June 02, 2005
The Amish Old Navy Commercial Graduation Party
After Joe's first set Friday night, full of plenty o' good ol' fashioned Wisconsin-esque cuss words, an odd group started to converge on Skuttlebutts. There were white shirts, and ties, and Docker khakis, and pink cardigans, and flowery dresses... all very disturbing in a Wisteria Lane sort of way.
Plus, the group was made up of a large number of adolescents. In a bar. A bar with booze and fried dough and cuss words and partner-swapping and waitresses with over-tweezed, Costaguatamexirico eyebrows -- none of it child-friendly!
And yes, I'm probably being hypocritical, seeing as how I grew up grifting cheeseheads at billiards for jukebox money in Wisconsin taverns (Thanks, Dad!), and I turned out okay. Except that my first husband was a raging alcoholic...
Okay, I was right. A bar is no place for children. Yet there they were, in all their peach-fuzz, glitter-nail-polish glory. Celebrating -- get this -- AN EIGHTH GRADE GRADUATION!
"Honey, what should we do for Taylor's graduation? I really want something to do something special!"
"I know! Let's go to my favorite bar! I hear they have Coronas for two bucks a bottle, and Mighty Joe will be singing about STDs!"
"Perfect! I'll wear my new Old Navy cotton sundress!"
Seriously. At least my Mom had the decency to glare disapprovingly when my Dad took 14-year old Pirate Wench to drive him home.
Needless to say, Mighty Joe was pretty upset at having to clean up his act for the young 'uns or face the wrath of the JC Penney Catalogue Model Army. He was planning on starting his next set with his Ode to Sperm-Burping Gutter Sluts Medley.
But I gotta say (note: the following is NOT a paid endorsement), dude managed to keep both the Amish and the Drunk entertained for the rest of the evening, and THAT'S NOT EASY. I was pretty impressed.
Okay, enough of my gushing and on to the corruption of America's youth.
There was a kid there, he was wearing... oh, I don't even remember now, but obviously it warranted a sound mocking because I directed Heather's attention to him. I was sitting there, looking at him, smiling and talking in a very conspiratorial way when the kid looked up.
Well, I don't give a fuck what some 13-year old kid thinks, so I just kept staring, smiling and talking. And the look on this kid's face, I was like, "Oh, fuck. He thinks I'm telling Heather to pass him a note in study hall cuz I want to jump his pre-pubic-hair bod and smooch a bone I'm old enough to have sired."
And as ridiculous as that sounds, let me be the first to point out that it wouldn't be the first time I was mistaken for a high-school-aged girl. SO THERE!
Mr. Dreamer kept on looking over. So when we were all necking and copping feels on one another, he got quite the show. I'm sure they never showed him a filmstrip like THAT in gym class!
Anyhoo, Joe dealt nicely by having the kids request good, wholesome songs from his playlist. And then he came over and asked me -- out of sheer desperation, I'm sure, "Do you sing?"
Now, normally, I answer this with, "Hell, yeah, I can sing! I can sing any damn thing you got!" But before I could, Heather blurted out, "She sings opera!" And I could feel my soul ebbing away.
Yes, okay, I admit, I have performed much Gilbert & Sullivan. I grew up on it; I love it. But I'm not "an opera singer." I don't have a vibrato you can drive a bus through, and I don't darken my vowels beyond all recognition.
Joe wanted me to sing "I Got You, Babe" with him, and I TOTALLY SHOULD HAVE! That would have been a BLAST! But, no, my control-freak anal-retentiveness kicked in, and my brain screamed, "You can't sing on stage! You haven't even warmed up your voice today!" I'm an idiot.
So poor Joe had to settle for the next best thing: Matt. Matt the eighth grade, tone-deaf, adorable little hobbit, with his untucked shirt and Julius Caeser hair-do. Dude couldn't carry a tune in a leather Coach briefcase, but he sang "Yesterday" with all the finesse he could muster, obviously trying to impress some little female hobbit. I hope it wasn't that one in the up-do and shoes she couldn't walk in -- she was a bitch. She talked smack in the bathroom about the girls at the Loser Table. Meanie!
On the way home, Heather and I were moved by Matt's dulcet tones to explore our own love of music. So we popped in my Wicked CD and sang at the top of our lungs. Thankfully, I had the car's child safety window and door locks employed, so Mord made it home safely, despite his many, many, many,... many threats to hurl himself into traffic.
Comments
You should sing with Mighty Joe next time he asks you.
You have a really beautiful voice
Posted by: Mord at June 2, 2005 04:01 PM
Steve's the singer in our family. Thank God.
Posted by: Queen of Ass at June 3, 2005 08:57 AM