Psycho Therapy

I used to go to this karaoke bar every Friday night after work with friends. And every night there was a tall, skinny, crazy looking fella in a business suit sitting alone at a small table quietly sneering and sipping a stiff drink. He spoke to no one. (On purpose I assume.) He wasn't the cheeriest of sorts but he was definitely not shy. That's the trick crazy people play - they look all timid and harmless - right before they laugh hysterically and chase you goofy-eyed, swinging a machete.

When his name was called his walked rapidly to the stage - head down, arms stiff and hands fisted.

Then began Smashing Pumpkin's - Rat in a Cage.

The man exploded. There was screaming. Pain. Sweat. Irateness. Fists shaking and suit jacket flailing. I remember him grabbing his own tie and mimicking a self-hanging during one of the verses (every time) which means he probably rehearsed this at home. Frequently.

He wasn't trying to be a rock star. This was not to impress. This was stingy and selfish. We were getting aurally ass-raped to the tune of psycho-therapy and he KNEW it and he LIKED it. His eyes stayed shut until the last screams were scrum and the final note died.

After that (no clapping - felt rude to clap) he walked back to his table and sat - head down - spoke to no one.

Management spoke of not letting him come back here - but I quickly explained to them why this was a bad move. You gotta let the nutjobs have their safe outlet. You see I'd much rather have him UP THERE on a Friday night - inflicting BAD music on GOOD people - instead of roaming the city - just - eating good people.

© Dianne Cupps 2005

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