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.

Don't You Want Me Baby

Last night it was Kickass Karaoke at a new place, Ciao Edie on College Street, and if what happened then had happened two months ago, I would have turned tail and fled, but time heals even the greatest of dorking downs, I've learned.

I come down the steps into the bar and the first person I see is The Viking. Now, that's OK, because as I told you last week I am over the crush I had on him. We are buddies. We email each other about karaoke outings, lend each other CDs, and try to one-up each other on knowing artists and songs. I still tease him about his hair, and I suspect that secretly he likes it.

He is sitting on the blue padded bench that runs along the wall on one side of the bar. I am taking in the ambiance and decor, and finding it very groovy — funky orange and red lamps and ceiling fixtures, all filled with coloured light bulbs — so it's not until I've settled into the Jetsonian white plastic chair across from The Viking and spun around in it once (I love chairs that spin) that I notice who's sitting beside him.

It's Donny.

I'll wait a moment, Gentle Reader, while you click on that link and read the story about how just when I thought it wasn't possible to feel any more embarassed than I already did because of what happened with The Viking, Donny proved me wrong.

OK, are you back?

So, I see Donny sitting there and, after supressing my initial knee-jerk reaction

(to flee)

I say hello to him and think to myself, this could be entertaining, and, if I'm really lucky, maybe the joke won't be on me this time.

So you know, Gentle Reader, The Viking knows that he's The Viking, and he knows that Donny knows that he's The Viking. And when The Viking got up to sing, I told Donny that The Viking knows that he's Donny. So now Donny knows The Viking knows that he knows he's The Viking. And both The Viking and Donny know that I'm a clueless dork but they seem to like me anyway.

Then Accordion Guy comes in. Accordion Guy is too diplomatic to let on, but I know that he knows that The Viking is The Viking, and that Donny is Donny.

And now you, Gentle Reader, know everything.

We're having a drink and listening to some of the other bar patrons sing, and as Carson is calling them to the stage he makes a comment about how they're all identifying themselves with initials, rather than first names.

Donny says, "We could all use our pseudonyms."

"Fuck off," I say.

"That'd be a good one," adds The Viking.

"You mean for a pseudonym?" asks Donny.

"No, I just meant for you to fuck off," I say.

Accordion Guy chuckles, and pretends to be figuring out chords on his accordion.

"So are you still reading my blog?" I ask Donny, who hasn't fucked off. When I first met Donny he had pointed his finger at me and said, with the enthusiasm of an investigative journalist cracking a case, "You're Postmodern Sass!"

"Sometimes," he replies, "But not as much as I used to."

Now I know how The Spice Girls must have felt when their fans grew up and moved on to Britney Spears.

"I thought, if you'd been reading lately, you might be trying to figure out where Jack works. What Big Ass American Software Company is."

In March, Donny had been determined to identify Jack.

"I've dropped the case," Donny says.

I am both relieved and a little disappointed.

"See, I have so many blogs to read and keep track of," continues Donny. "When I discover a new one it's like that shiny new toy under the Christmas tree that you play with for hours or days on end, and then you forget about it."

Gee, thanks.

"Your friend has a skill," I say to Accordion Guy.

"Reverse diplomacy," Accordion Guy agrees.

"It's remarkable, really," I continue, "And you can't hold it against him. It'd be like punishing a puppy for chewing your shoes."

It's after midnight when my karaoke buddies arrive. Sparky has just come from a wedding reception and is heads-down for half an hour, organizing his request slips, before he comes up for air to say hello.

Lana and Punky Nerdster aren't there, so I'm the only girl, and I'm sitting at a table with six members of the species.

Now you know why I like karaoke.

Something that my k-buds and I do, which probably annoys everyone around us, is, depending on the song, sing along from our seats as loud as we can. I'm sitting with the three of them when we hear the unmistakeable intro — I can name that tune in three notes! &mdash to Don't You Want Me Baby by the Human League. We all roll our eyes and groan. Comments are exchanged about cliché karaoke numbers... blah blah... we would never sing this one... blah blah... and then...

"You were working as a waitress in a cocktail lounge, when I met you," Sparky, Mo, and Goldilocks sing in perfect unison, at the top of their lungs.

I join in for the chorus, then it's my turn: "I was working as a waitress in a cocktail lounge, that much is true..."

Hanging around with these guys is like being in highschool, but without the teenage angst.

Hanging around with these guys is like being in highschool, but without the teenage angst.

Sparky and I go outside for a cigarette, end up staying out for two, and I realize that he is very, very drunk. Our normally innocent flirtatious banter — the groundrules for which we established in writing many months ago — takes a turn for the serious when he grabs my ass and asks, "What would happen if I kissed you right now?"

No, Gentle Reader I didn't. There's a code. You look after your buddies when they're drunk. Like Mo did for me in March.

