November 5 - The Karaoke King

We all called him the Karaoke King, first behind his back, and then later on to his face--after we'd had enough to drink that we would deign to talk to him, and by that time, he'd drunk so much that he took it as a compliment, and maybe by then that was how we meant it.
The Karaoke King.
His look? Acid washed jeans with the knees torn out and a matching acid washed jeans jacket. Red bandana worn as a headband, Born in the USA style, fingerless gloves, Cinderella t-shirt, mirrored sunglasses (at night, indoors).
His MO? Three words: Belt. Shit. Out. Dude fucking brought it every Sunday night when Ralph's Tavern had Karaoke Night. The Karaoke King rocked out with his cock out, like it was his last chance to rock and roll before he got shipped off to Iraq or Afghanistan or the 'nam or wherever, only it didn't matter where he was going.
Only that night mattered.
Only that night and his one last chance to set the record straight about who was the true Karaoke King.
His set list? You Give Love a Bad Name, Wild Side, Kick Start My Heart, 18 and Life, Paradise City. Think: late 80s, early 90s. Hard rock, hair metal, but no grunge. None of that mopey, angsty Seattle shit. Just loud, hard, good time rock and roll.
And he was serious about having a good time. Fist to the sky, clapping above his head, screaming and shouting, wailing on air guitar, kicking, yelling shit like, "Rock and roll!" and "Come on, Jefferson City! Lemme hear ya!" and ending every song with a "Whoo!"
When it wasn't him singing, he was sitting on a table, swinging his legs, cheering everybody on, drinking straight from the pitcher he'd ordered for himself. Pumped. Oblivious to the fact that people were cheering along with him ironically.
He was ridiculous.
We laughed at him, even when we were cheering him on.
Looking back on it now, we were such dicks. What did we care if he was acting like a jackass? There was no reason to mock him with our ironic high fives and cheering.
But the thing is, he either didn't realize we were mocking him or he didn't care. He just kept right on doing his thing, and we kept right on cheering him on, and by the end of the night he'd pretty much won us over. By the end of the night, our cheering was kind of genuine. Granted, we were piss drunk by then, but the dude was rocking and rolling and bringing us all along for the ride. His lust for karaoke was infectious. By last call, we'd all be up there with him, drunker than hell, singing Living on a Prayer with everything we had because by then it truly didn't make a difference if we made it or not. We had each other and that was a lot. For love, we gave it a shot.
Man, it was the best. Shit was just so much better when the Karaoke King was around.
Last I heard, he was doing 5 - 10 for dealing meth.