I used to live in San Diego (just moved back to Ohio a year ago). There’s a really geat hole-in-the-wall karaoke bar there called The Lamplighter. Now, I can’t carry a tune in a handbasket to hell, but I’ve got some shameless friends who love a spotlight, so we’d frequent the place. Some nights real talent would come through. There was one chick, easily in her late 40s, early 50s, who would come in and do Brittany and Christina spot-on. She was a regular. People loved her. This scawny white dude would often come in and do “Rapper’s Delight” and never miss a beat.
One night this kid comes in – a brown kid like yourself – and sits with his buddies in the corner drinking Coronas all night. They’re loud and a little rowdy. In fact by that point the whole place had gotten more than a little loud and rowdy. You could barely hear the coeds up on stage doing a cacphonic, almost strip-tease rendition of “Hit me with your best shot.”
When the coeds finish to whoops and hollers, this drunk, long-haired, flip flop and paint-speckled tshirt wearing kid gets up and does “Easy (Like Sunday Morning)” and killed. The place went silent. There wasn’t a dry pair of panties in the house; I know I certainly wanted to go home with him after that. It actually took a few minutes for the audience to snap out of the trance and administer a retarded enthusiastic applause. He never came back to The Lamplighter, but the girls still talked about him.
Later in life, I met a guy who would shut a place down with Chris Isaac’s “Wicked Game”, but nothing since has topped that moment back in 2002 when a greasy, drunk, mexican got up and sang a Commodores song and made every girl in the bar forget her name.