Marry me, Robert

I put Smith in charge of our Tuesday night plans. I thought that we would be doing something low key, maybe having some of his infamous tuna spaghetti while watching a Godard pic, or maybe Heavy Metal. If we were feeling crazy, it might be martinis at Musso and Frank...but I underestimated Smith, my darlings.

We ended up in the OC eating taquitos with a cop and a latent homosexual.

We knew these people, don't get me wrong. His friend is a cop, and the Cop has a friend that he met at the gym who is the latent homosexual (big shocker there). Both nice guys. And the guacamole was phenom. No, that wasn't code for anything.

Smith, the Cop, and your HellCat all went out to the exotic bar Fitzgeralds to karaoke. We ordered our beers and scoped the scene. The bar had maybe 10 people in it, and you could tell that this is what they did every Tuesday.

There was one woman there who I will refer to as "Stevie," because of her affinity for Fleetwood Mac and long skirts. She looked like she had either just gotten off work or had gone home and dressed up for the occasion. Whenever she wasn't singing some mid-70s "wounded woman" tune off key, she was playing cribbage on an electronic machine in the corner.

A biker couple staked out the back of the bar and set up shop. I could have sworn that the DJ called them Chowder Boy and Lana, but I couldn't be sure. Lana was really skinny and was living pretty hard. Every time she'd miss a word on a song, she would hit her head with the palm of her hand, and it took her a minute to get her courage back. Her fav songs were by Van Morrison and Elton John. Chowder complimented her choices, as he preferred Ides of March. They were fond of strangers and were really, really drunk.

Uncle Rico was there...or at least a man who looks like a musclehead version of the Napoleon Dynamite character. This guy got up on stage and was so burdened by his own talent that he had to sit on the stool to sing. He chose songs from pussy-getting bands like Stone Temple Pilots...but still sat alone at his table, because Stevie wasn't interested and she was the only woman in the bar who was sans male protection.

The crowd in the front consisted of the ROTC kids from high school that never actually joined the military. Their moment in the sun was a rousing cover of the MIB rap that actually included synchronized dancing. Otherwise, they blew it every time by singing shit like "C'est La Vie," by S Club 7. The tiny one (who you could tell was a hit with the boys) couldn't even make a dent in Paula Abdul's "Straight Up." They also didn't clap for anyone else in the bar.

After I checked out the competition, I am feeling good about my choices of "Hurts So Good" and back-up on "Brandi."

I was talking to the copper about the possibility of doing some Neil Diamond. We were laughing, enjoying our ales. All of a sudden, a hand claps over my shoulder. I look over, and a man is standing there. This is not just any man. He had weathered skin, like he'd been hitching rides to Cali from, say, Abu Dhabi. His eyes were wide-set and bloodshot, and the more he stood there, the more he reminded me of a bulldog puppy that had too much kibble, if kibble meant booze. Atop his head sat a straw cowboy hat with a Jack Daniels bandanna wrapped around it.

He has a huge grin on his face and says with his outdoor voice, "Hi! Is this the only book around?!" referring to our Karaoke bible. I am stunned speechless at how rock and fucking roll this man is. The Cop, used to men of this caliber, says "Oh, man, actually, you can get one over next to the DJ. He has tons." and the guy says, "Thanks, man! Right on." and he toddles off to the karaoke stand and grabs two books. He examined them, front and back, then put one down for no apparent reason.

He kind of disappeared for awhile, and karaoke marched on. Then, all of a sudden, I hear the DJ say "Next up is Robert!" and nothing happened. "Robert?" he repeated tentatively. Then, from the direction of the john, comes my bulldog. He races towards the stage, hooting and hollaring, but somehow not spilling the beer he had in his left hand.

He leapt onstage and kind of lost his equilibrium. The room held its collective breath as he swayed back and forth, but he soon straightened up. An air of calm came over him. He composed himself. Some familiar guitar chords played over the speakers. Robert's ears perked up, and he took a deep breath.

"AC/DC! YESSS!" poured from his mouth like a sock in the gut, knocking everyone in the room on their ass. He picked up his lager and took a swig that couldn't have possibly fit in a human mouth and the first few words were already playing. He realized what was happening and started begging the DJ to restart the song. The DJ complied, not knowing what Robert was capable of if he didn't get his rockin'.

What followed was the finest rendition of "You Shook Me" that I have ever heard. It was as though he was in short pants and a newsboy cap, and was channeling Bon Scott. I was watching a rock and roll angel sing his holy song only to me. And he even rubbed his legs on the "knockin' me out with those American thighs" line.

It was genius. I was almost weeping with joy. Ever since I heard that song as a wee HellCat, I had been waiting for this moment to set me free.

I was pondering asking him to marry me, under the condition that he sang that song (as well as other famous rock hits) for all time. I would totally wash Robert's undies in return. Totally.

Just when I thought life couldn't get any more exciting, he followed up 30 minutes later with "Patience." He screamed the lyrics in all the wrong places, and gulped beer during all the musical interludes.

When he got offstage, I stood to greet him. He smiled sloppily, and I was wondering what kind of disturbance in the space-time continuum it would make if I kissed him with tongues. Instead I just raised my glass and said, "You...rock." and he nodded his head and squinted his eyes (presumably to see who was addressing him) and said, "I used to be in a band called Metal Mouth." and then he trotted away.

Driving home that night, I couldn't help but wonder what life would be like with Robert. He had seduced me with his siren song...and I fear that no karaoke singing will ever satisfy me as much. If Robert and I were an item, I would have to scour thrift stores to obtain more skin-tight white lycra dresses. I would have to grow my hair out and tease it within an inch of its life. And when I woke up in the morning, after a cocaine-fueled bender involving seven other people, a Honeybaked Ham, a monkey named Sonny, and a motorcycle, I would have to own a red flannel with cigarette burns it in to cover myself as I fixed eggs on a hotplate.

It doesn't sound too bad, actually.

dirty deeds, done cheap. g