Sometimes you wanna go where everybody knows your name

Where everybody knows the name Postmodern Sass, and some even know the name on her birth certificate, is here, at The Rivoli, on Queen Street in Toronto. That's Joey "Accordion Guy" deVilla front and centre, smiling at the camera. The blonde to the left, also smiling for the camera, is Maria, the Naked KnitGirl. Sitting at the near end of the sofa bench are Wendy The Redhead and Logan's Dave holding Shoshanna the Cow. Behind them are Rannie and Jay. At the back, in blue, is my PhD buddy, Denise. The skinny dude in the shorts is Donny. The barely visible head behind him is Liz the Postie. The elbow and black t-shirt in front of Donny belong to Sparky. The pink t-shirt is Darla, and just behind her, in black, is The Viking. Did I tell you they are dating now? Or, at least, they were when this picture was taken, last August at my farewell party.

And I miss them all more than I can express, Gentle Reader. Sometimes, you just wanna go home, where everybody knows your name, and where the boys will sing to you,


and sing with you,




even serendade you.


Where the Canadian flag waves,


And where your karaoke buddies are.


So this is where you'll be able to find Postmodern Sass on Sunday night, January 7, 2007: Upstairs at The Rivoli, for Carson T. Foster's Kickass Karaoke.


My Gentle Toronto Lurker-Readers, I hope to see you there!

Her visit home is everything Sass expected... and a little bit more.

You Give Love A Bad Name [part I]

I was wearing matching underwear—Victoria's Secret, hot pink, if you must know—underneath my go-go dress last night when my karaoke buddies and I went to a Kickass Karaoke party at a boozecan on Queen Street. This is probably why I didn't end up going home with Ashton Kutcher—or, more likely taking him home, since he almost certainly has a roommate or, worse, lives with his parents. Because when a girl wears matching underwear for no particular reason, she's just jinxing herself.

Mo is on vacation and The Viking was unreachable, though we tried his cell phone—I hope he wasn't in High Park biting the ears off coyotes—and so it was Sparky and the girls: Lana and her friend Nina, me, and Darla, a recent addition to the cast of regulars. Punky Nerdster has not been seen nor heard from since before Christmas.

The boozecan was in a second floor studio, above a store. The door was suitably hidden in an alcove, though a sign reading KICKASS KARAOKE UPSTAIRS was none too discretely taped to it. Upstairs was a large, empty room with a wooden floor; a makeshift stage holding Carson's karaoke equipment at one end, and a folding table that served as the bar at the other. The walls were painted cinderblock. All that was missing was the retracted basketball hoops on either side.

The host, Stewart, a 20-something blond wearing a bright red belt, was onstage with the microphone. "We want to hear some dance songs tonight, so get your requests in!" He was lively and encouraging. "Come on everyone, come closer to the stage so you can dance!"

The room had filled with people quite suddenly, as if the doors had just opened and a lineup had been waiting to get in. This was not the case, however; we'd all been there for half an hour and our clique had, until a few moments ago, formed half the population of the studio.

Now, Lana, Nina, Darla, and I were leaning against the wall, well back from the stage, holding our plastic cups. Sparky was standing in front of us, regaling us with an amusing tale, and waiting to sing.

The windows had been draped with black fabric, yet the lights were far too bright. There was a familiar feeling to this place, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. And then Stewart opened the night by karaokeing Bon Jovi, and that was what sparked Sparky to nail it: "I feel like we're at a highschool dance."

The girls and I looked at each other, a cast of misfits, too tall, too skinny, or too heavy; none of us blond, and not a one named Stephanie or Ashley. Hanging out with a nerdy-cool guy who sings show tunes and dresses in drag.

"Yeah," added Darla, "But this time, we're the science teachers."

A couple moved foward onto the dance floor, that is, that part of the floor upon which no one was dancing, and hugged each other in slow dance style, even though Stewart is singing "Livin' On A Prayer."

"They've been going out two weeks," says Darla to me.

"I love you!" I say she's saying to him. "I've never felt this way about anyone before!"

"I know our love will last until eternity!"

"We'll be together forever!"

"Or at least until the end of the term!"

"Let's get out of here," says Sparky, and he begins to round up his harem.

Whoa, sugar, we're half way there.

I notice J.J. up on the stage. He's handing Carson a request slip. J.J. is a Kickass Karaoke semi-regular, though not one of my karaoke buddies. Sometimes, at The Rivoli, he sits near us, and he always has this slightly star-struck demeanor when he speaks to me. Or maybe he's just drunk.

"I found your blog," he told me once, a few weeks ago. "You're Postmodern Sass, aren't you? I was Googling Kickass Karaoke and I found it. I thought I recognized you."

We've got our coats on and are heading for the door, when J.J. sees us. I grab his arm and say, "Come with us. We're going to a place where there's karaoke for grownups."

"I can't," he says, and he looks pained, "I'm here with my buddies, I can't leave them."

So we head out in three separate cars to The Hole In The Wall on Dundas Street where we've been once before. Karaoke in The Junction is nothing like Kickass Karaoke on Queen Street, but it's fun in a different way, and that's where I meet Ashton.

