skot AT izzlepfaff DOT com
Wednesday, 09 June
The wife and I went out tonight to attend a new weekly sketch comedy thingie that several friends of ours have set up. It's to promote SketchFest, basically Seattle's own Burning Man festival of abbreviated comedy, but less hirsute. (But possibly more stoned.)
The leadoff act--names have been removed to protect the identities of the truly terrible--was truly terrible. They performed only two sketches (mercifully), but in that time, managed to fill me with an odd combination of suicidal ideation and somnambulism. I have left my own body and it walks without consciousness now, I thought. My body wants to hang itself! Perhaps I should let it. They might attempt another sketch. Then the somnambulist took over again before I could do myself in. Rest, child. The body knows what to do. See? It is buying more whiskey.
The second act was a stand-up comic, who deserved better than a tiny room that felt too reserved to laugh. She made a joke about a pot haze settling over Eugene, Oregon every day at 4:20, and I laughed alone. "Thank you, one guy," she said drily in my direction. This got a real roar, while I sat and pondered why I out of all my friends laughed. I haven't smoked pot in many years, while a good number of my friends are walking Three Strikes sentencing casualties.
The night concluded, shudderingly, with that grand tradition of ours (one that I've written about before), karaoke. It is nearly impossible to write about karaoke, particularly karaoke featuring actors who really don't give a damn how they come out, but hey, I'll try again.
K. led things off with a quavering rendition of "Cold As Ice," wearing a horrid wig of wavyhair and tremendous eyeglasses; he looked like a very bookish porn star, perhaps trying to recite some epic Foreigner poetry. "You're as cooooold as iiiiice! You're willing to sacrifice our looooooove!" His gutshot coyote delivery was very moving.
Next up was the always dazzling T., who again didn't disappoint in his magnificent high-sticking of "You Don't Bring Me Flowers." What's that, you say? But that's a duet! Right you are. And T.--who is sporting a rather alarming pussy-tickler of a mustache these days for a role--handled both parts equally inexpertly, shifting between querulous falsetto and plummy ignorato, managing to singlevoicedly mockerize Streisand and Mathis all in one bravura vocal performance. By the end, he was alternating these effects with every word. [Yelp] YOU! [Croak] DON'T! [Whine] BRING! [Basso] ME! [Drill bit] FLOWERS! [Resounding belch] ANY! [Audible-only-to-dogs mixed tone] MOOOOOOORE!
It went on. Legendary V. even performed a truly horrific mangling of (karaoke favorite) Phil Collins by turning "Sussudio" into an extended grapeshot attack on the song's very essence. "SUUU! SUDIO! SUUU! SUDIO! SUDIO! SUDIO! OOOOOHHHHH!" V.'s Primal Scream treatment was harrowing in the extreme. She then interrupted the shattering flow of the song to comment on getting tested for STDs after throwing off a crummy boyfriend. "I'm clean! I could have got something from his towels!" she howled arhythmically, while awful 80s keyboards cheesed on inexorably in the background. "I hate my life. I'll never find anybody," she moaned dramatically. We all said "Awwwww!" and V. proceeded to then joyously improvise a one-woman kickline as the chorus romped back in.
I have the best friends in the world. Or at least I did until I wrote this.
Note: Comments are closed on old entries.
"gutshot coyote delivery"
As it happens, we're looking for a band name. Gutshot Coyote shall be placed into consideration.
Mathis? I daresay not. Man, that is Diamond and Streisand! Unless, of course, T. was deliberately reworking the duet--perhaps he's always thought that Mathis should have recorded that. In which case T. is obviously more than a dazzling performer. He's a visionary.
Huh. You're right. I wonder what made me think it was Johnny Mathis?
I mean, apart from simple ignorance.
I need to meet your friends.
(For the fun karaoke nights, not the Three Strikes.)
Post a comment