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- Melanie
Some weeks ago, on a Monday evening in Cherry Grove, several of us experienced what has come to be known as the Trifecta of Entertainment Hell.
It began, as such things often do, at a piano bar. There was Skylar (who might spell his name the traditional way, but I can't help seeing it in my mind as "Skylar"), balding, stocky Skylar in his tank and shorts and baseball cap, bearing more than a slight resemblance to the artistic director of a certain Lawn Guyland theater. Skylar commandeered practically every showtune, blaring away semi-atonally to the exclusion of all others. Except The Only Black Woman Without Soul, who proceeded to sing "Seasons of Love" in head voice. Before Skylar could try his hand at "Gethsemane," we took our leave.
Then we moved on to the Ice Palace for Broadway at the Beach, an open mic-type thing where they import "Broadway folk" who often turn out to be no more than marginally talented (albeit good-looking) chorus boys.
"Seriously," Stephen said, "why are we not on Broadway?"
Perhaps at one point the chorus boy in question had been in Tarzan, because he was sporting a loincloth (not a ragged, vaguely animal-printed piece of fabric, but something more along the lines of a car wash skirt). And then his backing track kicked in (there is a live pianist, but not everyone chooses to use him), and he began singing a duet. From the movie Grease. With himself.
Using the voice of Gollum from The Lord of the Rings.
Replete with "Precioussss."
I don't want to know why this guy thought singing "You're The One That I Want" in the voice of Gollum while prancing around the stage in a loincloth would be a good idea.
What I want to know is this: which of this guy's < airquotes >friends< /airquotes > said to him, some drunken night in some other piano bar, "Yeah, singing 'You're The One That I Want' in the voice of Gollum while prancing around the stage in a loincloth would be a GREAT idea for your club act!"
But it gets better. Or worse, depending on how you look at it.
We soldiered on to Cherries, which is by the dock, right on the Great South Bay. There was a drag queen performing. Shortish, with a long, curly wig straight off the bargain rack at Dollywood. She was lip-synching, as drag queens are wont to do. We got our cocktails, and I headed to the bathroom, as I am wont to do.
And the drag queen began her next number.
And my friends, bless their hearts, could not WAIT to see my reaction to her choice of song.
I was in the stall when I first heard it.
Classical music. And yodeling. Yes, YODELING.
LIP-SYNC YODELING TO THE WILLIAM TELL OVERTURE.
I emerged, aghast, from the can, and my friends could see by my face that they'd gauged my reaction correctly.
"This. Cannot. Be. Happening. This is the TRIFECTA OF ENTERTAINMENT HELL!!!"
And then. Then. The drag queen ran out of Cherries, through town and down the pier where she threw herself prostrate on the dock like Pavlova's Dying Swan.
I HAD HAD ENOUGH.
We took refuge at the Island Breeze, where the drinks were plentiful, the conversation interesting and the greatest Crimes Against Entertainment committed were the overuse of a haze machine and a few too many Madonna tour videos.
It's not easy being a freak magnet.
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a very fine cat indeed - Friday, Jan. 17, 2014
happy new year! - Thursday, Jan. 24, 2013
this is where i am - Saturday, Jun. 30, 2012
this is how it is - Friday, Feb. 24, 2012
a very late last year's wrap-up - Wednesday, Jan. 18, 2012
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