It's almost the end of the evening. I sit Sparky down with a glass of water, and tell him I'll drive him home in a few minutes. Then I go to the ladies room. When I come out, he's gone.

Accordion Guy and Donny, and just about everyone else, left long ago. The Viking, however, is still there.

"Sparky's I'm-about-to-pass-out drunk and I seem to have lost him," I tell The Viking. "Can you go check the men's room?"

He does. No Sparky.

"OK, well, he's a big boy, he's got money, and he only lives a few blocks down the street... he'll be OK, right?"

"Just a second," says The Viking. He goes to Carson, to see whether we'll get to sing again. We won't.

"Come on," he says then. "Let's go find him."

* * *
In the next story, Postmodern Sass is hypnotized by her students. It's many weeks before Sass and Donny encounter each other again, and when they do, it's ironic.

Hungry Like The Wolf

Maybe it's the arrival, finally, of warmer weather. Maybe it's the smoking ban. Maybe the clientele have simply disappeared, like Tequila Mockingbird. But Kickass Karaoke at the Bovine Sex Club has been cancelled, and at the Rivoli it's been cut back to every other Sunday, instead of every Sunday, and last night was a slow night.

I hadn't seen my karaoke buddies since there was snow on the ground, and gosh darn it all, I sure missed them. I thought the cutbacks would drive all the regulars to be there early, to get a good table, but I was the first one there, and I sang to the crickets for the first hour. No Lana. No Punky Nerdster. No Operaman, since he's gone back to Calgary.

Then Joey arrived. With his accordion, of course.

Tim, my favourite Canadian Idol non-finalist (one of the judges, it seems, forcibly dragged him off the stage during his audition), practiced for his lead role in the Joe Cocker story, to be produced in 2028.

The Viking showed up, and he'd done something new with his hair. Highlights, or possibly lowlights. I'm sure he's got more hair product in his bathroom than your average three females.

Sparky had just flown home from San Francisco. You know you're obsessed when you start scheduling your business trips around karaoke.

Mo was sitting across the table from me. He was looking very spiffy, and was in grand spirits, having recently started a new job at a major Internet company, where he's in charge of their portal Web site. He leaned toward me, looked into my eyes, and said, "I've been thinking about French Fries."

"You have?" I replied, "Do you often think about French Fries?"

"As a matter of fact, I think about French Fries every day, but I haven't had any in a long, long time."

"I know what you mean," I said, "It's been a long time since I had any French Fries myself."

Actually, I had some French Fries when I was in New York in March.

"I was thinking of having some French Fries," Mo continued.

"Right now? Here?"

Can you do that at the Rivoli?

"Yes."

"I can hardly remember what French Fries taste like," I sighed.

"The thing is, I don't like to eat French Fries alone."

"It's always more fun with a partner," I agreed.

"Would you like to have some French Fries with me right now?" Mo asked.

"I'd love to."

They were pretty good fries, too.
* * *
Next: another chorus of Working For The Weekend, wherein Postmodern Sass thanks her Gentle Readers. Or, you can click here to find out what Postmodern Sass learned about men from watching Wild Kingdom, or click here to read the next adventure of Postmodern Sass and her karaoke buddies.

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.

Highschool Confidential

Though we have, like Elvis, left the building, we never really leave highschool until we get married and start procreating. That's when we become grownups, not one hour sooner.

Until then, we remain social teenagers.

Like we're still in highschool.

Take the other night at karaoke, for example. Please.

My karaoke buddy, Sparky, caused grievous insult upon my person by singing a karaoke duet with Punky Nerdster, when he and I had discussed singing that very song together not two hours before. Then he compounded the insult to what may be unforgivable levels by not even realizing that he had insulted me. Apparently, to him, our earlier conversation, the words of which were barely dry, had been of so little importance he didn't even remember participating in it.

So I'm never speaking to him again.

When they got up to sing and I realized they were doing Come What May, I thought maybe she had cajoled him into it. See, the girl in question — who, by the way, is nineteen years old, wears a dog collar around her neck, nerdy-cool glasses, and her hair in braids — has a crush on Mo, my other karaoke buddy. He and I had done I Got You Babe earlier. I thought maybe she wanted to get back at him by singing with Sparky, which I could totally understand.

(In case you're thinking, Gentle Reader, that perhaps it is Sparky who has a crush on Punky Nerdster, I can assure you that isn't it. Sparky has a girlfriend, and it seems quite serious between them, though she rarely comes to karaoke.)

There are unspoken, but understood, rules of karaoke etiquette. You don't do someone else's signature song. You don't even do a song by someone else's signature band, unless you ask them first. When it's Lana's birthday, she gets to sing twice as much and you don't do any of the songs that she wants to sing.

And if you tell a girl you're going to sing Come What May with her, you don't go singing it with a different girl.

When Sparky and Punky were finished singing I sent Mo to tell Sparky that I hate him and am never going to speak to him again. Then Mo and I went out behind the bleachers for a smoke.

