Where do we go? Where do we go now?

There are certain cultural touchstones that serve as reminders that you are not in Kansas anymore. I imagine they're different for everyone. For me, I feel very aware I'm in a foreign place when I'm in public restrooms, any restroom really. The flusher is different, the toilet paper is dryer. Add to the list--which also includes seeing un-neutered dogs and cats, walking down narrow stone sidewalks, and breathing in second hand smoke every time I step outside my apartment--karaoke.

Those who know me are aware that I'm a bit of a sucker for the public sing-along. I fell for Alan while our friend Andrew was crooning "The Rainbow Connection" in perfect voce Kermit at The Mint in San Francisco. I received a standing ovation for my rendition of "Stand By Your Man" during my fabulous Bachelorette party. Last October, you might have spotted me wearing my plantinum blonde party wig and a combat helmet, singing "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." So I knew that American-born comedian Rachel Arieff's Anti-Karaoke night was a must-attend event as soon as Alan pointed out the flyer, which pictures Gene Simmons.

The above photo and below description, both from Arieff's Web site, should convey the flavor of the event:
ANTI-KARAOKE has no limits. Nor does it have TV screens for reading the lyrics. TV screens are for dicks. At ANTI-KARAOKE, we read the lyrics printed on paper from a music stand ... just like Napoleon, Mozart and Picasso used to do when they did karaoke. Punk rock!

ANTI-KARAOKE mixes high-quality, authentic-sounding versions of street anthems by the Misfits and the Ramones with the hits of Duran Duran, Ronnie James Dio, and Tom Jones. Imagine singing to Def Leppard or Public Enemy in costume or not, with or without a wig, with pants (like Sinatra) or without pants (like Iggy Pop). This is what we offer in our evening of underground karaoke in Barcelona’s hippest, most awesomely-conveniently-centrally-located club ...

Yeah, it's crazy like that. Alas, held in the basement a bar means that attending the event for too long gives you a taste for what it must feel like to be an ashtray. With my chest infection not quite cleared up, this morning was rough. (I'm not mentioning the gin and tonics. What gin and tonics?)

But can I just say there's something profoundly sublime about watching a bunch of drunk Spaniards who clearly didn't excell in English sing Guns and Roses "Sweet Child of Mine" at top volume while dancing around a tiny stage? I can. There is.

We're going to try to squeeze in one last Anti-Karaoke night next Monday and I'm thinking, if I just start with the drinking a little earlier I might work up the courage to show Barcelona how we do it in San Francisco.

-JENN