. . . because it's story time, but we don't say "Indian Style" anymore; we say "Criss-Cross Applesauce."
I have been getting rejected for publications that don't even pay me, which is a new experience that I find to be irritating and disheartening. However, whether my "prose," whatever that is, is up to snuff or not, I know that one thing I can do is tell a funny story about shit that goes down when I go out "drankin'," so that's what I'm going to do for your today, oh Seven Readers . . .
As some of you know from my "Tales from the Hood" segments, I work in the hood with Black folks every Tuesday, and Friday night that office had their Christmas party downtown with the other branches all in attendance too, who are also 95% Black. As I was coming in, I saw two African American ladies who were wondering whether to go upstairs or downstairs, and one actually said, "Well, I hear Black people downstairs." I asked what they were looking for, they said they wanted to find the office party, so I told them, "You're right, there are Black people downstairs, but the party you want is upstairs," and led them to it.
One fun thing about this group of people is that when someone new shows up, they make a loud crazy entrance, kind of like when a character pops his head in for the first time in a sitcom. As they got more "pops" in them, things got louder and buck wild. One chick was pressing her hands against the wall, sticking her butt out, and doing an up and down thing with alternating cheeks maneuver that I really can't describe - you just had to be there. The whole room was transfixed by her, including one dude who's funnier than hell who was making eyes at her, but he didn't have his contacts in. I helped him out by telling him that she was more of a 2AM girl and it was only around 10 at this point.
I ducked out of the party when everyone started dancing because I can't dance for shit. Plus the guy was mixing in the 90's songs I like, but by the time I'd get to the dance floor, he'd start playing some new shit I didn't know. I hate that. So, I met up with Oats at our karaoke spot. There was some .com party in there that packed the damn place. The DJ always sings songs with me, and one he and I like to do is "At This Moment" by Billy Vera and the Beaters. I had a bad, bad feeling about doing this song because usually it's for like 20 people who are barely paying attention, but this was a night where everyone knew each other and no one knew who in the hell I was or what in the hell that stupid song was all about. They must not get those fond memories I get of Alex P. Keaton and Ellen's love affair when they hear that number. So, I was greeted with a chorus of boo's. What's worse is that the DJ started out trading versus with me, but then he started talking to some chick, leaving me all alone with an unruly audience who wanted blood! In true Dr. Ken fashion, I told them all, "I know you guys are hating on this, and here comes the big finish! If I could just hoooooooold you . . . . It gets worse! If Iiiiiiiiiiii could just hooooooooooooold yoooouuuuuuuuuu . . . Again! Thank you! You'll never get those 4 minutes back, pornhub.com!!!!!!"
After that, Oats did "For the Longest Time" by Billy Joel, but he wanted DJ and I to back him up, so DJ did the "oh oh's" and I did some sort of A Capella bass vocal/beat box type thing, like the guy with the cane in Boys To Men. Oats then wanted to meet some gal he's trying to bed at Sidetracks in Boys Town, the gay neighborhood of Chicago. As the two of us were walking down Halsted Street with all the Christmas decorations around the rainbow poles, Oats was practicing his "tenor" vocal on "For the Longest Time" and getting frustrated that he can never get the right pitch on stage because he gets nervous. He told me that he was in show choir as a kid but then quickly changed the subject. He then got a text that his girl left the bar to go home, so we enjoyed a lovely late night stroll through fabulous Boys Town totally in vain, which I thanked him for. Very sarcastically.