Dave Gilbert’s gamedev blog

Before I begin today’s update, I just wanted to give a shout out to Yicklepigeon, who has just become a member of the Donation Hall of Fame, and has become much cooler in the process. Everybody who wants to be cool should follow his example. Anyway, thanks Yickle.

As I’ve mentioned before, I am quite the karaoke afficionado. There is definitely something about karaoke. It doesn’t matter if you’re tone deaf with the voice of Roseanne Barr, because for those five minutes you’re singing “Like a Prayer” you ARE Madonna and let woe befall anybody who tells you otherwise. Everyone wants their moment in the spotlight. Go to any karaoke bar and you will always see people checking the song roster, desperately wanting to know if their song is coming up. People change when they’re in the vicinity of karaoke, and heaven forbid something happens to their song. They get pissed.

Aside from minor incidents like this, Karaoke patrons are pretty well-behaved. There are exceptions, one of which I will relate to you here. Some people, it seems, are affected by karaoke songs more than others.

The song in question was “Ice Ice Baby.” One learns not to judge people based on their song selections, but the big angry dude with the mic was no Vanilla Ice. He decided, ladies and gentlemen, to freeform rap. This involved screaming into the microphone at the top of his lungs and spewing forth such bile and bitterness that made everyone in the joint feel dirty. He punctuated his rantings with the occasional profanity.

All conversations in the bar ceased, and all eyes turned to stare at this indoubtedly unbalanced man with both amazement and disgust. Surely, we all mused, he will be asked to stop? No. The staff did nothing and let his crazy ear-splitting ragefest continue. It wasn’t long before somebody started a campaign to drown him out by singing the real words to “Ice Ice Baby,” a technique that was employed by everybody in the bar. It was probably the first time in history that a Vanilla Ice song was used in self defense.

It didn’t work. If anything, the dude got even angrier. His eyes became narrower, his profanities became more frequent, and he began stomping around the bar, as if to show the whole world how angry he was. Some girl – a tiny, freckled thing – yelled at him to get off the mic, and he whirled around and called her a bitch.

That was the last straw. The lady operating the music turned off his song with a deft flick of the switch. He wouldn’t give up the mic, though. So the sound to his microphone was cut off and the backup mic was given to the next person in line.

Can you imagine what it’s like to follow up a performance like that? Well, I no longer have to wonder, because that person was me.

I was handed the microphone, and the guy’s gaze instantly traversed in my direction. But like most karaoke patrons, nothing else existed aside from myself and the upcoming song. The opening notes to “Mack the Knife” started, I hefted the microphone, opened my mouth to sing, and then the bastard grabbed my microphone

I held on, glaring back at him. Warning bells flashed in the back of my head, but I didn’t listen to them. Karaoke does strange things to people. This was my time now, dude. You blew your chance. I was not going to relinquish that microphone, at least not easily.

“Not easily” was just what this guy had in mind. He pushed the microphone back, glared down at me, and gave me this smouldering dark look that had me going “Oh, crap.” Is he going to hit me? Is this a bar fight? Am I in a frigging bar fight? Is a Bobby Darrin song worth this?

My stupid, karaoke-drugged brain struggled to recall my two months of Tae Kwon Do lessons. The unsung instrumentals to “Mack the Knife” surrounded us, and I tried to remember where my feet were supposed to go. Then, the bouncer FINALLY took control. My nemesis was grabbed from behind, yanked away from me, propelled out the door, and jettisoned unceremoniously onto the street. Everybody cheered.

I took a few seconds to regain my composure and realized that I was the guy with the microphone, which gave me some kind of authority. I cleared my throat, held the mic to my lips, and said “Man, that’s a tough act to follow.” My song was reset and the evening’s caraousing continued.

So yeah. I can now say that I was the follow-up act to a potential bar fight. I can’t help but wonder how situations like this always seem to find me. Perhaps I’m just lucky.