It gets worse.

So Mo and I are out having a cig and he says, "You're really mad, aren't you?"

"Yeah, I really am. I mean, it was about two weeks ago when Sparky and I first discussed the possibility of doing Come What May. We thought that, with some practice, we could do a passable job. At least as well as Ewan McGregor and Nicole Kidman, you know? It's a challenging song, and you know how Sparky loves to learn a challenging song. And there are so few duets on the song list."

"Well, there's Fairytale of New York." Mo and I have sung that one together several times.

"I know, darlin', that's our song. So anyway, we agreed that we'd practice our parts at home and try it in a couple of weeks. Tonight, when we first got here, we talked about it again, and decided that when it got slow at the end of the night, maybe we'd give it a try. And then suddenly he's up there with Punky, singing Come What May. With not so much as a by-your-leave. What am I, dirt?"

"It sounds to me like Sparky owes you an apology."

"Yeah, well, that would be nice. At least they sucked. That makes me feel a little better."

"Meow!"

"I know how catty that sounds, but I'm not jealous of Punky — though I would have been, had she nailed the song — I'm insulted at Sparky treating me like I don't exist."

"It doesn't make any sense to me. Sparky emailed me the other day and asked me for Punky's email address. He said he wanted to ask her about a song."

I waited in vain for a moment for the manhole beside me on Queen Street to open up and swallow me. When it didn't happen I decided to go back upstairs and get drunk instead.

Curse him.

Lana was onstage, again, this time singing Add It Up. She was celebrating her birthday, and had invited a dozen or so of her friends, karaoke virgins all. Carson granted her the immunity challenge and put her in the rotation twice.

One of the friends that came for the party is the boy Lana has a crush on. Remember when you were in highschool, you had crushes? They'd come upon you for no sensible reason. The object of your crush was usually someone you'd known for years, and then one day he smiles at you a little differently and boom, you're crushed.

Yeah, you guessed it, there's a boy I have a crush on, too. He comes to karaoke sometimes. Good thing he's not the same boy as the boy Lana has a crush on. Since we're both mature, intelligent, desireable women, instead of talking to the boys we like, we went out for a smoke and talked to each other about the boys.

Me: "So the boy you like is the tall one, right?"

Lana: "You mean the one I've been practically hanging onto and making cow eyes at all night? How'd you guess?"

Me: "Don't worry, no one else noticed. Boys never notice when you like them.

Lana: "Boys are stupid."

Me: "Yeah. Have you ever seen that poster?"

Lana: "Which poster?"

Me: "This one:"



Lana: "So what do you think?"

Me: "He's cute! Where do you know him from?"

Lana: "He was a friend of a friend, and is in the circle of people I hang out with, so I've known him for a couple of years. I think he has a girlfriend, though."

Me: "You're not sure?"

Lana: "No. See, he mentioned this girl he met on Lavalife a couple of weeks ago, and I thought he was going to bring her tonight, when he said he was coming to karaoke, but he's here alone, so I don't know."

Me: "Do you want me to talk to him and try to find out?"

Lana: "Do you think you could?"

Me: "I can try, but I can't push it. If I ask him too abruptly, he'll think I'm the one who wants to ask him out. And then we'll find ourselves in the middle of an episode of Three's Company."

Lana: "So what about... you know, him?"

Me: "What about him?"

Lana: "Have you asked him out?"

Me: "No!"

Lana: "Why not?"

Me: "'Cause then he'd know I like him!"

Lana: "Isn't that the point?"

Me: "Not if he doesn't like me."

Lana: "What's wrong with men?"

Me: "Nothing's wrong with the one behind the bar. Let's go back in and have him pour us another little something."

Back inside, I sneak up behind Goldilocks and mess up his hair a little. I can only do this when I catch him off guard, and even then he squeals in protest. He has really great hair, it's so hard to resist. I wonder if he carries a comb in his back pocket, the way I used to do when I was in highschool.

I call him Goldilocks, to tease him. Remember when you thought that if a boy teased you it was because he didn't like you? Even though you teased the boys you liked, and just ignored the ones you didn't like? And much later, when it's too late to do anything about it, you realize that the boy who teased you by pulling your pigtails or lifting up your skirt or calling you "Blondie" did so because he liked you?

The verb to tease had a different meaning back then, too.

When I was actually in highschool, I used to read Cathy. It wasn't available online back then. I haven't read it for years, and only this week learned that Cathy and Irving, after two decades of dating, are getting married. Sadly, she doesn't think the silly pretty shoes were what did it.

* * *
Go to the next story in sequence, in which Postmodern Sass learns that her friend Sara is marrying Stephen King. Or, skip ahead to find out whether Sass and her friend Sparky make up. If you want to know who the boy Sass has a crush on is, you can read all about it in The Viking Trilogy, beginning with this story.

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.