On Karaoke and a New Haunt

Since leaving Oberlin, I have missed many things about the tiny, isolated college town where I spent five long years. Not least of these was the only bar in town, the Feve. How many nights I spent there buying cheap drinks and getting my clothes nice and saturated with the ever-present cigarette haze I couldn't begin to guess. I have had a craving to return there for a while, but, sadly, no opportunity to do so. I have also recently had quite a hankering for some good Karaoke fun, which I hadn't had since that fateful night in the 'Sco last spring (Josh and I were so often on the stage that we were eventually no longer allowed to sing, at which point we had to assume false names).

Who would have thought that I would relieve both of these cravings in one night? As unlikely as it may seem, last night was that night. In the search for something fun to do, we were pointed by one of Lilly's many casual Houston acquaintances in the direction of a bar called The Proletariat. It turns out Friday night is Karaoke night at the Proletariat (which I think I might begin to shorten to "Prole," with credit of course going to Orwell), a smoky dive bar where the lighting is dark enough and the crowd eclectic enough that if you squint you're suddenly back in that familiar place. It may be thirty degrees warmer than it should be, the street outside may be Richmond Ave. in Houston instead of Main Street in Oberlin, and the Republican quotient in the room may be a good fifty percentage points higher, but somehow it still feels right.

Plus, Karaoke! There were a few regulars there who I think showed me up, but I still did pretty well. I sang Tiny Dancer by Elton John, which had a pretty good reception, and then later With or Without You by U2. One guy sitting near the front liked my rendition of that song so much that in the middle he came up and handed me something. I thought maybe it was a lighter, or something else appropriate that I could wave over my head solemnly while I sang. However, when I looked at it, I realized it was actually a pen. I wasn't sure what to do with it, but I was oddly touched that he wanted me to have it. When I finished, he high-fived me, and I tried to give him the pen back. A very serious look came on his face, and he said, "No, man, you keep it." So I still have it here, but I can't quite bring myself to write anything with it.

The best part of the evening, though, was getting home and realizing that, for the first time this year, I had spent the night drinking and having a great time with friends at our regular place (which the Prole has now become), and my clothes reeked of smoke as a result. I never thought I would miss that smell.

Oh, by the way, here's a Halloween picture: