Nothing says America more than Ed Hardy tattoos and pickles. Well, according to my good friends Cindy and Tiffany. After thoroughly enjoying the first 2 nights out on the town with my friends to kick off the 3-day holiday weekend, we all decided to take the 4th and keep it low key. Tiffany was gracious enough to host a few of us over provided that we all brought a multicultural dish. I was glad that I didn’t have to put much thought into it. Tiffany asked me to bring hummus and crackers, and I easily said, “Done!”
Since I didn’t get up and moving about until 1:30p (gross, I know), I didn’t really have much time to make anything. I needed a shower, to get my stomach under control because I mixed liquor and beer the night prior, and to make it to another house party beforehand with Jamesson. Fortunately, I’m a fan of always keeping a few staples on-hand for time when you’re in a pinch. I generally always have garlic, lemon, rosemary, olive oil, and a can or two of white beans in the pantry. When you blend them all together, they happen to make one of the best dips in existence. Not quite hummus, but close enough.
The spread at our potluck was quite… Interesting. We had wine from Chile, pineapple to embody Brazil, and Cindy’s signature queso dip to round out south-of-the-border representation for Mexico. For European influence, we had cheese and crackers for France alongside bread with sides of marinara and alfredo sauce for Italy. Although my white bean dip was more Italian (I did snag the recipe from Giada di Laurentiis), we decided to give a random shout-out to India.
And what for America? When I got to Tiffany’s and saw the spread, I just saw a random jar of pickles. Upon further examination, I saw some stick-on tattoos haphazardly lying next to it. “Hmmm,” I said. “Ed Hardy tats. Nothing more American than that… But I’m pretty sure that pickles come from Europe.” After a few cocktails, I decided that there was actually nothing more American than bad tattoos in even worse places. Enid got a black widow and barbed wire tattoo around her arm, a la Pamela Anderson. Cindy got one down her inner thigh. Tiffany and I got them on our boobs.
Then there was karaoke. After watching the fireworks display over Lake Eola from Tiffany’s balcony, we all thought it was a grand idea to go to Cindy and Chaz’s favorite haunt Big Daddy’s for some singing. Doesn’t get more American.
P.S. I finally did lose my karaoke virginity… The girls and I sang along to Vanilla Ice’s ‘Ice Ice Baby’, which happens to be the song that I sang to keep my mind off of the pain when I broke my ankle skateboarding.
Showing posts with label Big Daddy's. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Big Daddy's. Show all posts
Monday, July 5, 2010
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Name That Tune: Kareoke
I knew it was a matter of time before I wound up in a lone dive bar in Orlando.
The one that took my Orlando Dive Bar Virginity just so happened to be (in what felt like) a remote part of Winter Park, and is appropriately named Big Daddy’s. Yes, I am aware of the oxymoron that I’ve just presented you with: there is, in fact, a dive bar in Winter Park. But it isn’t as divey as one might imagine. Rather, it is Winter Park Divey, meaning you can lean up against the bar without feeling like you’re going to catch shingles. See also Burton’s, which is how Thornton Park does a dive bar.
Tonight’s cast of characters is a motley crew indeed. We have my beloved songbird Jamesson, one of his roommates Chaz, and our token club promoter friend of the night Myk. Then there is Jamesson’s karaoke queen friend (whose name has slipped my memory- blame it on the cigarette smoke constricting oxygen to my brain). I’ve brought my pal and favorite Stardust bartender Mike to entertain me while I furiously bouncing back and forth between texting and jotting down broken bits of conversation to later use as fodder in these blog postings.
Apparently this is the place to be with this group. One can let down their hair, fill it with bar stench, and belt out the classics. I still have yet to get on a stage armed with a microphone in one hand and a stiff cocktail in the other, and as anticipated I opt to just sit on the edge of my seat and think of all of the great songs I could possibly lose my dignity to. The entire bar had been singing country standards that we’ve all either grown up listening or singing along at the bar to. Growing up with parents who immersed me in redneck culture (although it obviously didn’t stick), I knew many Garth Brooks songs- even if the lyrics were a little fuzzy. Thanks to karaoke, I finally understood what the hell was going down in the song “Papa Loved Mama”.
“So you’re telling me that he drove the truck into the f*cking motel?? And he killed the bitch?? I wouldn’t wanna be a trucker’s wife. He’d kill me for sure...And for the record, country music is not wholesome! Its all about violence and sex! The music I listen to is more wholesome, and you can’t even understand the lyrics!”
At this point Chaz was climbing the stage to do our group’s first number (and to break the country cycle)- “We Are All On Drugs” by Weezer. As he’s doing this, Jamesson informs me that he and I will, in fact, be hitting the stage tonight. The song of choice? A personal favorite- and one that I would prefer to lose my V-Card to- “Ice Ice Baby”.
For the win!
While I anxiously wait for our names to be called, Jamesson and I sit back and watch everyone else. There was a trio doing a gospel song, some hillbilly duo (including a guy that was transformed to ‘sexy and mysterious’ by donning a pair of Wayfarers) that does “Jenny (867-5309)”, and another Asian fellow that is so good that he does not even need the words on the screen. He proves this by the monitor being a blank blue and he still hits every word with the precision of a Chuck Norris round house kick to the face.