To be continued tomorrow. In true Dickensian style, though not nearly so tragic, "You Give Love A Bad Name" will eventually be a seven part series; a week long story. There'll be a little bit of something for you, Gentle Reader, every day until Friday.

Song From Moulin Rouge

It's a sad thing to realize...

So, you think you're a pretty good singer. Not great, but pretty good. You've been in school plays, maybe sung with a band in ye olde university days, but you have no delusions of grandeur. You're better than Nicole Kidman in Moulin Rouge, but you're no Rosemary Clooney.

You go to karaoke bars, especially when it's Carson's Kickass Karaoke, and you and your karaoke buddies think you kick ass.

And then you go to a special Kickass Karaoke at Harbourfront, as part of the World Stage Festival's series called Flying Solo. And it's the last night of the festival, and so all the staff and performers, the theatre crowd, are there; it's their wrap party.

And it's the truly kickass-est Kickass Karaoke you've ever been to.

The buzz in the crowd is, Caroline O'Connor is there. Caroline was in Moulin Rouge. Yes, the movie.


That's her in the red dress with the black stockings, just left of centre.

Caroline is enjoying the party. There are at least a hundred people there. And then Caroline gets up on stage to sing a song.

Lady Marmalade.

You wonder how such a powerful voice can come out of such a tiny dancer's body.

The crowd is delirious. You are awed. You realize what it is to be in the presence of a true professional. You had no idea Carson's system could sound so good.

Later, when the delirium has died down, the KAK regulars do a super set — a set of dance songs. This usually gets 'em dancing on the bar, but the bar at Hangar 7 is not big enough to dance on.

Dr. Wil starts with Kiss, the Prince version. The people are dancing. Then you and Wil do Bust A Move. Then you do I Will Survive.

A few minutes later, you are having a beer, and Caroline O'Connor comes over to you, takes your hand, shakes it, and says, "You were really good!"

You can die happy now.

* * *
In the next story, Postmodern Sass is clearly procrastinating. That's because she's got 104 final exams to mark. Click here to read the next adventure of Postmodern Sass and her karaoke buddies.

You Spin Me Right 'Round

Note: The zebra has moved here.

When I was in grade seven my homeroom teacher, Mr. Whitty, gave us a puzzle to work on before first period. It was titled, "Who Owns The Zebra." It kept us all occupied for those fifteen minutes, but not one of the thirty twelve-year-olds in that classroom solved it by the time the bell rang.

I held onto it for weeks. I puzzled and puzzled until my puzzler was sore. And eventually, I solved it.

I think the Norwegian owned the zebra. I forget who drank the water.

You can find anything on the Internet, this I know, so today I Googled "who owns the zebra" and discovered that it's a rather famous logic puzzle. And here I thought Mr. Whitty had created it just for us!

The version I remember from all those years ago involved the nationality, house colour, pet, preferred beverage, and — wait for it — preferred cigarette brand of seven men living in adjacent houses. Cigarette brand! How politically incorrect. But it was the 1970s.

The versions of the puzzle you'll find online now have been edited. Gone are the cigarettes. Now, it's flowers or some such nonsense.

I found this one from Britain, but the cigarettes are British. The one I remember, the cigarettes are American brands. I distinctly remember Lucky Strike. Not that I knew what they were at the time.

In previous posts I've mentioned that you don't exactly have to twist my arm to get me to sing. Or do anything in front of an audience, for that matter. I'm a regular at KAK at both the Rivoli and the Bovine. At Accordion Guy's party I spent too much time in the front room, where the karaoke machine was. Accordion Guy has this extravagent system that plays cheesy stock footage video and still images behind the lyrics. And when the song is over it gives you a score. I got 100 twice!

My karaoke equivalent of a bar trick is singing "9 Luftballons" in German.

And so it is in memory of Mr. Whitty of Jacob Beam Senior Public School in Beamsville, Ontario that I offer the following puzzle featuring my karaoke buddies.

See if you can figure out which one is Mo, which one is Sparky, and which one is Goldilocks.

1. One sings Dead Or Alive.
2. Two blog; the third thinks blogging is pretentious.
3. Two sing David Bowie.
4. One is a ham.
5. One would be chided by Simon Cowell for closing his eyes while he sings.
6. One leaves the room when anyone else sings David Bowie.
7. All three are shorter than me.
8. One has a British accent.
9. One sings Wicked Game, which causes me think un-buddy-like thoughts.
10. I leave the room when one sings Elton John.
11. Two are not blonde.
12. The one who doesn't blog is the most pretentious of the three.
13. One kills with Mac The Knife.
14. The one who sings Chris Isaak has a girlfriend.
15. The blonde one sings You Spin Me 'Round.

Today Mr. Whitty would be in his late fifties, early sixties maybe. He might still be teaching. Maybe even at Jacob Beam Public School.

* * *
In the next story, Postmodern Sass has tickets to the CASBYs, but no date. In the coming months there will be more stories about Postmodern Sass and her karaoke buddies. Like this one, in which there is a karaoke spat. Or this one, on Valentine's Day. Or this one, in which Postmodern Sass learns that Vikings and karaoke don't mix. And almost two years later, you can see all three of Postmodern Sass's karaoke buddies — and her! — in this photo.