Fannee Doolee

Happy V.D.

Nothing says Happy Valentine's Day like . . .

Logan and Kiki performing "Tomorrow" from Annie karaoke-style:   

(You might want to lower the volume on this one.)

Man, I'm pooped just from listening!  Does that kid have my lungs or what? 

Likes to Boogie So She Won't Get Down

Alternate title:  The Dr. Langholtz Story

For Christmas, Patrick and I decided to get a karaoke machine as our "family" gift, although, in all honesty we knew that Logan and Keelin would never get a turn.  We purchased an RSK MK-22 component player, which also functions as a DVD/CD player.  We also purchased the entire Sweet Georgia Brown 65 disc pack with over 1000 song titles that you can view here, as well as a few other collections of Motown Classics, Showtunes, Standards, Elvis, Frank Sinatra and Hot Hits of the 60s and 70s.

I'm not sure how we came to be such huge karaoke buffs.  Since we met, Patrick and I have had our moments behind the mic, performing under our stage names "Butch and Candy" and draping our vocal stylings on duets like the Blues Brother's "Soul Man" and Sonny & Cher's "I Got You, Babe."  But sometime before Christmas, I realized that having an actual karaoke player in my home could be the key to beating whatever stress or hormone-related mid-life crisis loomed over my shoulder. 

I was right.  Since we got the karaoke player, all I need to do is sing a few bars of "Dancing Queen" or "Bohemian Rhapsody" and it's like I'm a new woman.  I challenge anyone to try to feel depressed after whole-heartedly bopping your way through any of the great classics on our Motown Hits collection.  In fact, the feeling I get from karaoke is so wonderful, I want to share it with the world.

I tried this with my family when we went to Michigan for Christmas.  Unfortunately, they all looked at me like I was asking them to eat a plate of worms when I encouraged them to partake. 

When I first thought about creating this blog, one of my ideas was to feature a weekly video clip of someone different doing karaoke.  Naively, I asked Patrick if he would be willing to let me record him doing Karaoke and post it here.  His response:  “Are you kidding?  I would never let myself be recorded while doing karaoke.  Can you imagine?  One embarrassing note, and people would be playing it over and over and over."

Actually, I can imagine . . .  (cue flashback effect)

I’ll never forget one particular night during my college years when my roommate Katie and I returned to our dorm room and proceeded to check our messages.  In those days, we had an actual machine that hooked in to the phone line and recorded greetings on a tape.  I had been playing phone-tag with the head of the Speech Department, Dr. Armin Langholtz, about testing out of the required speech course (“Oral Communications” – surely an area in which I demonstrated prodigal proficiency), and the first message was from him.

“Tiffany, this is Dr. Armin [BEEELCH] Langholtz . . .”

Yes, right in the middle of saying his name, the distinguished and esteemed Dr. Langholtz, head of the Speech Department, burped on my answering machine.  Not a humongous, beer-drinker burp, but clearly a belch that erupted unexpectedly and with enough fervor to knock him off course for the remainder of the message, which he stumbled through hurriedly.  Katie and I nearly passed out from laughing so hard.  We sat there and re-played the message over and over ("This is Armin burp Langholz . . . . this is Armin burp Langholz . . . this is Armin burp Langholz . . ." ).

Now, I never actually met Professor Langholz, but I am deeply, deeply indebted to him for the hours of sheer hilarity that his message gave Katie and me (as well as a few others with whom we shared it) over the next several months.  If either of us was having a bad day or feeling blue, we’d just cue up Dr. Langholz’s message a few times for a quick boost.  Eventually, I think one of Katie’s boyfriends left a 40-minute message that wiped out everything on that tape (hmmm. .. who could that have been?) but by that time, we only had to mention Dr. Langholz’s name to relive the moment.

I don’t know if this episode ever had any long-lasting or harmful effect on Dr. Langholz--I’m certainly hoping it didn’t—but even so, if he knew today how much joy his little indiscretion gave a couple of stressed-out, crazed college girls, maybe he wouldn’t mind.

Which brings me back to karaoke . . . . I still haven't launched the "karaoke spotlight" (maybe my urge was filled by the short-lived Cheeriokie site?), but one night, in anticipation of this possible feature, I experimented with lighting and where I would place my camera in order to get the best recording of my karaoke victims - I mean volunteers.  So, in the spirit of this post, I am now going public with this video of me dancing rather unsupportedly in my 'jammas and inadvertently battering my child:

If Robert Goulet and Garth Brooks had a baby

that somehow turned out to be African-American, it would bear a strong resemblance to my brother-in-law, Brian, doing Cheerioke. 

(You really didn't think I would not post this, did you?)  Besides, YOU ROCK!