The real treat of the evening, however, was Myk. Dressed as a virtual clone of Elvis Costello, he boldly strutted the stage and in a throaty tone recited Genuine’s masterpiece “Pony”. There more than a few shifts of the eyes towards the persons sitting next to them, but I think that the crowd overall enjoyed it.
Of course there were some ‘real treats’ of the evening, but who are we to judge?? One guy was up there, giving it about 53%, and it took me a while to figure out what he was signing.
Chaz: What is this song??
Me: ‘Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous’
Chaz: What?? Really??
Me: Yeah!
Chaz: Wow… That’s uncanny. I’m amazed that it’s the same song! Good job!
Me: Its like we’re playing a hip new drinking game… Name that tune!
…And what of me? Where is the part where I say that Jamesson and I tore up the song, as well as my karaoke V-Card? Sadly, that didn’t happen. Being of the 9-5 Crowd, I had to leave shortly after midnight. They were nowhere near pulling our names out of the basket filled with paper slips and reluctantly I bid my partner in singing crimes adieu. I walked out of the bar with my head held high, and virginity and dignity both intact.
The one that took my Orlando Dive Bar Virginity just so happened to be (in what felt like) a remote part of Winter Park, and is appropriately named Big Daddy’s. Yes, I am aware of the oxymoron that I’ve just presented you with: there is, in fact, a dive bar in Winter Park. But it isn’t as divey as one might imagine. Rather, it is Winter Park Divey, meaning you can lean up against the bar without feeling like you’re going to catch shingles. See also Burton’s, which is how Thornton Park does a dive bar.
Tonight’s cast of characters is a motley crew indeed. We have my beloved songbird Jamesson, one of his roommates Chaz, and our token club promoter friend of the night Myk. Then there is Jamesson’s karaoke queen friend (whose name has slipped my memory- blame it on the cigarette smoke constricting oxygen to my brain). I’ve brought my pal and favorite Stardust bartender Mike to entertain me while I furiously bouncing back and forth between texting and jotting down broken bits of conversation to later use as fodder in these blog postings.
Apparently this is the place to be with this group. One can let down their hair, fill it with bar stench, and belt out the classics. I still have yet to get on a stage armed with a microphone in one hand and a stiff cocktail in the other, and as anticipated I opt to just sit on the edge of my seat and think of all of the great songs I could possibly lose my dignity to. The entire bar had been singing country standards that we’ve all either grown up listening or singing along at the bar to. Growing up with parents who immersed me in redneck culture (although it obviously didn’t stick), I knew many Garth Brooks songs- even if the lyrics were a little fuzzy. Thanks to karaoke, I finally understood what the hell was going down in the song “Papa Loved Mama”.
“So you’re telling me that he drove the truck into the f*cking motel?? And he killed the bitch?? I wouldn’t wanna be a trucker’s wife. He’d kill me for sure...And for the record, country music is not wholesome! Its all about violence and sex! The music I listen to is more wholesome, and you can’t even understand the lyrics!”
At this point Chaz was climbing the stage to do our group’s first number (and to break the country cycle)- “We Are All On Drugs” by Weezer. As he’s doing this, Jamesson informs me that he and I will, in fact, be hitting the stage tonight. The song of choice? A personal favorite- and one that I would prefer to lose my V-Card to- “Ice Ice Baby”.
For the win!
While I anxiously wait for our names to be called, Jamesson and I sit back and watch everyone else. There was a trio doing a gospel song, some hillbilly duo (including a guy that was transformed to ‘sexy and mysterious’ by donning a pair of Wayfarers) that does “Jenny (867-5309)”, and another Asian fellow that is so good that he does not even need the words on the screen. He proves this by the monitor being a blank blue and he still hits every word with the precision of a Chuck Norris round house kick to the face.
The real treat of the evening, however, was Myk. Dressed as a virtual clone of Elvis Costello, he boldly strutted the stage and in a throaty tone recited Genuine’s masterpiece “Pony”. There more than a few shifts of the eyes towards the persons sitting next to them, but I think that the crowd overall enjoyed it.
Of course there were some ‘real treats’ of the evening, but who are we to judge?? One guy was up there, giving it about 53%, and it took me a while to figure out what he was signing.
Chaz: What is this song??
Me: ‘Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous’
Chaz: What?? Really??
Me: Yeah!
Chaz: Wow… That’s uncanny. I’m amazed that it’s the same song! Good job!
Me: Its like we’re playing a hip new drinking game… Name that tune!
…And what of me? Where is the part where I say that Jamesson and I tore up the song, as well as my karaoke V-Card? Sadly, that didn’t happen. Being of the 9-5 Crowd, I had to leave shortly after midnight. They were nowhere near pulling our names out of the basket filled with paper slips and reluctantly I bid my partner in singing crimes adieu. I walked out of the bar with my head held high, and virginity and dignity both intact.
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