Last night was Dennis's holiday party. He rented out the big karaoke room at a Japanese place.
By the way, sake bombs and tempura at 10 pm is not a good idea for future reference.
The first (and last) time I did karaoke, apparently I gained something of a reputation (with my Peabo Bryson, Diana Ross, Foreigner medley).
Not sure if that was good or not.
I was forced to do a solo.
I declined all night, but then this is what was chosen for me:
Not to brag, but I think I might be just one gold sequined tube top and three sake bombs away from getting up on stage.
Unfortunately, instead of having Chaka up on the screen in her full glory, the state-of-the-art, straight-from Japan karaoke machine there shows postcard images of rural Japan:
pretty young Japanese girls coyly splashing water with their toes (Journey's Don't Stop Believin'), Mt. Fuji at sunset (Coolio's Gansta's Paradise), the bullet train. (Amazing Grace)
I had to sing Rufus while watching a panorama of bok choy fields.
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