dontcha know that i'm toxic?

Last weekend was an interesting experience: my first time participating in the time-honored tradition of KTV…or as it’s known in the States, karaoke. Although both KTV and karaoke begin with k and often involve copious amounts of cheap booze, the similarity ends there. Invited by my roommate’s teacher, we taxied through several deserted neighborhoods until suddenly we were confronted by this garish, neon-lit building. Once inside, the guards promptly shuffled us off to a lounge area to wait. Of course, being the oblivious tourist that I am, I was fiddling with my camera until my roommates implored me to put it away—fast. I turned around in time to see about half a dozen women in barely-there bedazzled dresses and pancake makeup parading through the halls. Prostitutes? This was definitely going to be a good night.

A few minutes later, Sally’s teacher led us to a private room. KTV, as it turns out, is actually a fancy event here- far from the tequila-fueled shit-show that is Gypscy (or any other student bar in America) on Friday nights. The room was lined with plush couches with people reclining lazily, sipping wine and eating fruit.  A huge flatscreen on the wall played Chinese music videos; a jukebox in the corner offered a variety of selections ranging from cheesy love songs to children’s dance videos. One by one, people would grab the microphone and loudly belt out whatever tune they’d picked. Usually the songs were slow and melodramatic—my favorites were the duets sung by couples who would gaze into each others’ eyes as the others waltzed around the room. It really killed me: these people, so earnest, singing their hearts out, and not a single one of them seemed to give a damn that they were heinously off key.

Towards the end of the night, my other roommate’s boyfriend, Ricardo, decided it would be a good idea for us to pay homage to that goddess of American pop culture, Brittney Spears. Typically, I don’t even broach the idea of karaoke unless I’m well under the influence. As I’ve learned, however, Chinese red wine --the only beverage of choice in this fine establishment—tastes like a rancid Capri Sun and is the fastest way to end up in the fetal position.

 So, completely sober, we got up there and belted out a rendition of “Toxic” that was…less than intoxicating. Actually, it sounded eerily similar to Alvin and the Chipmunks--if said chipmunks had their little paws rammed into an electric socket.