Friday, March 17, 2006

So, I have confession to make: this is the first blog entry I've made on my own free will. That's right--until now every entry I have made in The Bee Hive has happened because it was a mandatory assignment for my web-writing class. But tonight I am inspired to write--partly because of an evening filled with interesting events; partly because my friend, and fellow blogger, Vince, inspired me to do so. Check his blog ( and see how his interpretation of this evening matches up with mine.

We kareoke, straight-up, every Thursday night at Scruffy Maguire's Pub, located in crack-head central (aka New West Station) and very conveniently close to our school. "We" being the Print Futures crew that came--a group of five (sometimes more or less) who find salvation for two hours a week, every Thursday night, at shady bar we call just "scruffies".

We are loyal to scruffies, like Norm and Cliff were to cheers, but not quite that loyal, I suppose. We just go every week and have fun. No talent required--smiles and good company are the only requirements to join in the festivities.

But every week, this creepy, balding, sits-at-a-computer-and-does-things-I-don't-wanna-think-about, kareoke guy DJs the evening. And every week, Glenn, the Kareoke guy, sings "When I'm gone" by Three Doors Down to my good girl-friend in a stalkerish-serenading kinda way. One night, about four weeks ago, we trusted him to walk my friend to the Sky Train platform, and after he assured he would be as trustworthy as we expected, he proceeded to attempt to maul her down and try to lay a freaking, sloppy-ass, gross, disgusting, kareoke-weirdo kiss on her! SICK.

She was beyond disturbed as she recounted this horrifying series of events the next day, and the next week I made a point of calling the creep out on it. He laughed it off and continued on with his DJing, and as usual sang his, now beyond disturbing, Three Doors Down serenade, specifically dedicated to my mortified, but still trying to hold a smile, friend. And he sang this serenade, with a passion that I guess we all chose to ignore given it's dement, and did so for four more weeks in a row. That's right my friends, five weeks of creepy serenading.

By now the owner/main bartender and regular waitress know us by, well, drink. But they know us, and know that we are good bunch of regulars that come for goodtimes and spend our fair share at scruffies on a regular basis. And tonight, the staff knew something was arie...

As Glenn cut, once again, into the middle of the kareoke festivities to sing his regular stalkerfest-serenade to my continually mortified friend, the bartender caught on.

"This song is going out to ******..." he says into the microphone, with a sideways smile.

We all cringe at eachother across the table, and retreat to the smoking room in our own kind of "fucking cut it out weirdo" protest. After Glenn wrapped up his ridiculously over-rehearsed, make-us-wanna-puke song, the bartender/owner obviously noticed our reaction, and asked how we felt about him taking up time to sing when others obviously wanted to get up there.

I'm an honest gal, and well... I'd lipped Glenn off once already with no avail and this time I was gonna sack the loser where it counts and give my honest opinion to someone who matters--his boss.

"Well," I said, " if you mean 'Do I think that he shouldn't be singing the same creepy song every week to my friend when his job is to push the buttons on his little laptop and let the paying customers sing...', then yes, I do think he spends too much time in front of the mike."

Hah, take that slimeball.

So a situation ensued and Glenn quit... or got fired... or whatever... no more scruffies for him. And I can honestly say I feel like, for the first time in my life, I directly had something to do with someone being fired. But, oh well--for a good cause and buddy needs to learn how take the chip off his shoulder and be satisfied with kareokeing it up on his own time--because when he's at work he's there to make the customers happy.

Glenn, if you're out there... let me just tell you that YOU ARE NOT A BAND. Got it? Nobody comes to scruffies to listen to your weird-ass sing...

We came here for a good time, not a long time--only 20 days till grad. And tonight was Classic Rock night, dammit. I still wanted to sing "Old Time Rock and Roll" by Bob Seger...

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