They're Spring-Breakdance Fighting (Part I)

Well, it's Spring Break time again, and, for those of us who are strapped for cash (and I mean "me" here), a good option was to go to Orlando. I'd missed dinner with my brother Jake by coming a day late, but this lateness also garnered me an invitation to Thursday karaoke with him and his friends. Said karaoke took place at a dive bar called "Big Daddy's," an establishment on Corrine and Old Winter Park Roads that I'd never visited before. Big Daddy's had all a karaoke experience really needs—music, microphones, a DJ, booze. And one hulking flesh-wall of biker.

I arrived about a half-hour after the festivities started and was a little tardy getting in my first request as well. When we karaoke here in G'ville, we usually rent a room, so the prospect of singing in front of people I didn't know was a little scary. See, I wanted to choose an appropriate song. For my first number, I sang Pat Benitar's "We Belong," which wasn't half bad. What I lack in stage presence, I make up for in pipes. That said, I got a good response.

Then came the waiting. Jake said that the karaoke crowd was usually pretty moderate, but, that night, it was large. Trying to make small-talk with Jake and his girlfriend Kinya's friends was a challenge I hadn't anticipated. At first, I thought we had a generation gap issue, but then it occurred to me that I've been in academia too long. My approach to a social situation, especially a new one, finds me trying out my best "material" on a new crowd. Maybe it's my nervousness. At any rate, on this crowd, I fell flat. During a duet in which two ladies exoriate the two-timing man they share, I opined that "that's a lovely song—I'd like to have it sung at my wedding." Nothing. Then, during a rendition of Oasis's "Champage Supernova," I wrote "suicide pact?" on the back of a slip of paper and passed it over to one of the guys. He read it, and gave me a puzzled "I don't know" look. I tried another person. Blank shrug. Then another. Same. No one "got it" (except, of course, Jake).

Finally, it occurred to me that the problem with my joke was one of semantics. It dawned on me that these twentysomethings don't know what the word "pact" means. I...was...horrified. I went from being a relaxed spring-breaker to the neurotic nerd I usually am. Then, I almost started hyperventilating at the thought that this bar, and probably every bar in existance, is probably bereft of dictionary. How do people live!?!

Of course, this brief scenario made me think about my recent readings in Puritan and Indian culture clashes in colonial America. In my own culture clash, I'm certainly the "Puritan" of the Old World, trying to fit in but misreading and misnavigating native rituals. Plus, I'm the one with the outrageous ideas that have no bearing on the rhythms of "natural" life, preferring to clear the conversational "how you doing?" fields to plant the single cash crops of wit and language play. I've got your "pact" right here. You have no idea what it means, but it'll kill us both.

I got to sing again—Janis Joplin's "Take Another Piece of My Heart"—which also went well. But the big show-stopper of the night was a hit song from Rent— "Seasons of Love," maybe. At any rate, the song goes on about how the five hundred twenty-four thousand six hundred minutes of life are measured in love. It's a fine song, don't get me wrong. And the whole bar was into it, as if we were all attending the same kindergarten class reunion. But I was having a problem going "all in" on a song a) with people I'd only spent about 350 of those minutes with and b) based on the idea that life is measured in love. Maybe the song is right; maybe we measure our lives in love. But it's safe to say that different people love different things. Personally, my heart is in my head. You can take another piece of my heart, it's true. But, in order to do so, you're going to have to use some fantastic, beautiful words.