Sketchiness

Even after Frankenturkey and wine, I managed to survive seminar yesterday (though I was probably in the best mood I've ever been in during that class...hmm...). Then it was an hour and a half home to change and conference call with the family ("Guess what I'm drinking?"), and then out again into Edinburgh, Wind Tunnel of The North, for our class reading.

The Pleasance Cabaret Theatre is only two blocks away, but Edinburgh killed another umbrella en route. I must replace it today, while the sun is still shining...just six and a half hours to go...

The reading went well - much alcohol was consumed by people other than Cali, whose glass kept being mysteriously refilled during lunch, and me - and afterwards, around eleven, a small group of us followed Erica out into the mercifully rain-free night for karaoke at her bar, Belushi's.

I'd never been to Belushi's, but it's an interesting place. It was hopping by the time we got there, packed partly by the people from the hostel upstairs and partly by some sketchy regulars. Erica knew everyone, so she disappeared off to the bar for a bit while we packed into a semicircular booth and began perusing the karaoke list.

Just as Cali, Kelli, and I were looking through the book, this random drunk guy came up and started making conversation. He was not alone. Let me go ahead and clarify: we never learned any actual names, so we're going to call this inebriated trio Talkative Irish Guy, Dancing (Australian?) Guy, and Wasted Asian Guy. As Cali and Kelli noted, it seemed that the three of us must have had a flashing "SINGLE!" light about our persons or something, because these three just couldn't take a hint.

Talkative Guy tried to force us to pick songs, then scooted his way into the booth with us. He kept coming back throughout the night. Wasted Guy occupied his position the rest of the time, drinking morosely and making comments like, "Do you think he [Talkative Guy] is attractive?" Dancing Guy first grabbed Cali and tried to carry her away, then took my hands and made me dance with him, which mostly consisted of twirls and dips. I gave the usual smile and "Thank you" to bow out gracefully, but he just wouldn't let up. All night long.

Fortunately, there was usually a hiding place back in the booth - Billy and Russ, our token males, were willing to scoot around - or with Erica, who introduced me to the staff between karaoke numbers. One guy who works there, Tony, had an absolutely fabulous solo, as did Lauren, who I think was just a regular. Then there was the guy who tried a drunk rendition of "Rawhide." Dear God, no.

Two guys, Billy and this random drunk local, offered to buy us drinks, but Cali felt that her liver just couldn't take it, I had reached my quota at lunch, and anyway, we still had a twenty-minute walk back. I was in the queue for karaoke, but when 12:30 rolled around (the bar supposedly closed at 1), Cali and I decided to scrap it and head home. The trio just wouldn't let up. "You're not allowed to harass the customers," Erica warned Talkative Guy, who just couldn't keep his hands off Kelli's knee. "No - let me see your hands. Up on the table. Keep them there." He insisted that he had to practice the piano or something, which necessarily involved Kelli.

Still, my favorite line of the night came from Talkative Guy, who was trying to help me pick a song. While he paged through the list, he came across "Like A Virgin." "How about...no," he said, looking at me, "no one would ever believe that." Smooth, buddy, really smooth. You know the way to a woman's heart.

Fun place, we decided, but if we ever want to do karaoke there, we should get in by eight or nine and immediately put our names down. And bring boyfriends along.