An Open Letter to Princess Birthday
Yo, drunk girl. Not you, the other one. Yes, you, with the tiara and the sash that says “PRINCESS!” on it. I see that it’s your birthday, and I can see that you intend on having the best night of your life. I can also see that you’re indifferent to the band playing right now, but as soon as they take a break, you should definitely grab the mic and tell everyone about your special day.
I’m sure no one will mind — it is your birthday, after all. Since you’re already up there, you might as well get behind the drums and whack the snare a bunch of times. If someone tells you to quit it, find a guitar and try to figure out how that strap works; if you can untangle it from your hair and get it over your head, be sure to bang as hard as you can on the strings — I can’t speak for everyone in the bar, but the guitar-solo face you keep making is completely awesome, and I, for one, can’t get enough. You might even want to stagger over to the amp and try to make sense of all those knobs — electric guitar is way better if you can hear it, and guitar players are totally cool with a complete stranger ruining their tone.
If your handlers let you stay on stage when the band comes back on, I think it would be really great if you could lean into the mic in between verses and say things like “That’s right, bitches!” or “It’s my birthday, bitches!” And while you’re at it, why not invite your friend up there to sing “Happy Birthday” to you? The band would like nothing more than to stop what they’re doing and wait, and when she sings it like Marilyn Monroe, well, I’m pretty sure that’ll be the funniest thing anyone has ever seen in the history of mankind, even funnier than when you both yelled “ ‘Freebird,’ bitches!” during the first set.
As the night winds down, you should see if everyone who makes eye contact with you will buy you a birthday shot — I’m not so sure you have room for any more booze, but you won’t know until you try. If you were going to get alcohol poisoning tonight, you’d already be in an ambulance (probably), and, anyway, your bestie promised to hold your hair back while you puke, so don’t let her off the hook! And later, when you’ve danced your dress crooked and one of your boobs pops out? Well, don’t be embarrassed. At least it drew attention to your sash. –– Steve Steward
File this under “An A for Effort.” For a while now (which means “within the last year”), Esoterica Studios (941 Foch St., 817-924-1500) has held occasional comedy nights on Fridays, and over the past two months, The Moon Bar (2911 W. Berry St., TCU area, 817-966-9600), my place of employ, has thrown its hat into the stand-up venue ring. Starting at 8 p.m. on Sundays, the Moon’s open-mic laff jam is pretty much what you’d expect: a brief succession of nervous performers bombing with well-intentioned bits, mercifully tapping out before the audience’s stone-faced silence boils into sour murmurs or loudmouth jeers. Sure, most of these guys aren’t very funny, but this is amateur hour by nature, and it’s genuinely enjoyable to applaud anyone taking a chance on one of the most unforgiving forms of public address. There’s no cover (and PBRs are only $1.50), and you can tell that a few of these dudes are diligently honing their craft, a large part of which is knowing when to quit. For example, up-and-comer Matt McInnis told three solidly funny jokes and then hit the proverbial eject button — his bit might have taken all of two minutes, but bailing at the right moment is a sign of knowing what you’re doing. –– S.S.
Spencer’s Song Swap Night
Speaking of knowing what you’re doing, singer-songwriter Mike McClure is hosting a four-man song swap on Monday nights at Spencer’s Corner (6861 Green Oaks Rd., 817- 652-6090). The first one featured himself, Jason Eady, Scott Copeland, and some dude named Evan Felker. I kind of got the feeling that Evan was getting hazed a little, but, honestly, following Scott Copeland is a tall order. In any case, while I meant to leave at 11, I ended up stretching my weekend all the way to Tuesday morning. –– S.S.
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