February. And in Los Angeles and a three day whirlwind conference. They have us busy from 8:00 AM to 8:00 PM with mindless conference-type information. Wednesday night is the first night I’m there. I’m aching to get out and sing some Karaoke. Of course, I’ve already scoped out the clubs. I've read reviews on probably 20 clubs within an hour's drive, and Boardwalk 11 has me intrigued the most.

Wednesday night. I met my brilliant web developer from Cybie for dinner at the Cheesecake Factory. As if this conversation wasn’t inspiring enough, the smile on our server, Monica, would have made anybody’s night. Woah. We were on the heated patio under the stars, which was ironic because our regular server was a little cold, if you know what I mean. In the way only I can be, I sarcastically asked to trade servers for cheerful Monica at the table next to ours.
 
Normally, I would have invited her out for Karaoke, as I would for anyone else whose personality intrigues me, but not this time. Nope. This time, I didn’t want to ruin it with talk of family, work and why I’m in L.A. I just wanted to remember her for my bLog. Now she will be known as bLog Monica forever. We were even kind of close to Santa Monica… Wait a minute. Did she give me a fake name? Forget about “Monica.” I’m pissed now. Next subject.

Thursday was painfully long, and I was ready to get out. Ray, a vendor at the show and a great all-around guy, was ready too. I had shown him the ways of the Lefty back in Salem, so rumors were spreading around the conference that if you want to be entertained, you've gotta meet Pistol. Tru dat. From lunch on, we were rounding up people for a Karaoke Tour. The promise was simple: Good times at one of the LA area's premier Karaoke spots.

I knew the drill. In order to get 8-10 people you have to invite 25. Of course, we hit our numbers and pulled nine people into a 6-passenger taxi to the objection of every valet on the driveway.

"Boardwalk 11 on National in West LA," I told the driver. "Is that about 8 miles from here?"

"No," cabbie says laughing. "It's WAY more den 8 milessss..." Classic cabbie move. This one is from eastern Europe, near as I can tell. How would he know that I am the Karaoke authority? And how would he know that it's exactly 8.2 miles away? He wouldn't, apparently.

So there's Medford Magui, Tennessee Ray, DC Allie, Wendogg, Kala from the Bay, Debbie Does, Big Rick, Hollywood and me, Pistol. 10 o'clock, ready to rock.

We pull in and I tell the bouncer that the Karaoke World Tour has arrived. He has no idea what I'm talking about. Perfect.

This place is designed PERFECTLY for Karaoke. Brilliant. Stage in the corner, about a foot above the dance floor. A great view of the whole place. Small KJ's booth where Justin was rockin' the casbah. Seriously, I've been to a ton of Karaoke clubs. Hundreds? Quite possibly. Justin embodies what a KJ should be.

Listen up all you KJ's and Karaoke-hounds: Just as a DJ should be all about the MUSIC, not him/herself, a KJ should be all about the singers, regardless of how much talent they have, themselves. From the sampling Justin gave us, he's got more talent in his pinky than the rest of us had in our entire bodies.  Here's WHY J was good...

* Bumper music was right on cue every time, and upbeat; minimal time between singers
* Couldn't be bought; the order was right every time
* He called for applause before and after every singer, and called up the next singer only after applause was on its way down. (Is this a lost art? Work the frickin' mic, for Pistol's sake!)

Nice work, J.

From our group, Ray and Magui both laid out some great tunes. Wendogg and Kala were dancin' fools. I don't know what's up with that purse, Wendogg, but at least it's not big enough to carry a gun like Kala's.

The highlight of the night, besides Ray ("Derringer") playing air guitar on his leg, was the server with amazing PIPES (I regret that I can't remember her name). Woah. A close second is yo-homie breakdancing on the dance floor. He was cool, and he made me want to do the robot.

Grazi to Derringer, who took care of us all night long. Kudos to Justin, now known as Justin-caseyurlookinfurgoodkaraoke. And a four-star rating for Boardwalk 11 for introducing me to Cali-oke.

And now, the rest of the story:

Friday, my co-worker, JB, and I have a few hours before our flight home, so we head down to Manhattan Beach to have a beer within view of the beach. The story here is not the beer or the beach, although I wish it was. The story is the cabbie--again. We'll call him Abdul. Through the play by play, give Abdul's voice the best/worst Pakistani accent you can drum up. I normally like to keep it clean, but I won't filter Abdul's language.

