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It seemed like a good restaurant. I was as hungry as a low carb dieter. Nothing like filling your belly over a nice, quiet meal. However, the pipe dream soon became a nightmare. Suddenly, the lights dimmed. Maybe the local power plant was overloaded, after all, this is California. No such luck. Before I knew it, a hip, young man appeared on a small stage about the size of a kitty litter box. Holding a microphone, he shouted four words that froze my body and sent my eye into twitching convulsions. "Welcome to karaoke night!"

My mind began to race. I thought to myself, should I run? Is there a place to hide? What about... suicide? I can't. I'm Catholic, God dammit. Besides, I just ordered my flank steak, so departing would be disrespectful to the steer who was kind enough to be slaughtered in order appease my pallet.

First up to bat was a chubby girl who had obviously jumped from her roof to get into her blue jeans. The eager look on her face seem to imply she had most likely been waiting at the restaurant until it opened that morning so she could get her song request in early. The tune she chose was "I Will Survive." The question now was, will I? I ordered a Stoly vodka. It was going to be long haul.

When I heard the shrieks I assumed everyone felt like me and were dashing towards the door. Not to be, it was just the singer bellowing her number. The pudgy superstar finished on a high note. (The high note being-she was finished.) Yes, the fat lady had sung, but the night was far from over. In no time, she was followed by a short Japanese fellow. Surprisingly, the song he opted to tackle was a country hit called "I Got Friends In Low Places." I must be one of his friends, cause this place can't get any lower. Fortunately, his choppy English was a distraction to the sour notes. I kept asking myself, "What's a row place?" This guy put William Hung to shame. Judging by the number he did on that number, I'll bet his day job is a butcher. If only MacArthur had passed a singing ban during the occupied reconstruction period this behavior might have not have passed on. Another Stoly, please.

An African-American took the stage next. Forget the stereotypes, this guy had no rhythm. To make things worse, he choose a rap song. I'm sorry, it's not my cup of tea, vodka maybe. I'm just a simple cracker who enjoys sappy music with lyrics I can grasp. This honkey is more honky tonk. The words I could make out were somewhat romantic. Hey, I can't tell you the times I've lied awake in

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