Something is often lost in the translation to postgrad life.
In attempt to to rectify the absolute dearth of organised collective social activities, we are trying to put together a “karaoke off” between UWS CCR and USyd Gender Studs Dept. Shane “The Love Pump” McGrath is organising things on the USyd end of things. I am after numbers for the event. So if you (and partners/friends/whatever) are keen please let me know. We need at least a dozen people from each institution for it to be worthwhile.
It will more than likely be held in a karaoke bar in the city and depending on the numbers we may book a room (which will involve a very small cost). It is anticipated to happen within the next *two weeks*. Shane is getting back to me with details about venues and dates. I will pass on details to those interested parties.
We need to know numbers ASAP, so send me an email firstname.lastname@example.org> within the next couple of days.
I saw Shane in action at the 2003 CSAA conference in Christchurch. He rocked some joint called The Singing Tree or something. His secret?
When I was a tone-deaf fourteen-year-old, my apparently masochistic parents bought me a copy of You Be The Rockstar for my birthday. With re-recorded classics like â€˜Epicâ€™, â€˜Dr Feelgoodâ€™ and â€˜Love in an Elevatorâ€™ on one side and instrumental versions on the other, you were supposed to learn the lyrics from side A then bust out your own versions over side B. After spending days locked in my bedroom practicing â€˜Blaze of Gloryâ€™, I felt ready to perform for my cousin and her friend. I belted out an impassioned rendition of the Bon Jovi hit, complete with cowboy choreography and a climactic drop to my knees, eyes shut and hands clutched to my chest. I knew it was the beginning of an incredible singing career. Then I opened my eyes and, seeing the embarrassed amusement of my audience, put the tape away forever.
My (re-)introduction to karaoke came last year, when I finally found a crowd who understood that stage presence counted for a lot more than staying in key, whatever that is. Even though my mate had secretly signed me up for Brosâ€™s â€˜I Owe You Nothingâ€™ and I had no idea how the verses were supposed to go, I understood that an air of confidence and a well-shaken booty would get me over the line. I wiggled my hips enough that, when I was finished, a middle-aged woman with super-dense make-up pulled me out of my seat to slow dance. As I shot my friends terrified â€˜Help me!â€™ expressions, they of course laughed and started a poll on whether sheâ€™d try to pash me. When I extricated myself from her clutches and got back to my seat, she turned to the woman beside me and said, â€˜He must really love you.â€™ We were both pretty amused, since weâ€™d never met.
“the key to karaoke: sex.”
This is the key to karaoke: sex. The raunchier the performance, the better. Anyone who canâ€™t pick up in a karaoke bar just isnâ€™t trying. What better opportunity are you going to get to show off your moves on stage for a room full of drunk strangers? Youâ€™d better work it. Otherwise youâ€™ll just be another annoying tool doling out an uninspiring favourite with your arms pinned to your sides and your feet glued to the floor. It might be note perfect, but itâ€™s still putting me to sleep. Like B2K say: â€˜I wanna see your sexy body go bump bump bump.â€™
So bump, baby. And although itâ€™s easier to sex up something like â€˜Bootyliciousâ€™, â€˜The Thong Songâ€™ or â€˜Hot In Herreâ€™, you can slut out to any song. Just last weekend I did a shimmying, pelvis-thrusting version of the Beach Boysâ€™ â€˜Barbara Annâ€™ and believe me, I could have gone home with anybody in the room.