Friends don't let friends invite me to karaoke night. Yet the other day, I was faced with an invitation to go singing in public for recreation. Few people know my vocal stylings, but I am sure all would agree that if I was the last being alive on Earth, I would finally find my true audience as a singer.
It's the kind of invitation one gets when the host doesn't know you all that well. You know that karaoke means a lot to them, so they assume it means something to you. How can I complain? I haven't got a lot of party invitations as of late (I blame the Year Of The Dragon), but karaoke bars know better than to let people like me in.
People like me: the tuneful-impaired. There, now it's out in the open.
There aren't any drawing bars around, at least none that I know of. Places where you can go and draw pictures of each other in public, with big old paper pads and easels, the heady scent of dry-erase markers mixing with citrus from trendy mojitos and the waft of overpriced tapas. Where the conversation in well-lit corners can wildly veer toward the merits of solid solingen steel blades in rotary pencil sharpeners. The squeak of Copic markers on crisp vellum, the swish of sable filberts on gessoed canvas, the sudden torrent of swearing when you dump the inkwell on your date's new outfit. No, places like that don't exist because people would very much rather go out to hear each other sing than to watch each other draw.
Either way, though, booze makes the night palatable. I'll go drink, and if there is a dance floor, I will dance, since some of my friends have talented voices. If I can't dance, then I will steal a napkin and jealously draw mean caracatures of the singers with the Sharpie marker I smuggled into the bar under my clothing.
For another stab at the topic of musicians vs. visual artists, please visit JSVB Post #217, which you can find by clicking way back here.
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