Do-Re-Mi-Screwit

[Dandy Warhols - We used to be Freinds]

Right. just came back from a gruelling session over at Fyrek's.
First off, the initial shock of hearing your own rickety voice is like having a pair of your own dirty underwear rubbed in your face. It doesn't matter how many times it's touched up, or how perfect the take is. it's still something that you'd rather press down into the mostest underneathest of the clothest hamperest.

Second off - letting people hear you sing is like - well, it's bad. Apart from the fact that my nostrils flare in a very disturbing way when I sing - or rather- especially when I sing. there's also this : when you really really get your groove on, and get swept away by the music, the whole experience becomes incredibly erotic. And personal. You show a side of yourself that is not supposed to be seen, save only by the one you choose to share your bed with. I might not need to mention that I prefer both singing and making love in the dark. The latter not being so much for my own insecurities, though they are legion, but moreso because people have a general tendency to look like morons when they have sex and they also have a tendency to deny you sex for weeks at a time when you accidentally start laughing in the heat of the moment.

[For real. I don't think many people appreciate eye-contact when they feel emotionally naked]

But I sing, ergo I know how I look. And if I recall correctly, 30 Trinidadians will never forget either. I was twelve, the class had been split up into groups, each instructed to write a calypso, which is..yeah. Seeing as how no-one in my group seemed to want to do the lead, I took it upon myself, half-white and therefore half-conquistador by birthright, to lead the natives at what they did best themselves. Hey, I was twelve. And scared of failing the class. The song I performed was not quite what it was meant to be- meaning a calypso. Think country music would be more descriptive here. And the dance that accompanied it - well. As far as my dancing goes, my current "electrocuted-barbarella" isn't so bad as compared to the "bad-bladder" shuffle of my youth. ( And present. )

When the song was done I emerged back into the world of the mortals and out of my singing daze with a post-orgasmic smile on my face and realised that everyone else was grinning as well. Well, not so much grinning as laughing. My teacher had slammed down her piano lid somewhere half through the song and her upper body was now positioned on top of it, convulsing with laughter.

Fives years later, after graduation, people were still running up to me, doing my shuffle dance and singing "Let us rise, let us rise let us rise, let us rise to the o-kay-john." Kids can be so cruel. And so can teachers. And gremlins, you don't want to like mess with gremlins.

So forgive me if I won't let you see me sing.
And forgive me if I stutter when I talk.
And forgive me if I don't talk at all.

And forgive me Andreas for not calling, but I kinda forgot I'll make it up to you what say you about me letting you win next time we play Soul Calibur. Hey, I'll even be a chick this time. And if it makes you feel better, I can stroke your bicep admiringly everytime I lose and you win by proxy.

[And goodnight to you, K-Girl, wherever you are. Oulu, was it? I love You. Come home]