Crazy Crap Item #180: The part where we can't go wrong at the Bong

A few weekends ago, Roxi attended a wee gig at a local coffeehouse. My friend and fellow Faces-for-Radio-er Jackie Matejko was singing. It was a lovely evening, and we mused as to what we could do for afters.

Kay: We could wander over to Clark, and see what tickles our fancy in Andersonville.

Roxi: Agreed.

Upon arriving at Clark Street, we mused. We were stuffed from snackings at the coffeehouse, the bars were crowded, and when I suggested perhaps a browse at the local bookstore, Roxi informed me she needed a new book like she needed the proverbial hole in the head.

Kay: Perhaps then, we could wander to my house, which is a mere 20 minute walk or so, and partake of a film or some such cinematic entertainment.

Roxi was amenable, so off we set on a northward course up Clark Street.

I mused it was a pity there was no good karaoke in Andersonville, and what was that about anyway?

It was then that Roxi made a fateful suggestion.

"We could stop by the Bong Ho. It's on the way."

A Korean-owned hole-in-the-wall. Delightfully divey. And according to Roxi, home to some of the most insanely fun, surreally strange karaoke in existence. She reported how she learned of "The Bong" from a friend, who insisted on a birthday celebration there. She regaled Eamon and me with tales of the delightfully welcoming and ludicrously inebriated owner. She recounted the remarkable karaoke song collection, the strange videos that accompanied them, and the fact that she and her small party had the run of the place for hours on end.

Intrigued, Eamon and I had tried the Bong. Which had just changed hands. And was dreary, dark, stinky, sad, and -- worst of all -- completely karaoke-free.

I told Roxi as much.

Roxi: "I heard the old owner bought it back."

This, I thought, was promising. I suggested we stroll by, since it was on the way to my house. We could peek in. If there were signs of karaoke, mayhap we would stop.

So stroll we did, nonchalantly passing the open door where a thirty-something-ish woman stood guard and smoked a cigarette. We took a few steps past the door. We peeked back. A karoke screen.

Roxi: Oh, my god. I saw karaoke.

Kay: Me, too. Let's check it out.

So, making no attempt at nonchalance, we spin on our heels and trot up to the doortender. Who, it turns out, is also the bartender. And is also the only person in the entire place. Except, now, for us.

This will not last, I thought. This cannot be fun. This was a very bad idea, and after one or two extremely awkward and uncomfortable attempts at songs, we will leave, feeling like idiots.

But while I am still processing this thought, Roxi asks the bartendress for the karaoke book.

And she hands us something. Perhaps it was once a book. Now, it is a pile of crisp, yellowing pages. They have clearly been dowsed and dried many times. There's a strip of heavy cellophane tape that holds a few of the pages together. Imagination supplies that it was once the book's spine.

We paw through the pages. The songs are listed in alphabetical order. In some cases, songs are listed under a variety of titles ("Pretty Woman," "Oh Pretty Woman").

There is no cross-reference of listings by artist, as is typically the case with karaoke joints. This is kind of a pain in the ass, as one song inevitably makes one think of the artist, not the title, and there's no easy way to find what you need.

And the songs are very, very strange. There are the usuals -- Patsy Cline's "Crazy", some ABBA -- but there are also some fairly current pop songs. And children's nursery songs. And lots and lots of Christmas carols.

And strangely enough, there are showtunes. But not normal showtunes. Remarkably obscure showtunes that no normal person would ever know or consider. "Pilate's Song" from Jesus Christ Superstar. "I Won't Send Roses" from Mack and Mabel.

The bartendress comes back to get drink orders, and I comment that she must be disappointed, as she thought she was going to have a quiet evening, but then these annoying women came in to sing.

Oh, no, she assured me. They had people come in to sing all the time.

Eamon is texted. He will join us after eating tacos.

We choose a song for him in advance. "Rock Your Body."

Roxi and I put in a range of selections, scribbling down song numbers on an index card thoughtfully supplied by our bartendress. She dials them in, and hands me a mic.

You see, at the Bong, they have no "Karaoke stage." There is no "mylar curtain." Just a couple of tv screen behind the bar, and a mic with a 50 foot cord.

Other things to note about the karaoke set-up:

* Songs were accompanied by a series of stock videos, featuring such scenarios as: lions hunting, a New England winter, Victoria Falls, sea slugs battling on the ocean floor, and so forth.

* At the end of each song, the singer is given a score, presumably on a scale of 1 to 100, accompanied by an encouraging phrase corresponding to the level of the score ("Excellent," "Good Try," etc.). There seemed to be little to no correlation between the score and the actual quality of the singing.

But back to our scene. So I take the mic, lean back on the barstool and begin to sing. I don't even remember what I sang. But I mused how pleasant it was to just caterwaul away, perched on a stool, with faithful Roxi by my side and my Jack and Coke in front of me.

Later, Eamon arrived, revealed that "Rock Your Body" is nowhere in his key, and discovered the bartendress' name was Carmen.

Other highlights of the evening:

* We were joined by an aging Eastern European fellow, who squired both Roxi and I about in wild renditions of the mambo. "If there's a man who loves to dance more than I do," he solemnly, "I want to meet him."

* I requested the showtune "Till There Was You" (from The Music Man) and was delightes to discover that the version in the karaoke machine was, most unaccountably, the exact arrangement and key from the original score. Only rendered in wonderfully tinny sythesizer.

* Eamon sang all night long, and "All Night Long." Roxi sang back up ("All night... All night"). I was whirled about the floor by aforementioned Eastern European gentleman.

* We developed a new game, in which we improvise lyrics which reflect the action on screen. ("Lovely, never never change, fight with that big lion, on the ocean floor, I am a sea slug, Just the way you look tonight.")

* Eamon notes that the one TV screen not dedicated to karaoke videos is turned to the Sci Fi channel. "I like me some Sci Fi," Carmen the Bartendress admits. Eamon notes to Carmen that she is a bit of a dork.

* At the end of each song, we enlist the few other attendees in the bar to join us in anticipating the score, and loudly express our approval or displeasure, assuring low scorers that they "were robbed."

The singing thusly went on till about 1:30 in the morning. When we left, the six or so other people in the bar were still going strong. For all I know, they're singing still.