Me: What I really want to do is walk into the bar at the Superior St. entrance. Down the steps, and straight to a karaoke book. I want to fill out a slip with "Sister Golden Hair," hand it to The Thespian, walk up to the bar, order a Sprite and down it in one gulp. Wipe my mouth, walk up to the stage, grab the microphone and sing my song.
When I'm done, I want to jump off the stage and just walk straight out the back door without stopping.
Chuck: Why wouldn't you just go out the front door, where your car is?
Me: It's cooler this way.
Me: "I'll take a PBR."
Bartender: "That will be one dollar."
Bartender: "Well, for another half hour. Then it goes up."
Me: " ..."
Girl sitting next to me: "Yeah. Then it goes up to $1.50."
Then it was my turn. Instead of sounding like I sound in my car when I sing this song ALL DAY EVERY DAY NONSTOP ALWAYS, I sounded like I'd just gotten punched in the throat. Between the first and second verse I rued the part where I said to The Thespian beforehand "I'VE BEEN PRACTICING THIS SONG SO HARD! ASK ANYONE WHO HAS BEEN AT A STOPLIGHT NEXT TO ME!"
When it ended, I set the microphone down carefully, and passed the remaining 75 cents worth of swill to The Thespian. I gingerly made my way down the steps, and made all meek-like for the door. The same door I came in.
My friend Frenchy was waiting for the bus outside.
"Pista," he called. "How'd it go?"
"Brutal," I said.
"Why'd you come out this door?" he asked. He'd been alerted to my plan right down the last ounce of cool.
I shrugged. "It was already ruined," I said getting into my car.
It would be more romantic if I drove home in silence. I didn't. I skipped to No. 5 on the CD in my car, and started in a little more forlornly: "Well I tried to make it Sunday, but I got so damn depressed ..."
I'm not convinced it's me. It's the song. It's America, goddammit.