Abdul: Where to?
Pistol: Manhattan Village to pick up one more, then to the LAX Marriott. (And we're off.) You having a good day?
Abdul: (Big sigh) Is OK. OK day. Tired.
P: How long have you been working today?
Abdul: (Long pause; did he even hear me?) Driving since four o'clock in morning. (It's now 4:30 p.m.)
P: Hey that's a long day. Hope it gets better for you.
Abdul: Yes, maybe hot bitches on sidewalk.
P: Oh? Yeah, there's pretty girls here, for sure. We're from Oregon and they just aren't built the same up there. (Abdul hangs a right and nearly kills us trying to cut a guy off... We've only gone 3 blocks.)
Abdul: Fucking moron! You shitty driver! Six feet I give you and you flip me off? Motherfucker. Idiot. (He's laying on the horn.)
JB & Pistol: (Woah. Seatbelts ON or OFF with this guy. Save a life or quick exit?)
P: Crazy drivers down here, huh?
Abdul: Yes, fucking ugly people with cars. (Brace yourself, here comes the question of the day.)
P: So, where are you from?
Abdul: (Huge audible sigh; drops hand on console with a thud.) Why you ask where I am from? Who cares where I am from? I no ask where are you from.
P: (With a chuckle) Hey, I'm just making conversation, chief. I told you we were from Oregon. LA's a big place and I'm just wondering what part of it you live in. (Good save? Nope!)
Abdul: I have stupid conversation all day with idiots. Lots of conversation don't start with where are you from. This America. Don't matter where I am from.
P: (Do I have Homeland Security on speed-dial? JB chimes in while I'm in disbelief.)
JB: What's your favorite color? (Abdul is still fired up. I kid you not, this is what he said.)
Abdul: All day every ugly motherfucker have stupid conversation for three or five minute. Who cares? I drive all day. I drive for 30 years and hear only stupid conversation. Where I am from. Where you are from. Who gives a fuck I am from Pakistan. I pick you up, I drop you off. Look at this ugly motherfucker here. (He pulls up to a light and refers to this classic surfer dude in a yellow Ford with a board in the back.) He is so ugly with his phone glued to ear and hair on his chin. You boys are clean and good-looking. He is so ugly. He talk on phone to ugly girlfriend all day instead of drive. He don't have job. His fucking rich parents pay for everything so this ugly fucker can talk on phone all day. Ugly hat. Ugly phone. Bad driver. Get a job! These people make me sick all day I see them.

(JB and I can only laugh--we pretend we're laughing at the surfer, but we're not. Abdul thinks he has an audience with us as we approach the mall to pick up SS, our other co-worker.)
Abdul: We picking up hot bitch at next stop?
JB: She's our coworker, we don't really think of her like that.
Abdul: Oh, I bet she is hot bitch, yes?
P: She's like our Mom, dude.
Abdul: OK, OK.
JB: Take a right up here.
Abdul: I know right up here. I drive cab. You sit in back. I know where I am going!
(JB moves up front while Abdul moves his entire life from the passenger's seat to the trunk. I take the opportunity to apologize to Sharron for our poor choice in cabbies. She laughs as we pull out again.)
Abdul: Look here. 20 mile an hour little black Honda. You bet me it is little Asian girl both hands on steering wheel. Want to see? I show you little Asian girl at 20 mile an hour.
(Now we go from 20 to 50 in 2 seconds flat to pull up next to the annoying Honda in question.)
Abdul: SEE? SEE? I told you. You no want to bet me, my friend. Asians in left hand turn lane with both hands on steering wheel. Black guys drive Cadillac with seat real low. (Abdul rocks his seat back INTO my lap to demonstrate. This dude is ANGRY.) Mexican drive Buick with shitty music loud.

We couldn't get out fast enough. All the way back on the plane, all I could hear in my head is, "Where I am from. Who cares where I am from? I no ask Where are you from."

Woah. Lesson learned Abdul. Thank you for putting an exclamation point on my trip to LA. Now, for all of you angry, ugly drivers in Southern Cal, look out for Abdul. And know that up here in Oregon, we're friendly. And we're good conversationalists. And great singers.

See you on tour.

Kyle J.

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