All Great Days End With Karaoke

The day started the same way many days do here in Auckland. Wake up, realize its 9am, go back to bed. Wake up, notice it’s now 11:30am, contemplate getting out of bed, realize that such contemplation is futile, go back to bed. Wake up one last time, notice its 12:30pm, realize I’m a good for nothing bum, then roll out of bed.

Crusty eyed and woozy, I haphazardly make my way to the shower to cleanse myself of such sloth. I turn the shower on so it’s extra steamy while in my half-coma, I manage to undress. I step in to the water and am suddenly awake due to the third-degree burns I just received from the flowing water. I manage to find the shower knob and set it to a more temperate level. I give myself a quick wash with a bar of soap and my Kid’s 2in1 Happy Apple scented shampoo and conditioner.

Delighted to be smelling like a sour apple Blowpop, I scrounge around the kitchen for some food only to realize I have a box of cereal but no milk. It looks like I’ll be eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for breakfast- for the fifth day in a row. I begin to contemplate if I’m really eating breakfast, or if it’s lunch by this point. Through a series of complex calculations and theorems I decide it’s still breakfast- and a damn good one at that.

Somehow, I’m ready to go to my 2pm class. Well, ready in the physical sense. Psychologically, I’d rather be sleeping. But I grab my books and head to the elevator to ride down eighteen floors. I manage to make it to class in about fifteen minutes and find myself a seat. One page of notes and twenty-seven different stick figure sketches later, I am released from the prison that is known as class. My utter bliss suddenly turns to grief when I remember I have another class. ‘I DON’T WANNA GO TO CLASS!’ But I do anyway. I walk there like a moping child who hasn’t gotten his way.

Amazingly, my doodling skills improved over the last 2 hours and I’m suddenly sketching DaVinci’s “Mona Lisa” and VanGogh’s “Starry Night”. My friend turns to me, looks down at my paper, and asks “What’s all that crap you’ve got on your paper.” I softly begin to weep at his inability to recognize my drawing abilities. Some people just don’t know art when they see it. After another two hours of treachery I am free, for good this time.

I begin to wander back toward my apartment and on the way decide to stop in the convenience store for a steak and cheese meat pie. Since coming to New Zealand I had recently become addicted to these meat pies. They are like chicken pot pies back in the states, but with beef and without all those nasty vegetables. They’re cheap as well, I give the cashier $2.20 and am on my way. While walking I devour the pie so fast that I almost cannibalize myself by mistaking my hand for the delicious pastry.

It’s a little after 6pm now and I head back up eighteen floors to my room. I flick on the tele and sit down at my laptop to do some homework. But homework just seems so unappealing, so I spend the next 45 minutes checking my email and Facebook account in hope that someone has added me as their friend. Nothing. My eyes begin to water. Who needs dumb ol’ friends anyway?

The meat pie doesn’t seem to be holding me over so I decide to make some dinner. As I put the water on to boil, I try to decide on which kind of pasta to eat tonight; spaghetti, penne, or spirals. I pick the spirals because they are by far the coolest shaped, and thus taste better. The other way I’m able to tolerate eating pasta five times a week is change up the sauce. One night its “spicy pepper”, another “original tomato”, and another “extra garlic.” Combine these with the different pastas and the variations are endless. My culinary skills would make even Betty Crocker blush.

The evening begins to wear on and the friends that I do have begin to think of something to do tonight. After the rejection of my suggestion to watch BioDome, it becomes clear that we were going to do what college students do best: head to the pubs. I of course would never condone such actions (right Mom and Dad?), but I went nonetheless. After a short ten minute walk we were on the famous Queen Street in downtown Auckland.

We hit a few different pubs, getting a drink at each one. By this point we’re all getting a bit loosened up from the day’s trials and tribulations, and decide to head to one of our favorites, The Fiddler. We walk up the street toward the small Irish watering hole only to be met by blaring music and off key vocals. And then it hit me. It was karaoke night… it was heaven.

I walked on in and stared up at the giant words being highlighted across the screen like the Disney sing along videos I use to watch when I was little. Forget the bar, forget the booze. I was headed straight for the list of songs. This place had to get fired up and I knew just the song. I confirmed the choice with my closest companions who’d be singing along with me. It was going to be epic.

While we waited for our song to reach the top of the queue I begin to remember my complete and total distaste for karaoke and any living being who took part in it. But since I came to New Zealand I’ve had a revelation. You shouldn’t be ashamed of who you wish you were. Embrace the fact that it’s okay to pretend you’re a rock star. It’s okay of me to realize I’ll never be that cool.

After philosophically examining the ethics of karaoke for about ten minutes, I suddenly realize our names were being called out and our song was up next. I stand up, pull my shirt down tight, stretch my neck, do a few shoulder shrugs, and get ready to rock. My band members come and huddle close together around the microphone.

“Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy? Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality…” The bar suddenly became revitalized as its patrons heads lifted as if being awoken from a long and deep sleep. Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody.

I sang with all my heart, pumping my fists into the air and singing at the top of my lungs. Oh how a little bit of alcohol can send one’s sense of humility through the ceiling. It doesn’t matter; for the next six minutes I am Freddy Mercury rocking my guts out. The melodic guitar riffs and head banging drum beats pulse through the pub and all who occupy it. Anyone who wasn’t on their feet was either passed out or immune to being happy.

With the pub alive and well again, the song comes to its soft ending. The screams and cheers are coming at us from every angle. “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you, Auckland! And goodnight!”

This was an assignment for class and slightly exaggerated, so don't worry Mom & Dad- I didn't really cry when my friend made fun on me.