The neighbours are signing petitions asking us to move,
Fatman
A: Finding them very much alive and singing crappy Karaoke at 2:00 am when all you want to do is get some friggin' sleep.
I'd been to the going away party for Ben Weisner and his new wife Olivia at the Terminus Hotel- home of the $5 steak- in Richmond. They had decided to leave for Lud's Town in England to enjoy a lifetime of being drenched every day, warm beer, football hooligans, East Enders, cross-dressing politicians, boiled food, Spotted Dick, royal scandals, etc. and had invited a few close friends (essentially every musician in Melbourne) for their farewell. The beers had found a cozy home in my belly, I was warm but not ex-con slappingly drunk, happy (despite running into Jenks and Paulie. Ha!) and was gearing myself for a nice lie down at home where I could enjoy fantasising about Erika Christensen before going to sleep. Even as I got out of the cab I heard a collective warbling coming from our front door. That can't be good.
Ten years ago to the day I'd bumped into a nerd at an airport and he went crashing into some luggage. 'You'll pay for this one day!' meeped the nerd. 'What're you going to do?' I asked as I poured the rest of my Sprite over his geekly head, 'Invent a Karaoke game for the Playstation 2 where players get rewarded points depending on the notes they hit and filled with every annoying trite from the 80's? I'd like to see that.' Well, it looks like the bastard got his decade-old revenge.
Living with a gay guy and a 20-year old girl has some disadvantages. They unite in unexpected kitsch ways like horrible, horrible pop music. I enter a loungeroom filled with a bunch of people singing off-key. No, not singing. Shouting. Shouting songs of Duran Duran. Screaming to the lyrics of Foreigner. Wonderful.
'Who are these people?' I yell at Megs over the loud discordant din of noise.
'WHAT?'
'I said: WHO THE F-CK ARE THESE PEOPLE?'
'WORKMATES. SOME OF 'EM.'
'I LOVE COMING HOME TO A HOUSE FULL OF STRANGERS.'
'GOOD. WHY ARE YOU YELLING THEN?'
'BECAUSE THEY ARE SINGING SONGS THAT THEY PLAY IN THE WAITING ROOM OF HELL! I'LL READ YOU THE F-CKING SET LIST: BELINDA CARLISLE, CULTURE CLUB, KATE BUSH, TEARS FOR FEARS, WHAM!, VANILLA ICE, SOFT CELL....' I pause as I peruse the rest of the list. Starship, We built this City is my favourite song. And I mean EVER.
'HAND ME THE MICROPHONE. I'LL SHOW YOU HOW IT'S DONE.'
The neighbours are signing petitions asking us to move,
Fatman
posted by Fatman | 1:54 pm
1 Comments:
Yeah. I got that Nerd good. Re: Shatner's singing:
( From Wikipedia)
George Clooney, for instance, chose this as one of the Desert Island Discs he would bring along if marooned - as an incentive to leave the island. He said, "If you listen to [this song], you will hollow out your own leg and make a canoe out of it to get off this island."
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