The evening started off innocently enough - a collaboration meeting between me and director at the Manhattan Inn with a smooth transition into piano-oke, McGinty-style, at the strike of 10.
We arrived promptly at 8:30, took our seats - wine in hand - at an empty table and set about talking all things "The Untitled Glennis McMurray Project". (OK, it has a name, but it's far too fabulous to share just yet should all the Glesbians spontaneously combust in a fit of frenetic anticipation.) All shop talk dropped, however, when the sweetest of all papers were dropped into our laps: the karaoke song lists. Had I been holding a baby she might also have been dropped. I said might. I love karaoke, but my passion for the empty orchestra has waned of late. It's too much trouble dealing with divas, screamers and drama just to share my sweet rendition of "Get Low" by Lil' John & The Yin Yang Twins. (Note: it's my jam. Do not steal.) But my love has again been renewed by the discovery of piano-oke. Something I once attempted with my own fingers for my dear friend Girty's birthday until realizing my pinaner playing has the smooth rhythmic tempo of a fish slowly dying on a rock in the blazing sun. Read: No skills. So read: I was excited.
I believe the joyous evening was kicked off with director-Kate's sultry rendition of "Natural Woman" which set the tempo and the bar. It was high and we were planning on hightening it with each song. A little healthy competition if you will. And you will. I was next and I attempted a new jem: "Suspicious Minds" by Elvis. No doubt my favorite Elvis song I had my doubts as to how it would play in this room having never sung it before. It started off well enough, but in the original key it started to fall a little flat. That was when my genius ego kicked in, kicked it up an octave and proceeded to kick every last patron in the proverbial nuts. Someone call the FD cuz this bitch was on fiya.
After my song I excused myself for a visit to the old water closet and, after doin' my biz, zippin' my shizz, washin' the filth and checkin' the smacker, I walked out with a spring in my step for I was ready for more drink and song. I was abruptly stopped, upon exiting the bathroom, by a ponytail-sporting, sunglasses-on-head wearing, European Jagwad. I didn't know he was a Jagwad at the time, it was only following this conversation that I put twos and twos togethsies.
JAGWAD: Excuse me. What is your name?
ME: (Only slightly put off that an advance is being made outside the ladies bathroom where he has been laying in wait.) Glennis.
Notice my slight hesitation did not stopping me from giving my real name. I was banking on the fact that this advance was only due to my killer set of pipes and that the next words out of his mouth would be "I own a record label..."
JAGDONG: Ahh. Hmm... I feel as if I have, how you say, met you before? What is your name?
He moves closer, I back away.
ME: I told you my name. I don't know if we've met. You don't look familiar.
JAGLOAF: No? It's just your... how you say... (references my ENTIRE BODY) is so familiar to me. I'm sorry, but I saw you up there and I just, how you say, thought I knew you. I had to say hello.
OK, so he didn't really say, "how you say" but he might as well have.
ME: (Only slightly flattered.) Well, thank you. It was nice meeting you.
Exit - stairs.
DINKOFF: Wait, I am so sorry. Are you, how you say, a, how you say, actress?
ME: (Annoyance growing.) Yep. I am. Well, it was nice meeting you.
POOPDRAWERS: Ahhhh yes, I knew it. You are so you have been on the Broadway?
He did say THE Broadway.
ME: No. Well, nice to meet you. I have to get back to my table now.
Exit - stairs.
ASSBALLS: You would have a drink with me?
ME: (Jesus!) No, I'm sorry. I have a fiance.
CREEPDOUCHE: Ahh. I am so sorry. How you say?
DICKBAG: Is your fiance... is he... here?
ME: No. He's not HERE. But he is (pointing to my chest) here.
WANKLOG: I'm sorry?
ME: In my heart. (Boom! High five, McMurray!)
CRAPSOCK: Ahh... I see you say. How? But... he is not... HERE? At the bar?
ME: (I'm pretty sure I visibly recoiled.) OK, WELL NICE TO MEET YOU.
EXIT - STAIRS, QUICKLY. BACK TO TABLE. SIT. Ease disgust by picking new karaoke song.
I recounted the events to Kate and we were both grossed and creeped out. But only slightly. There was karaoke to be sung, you guys! And for my next number? "I've Never Been To Me". Hey, lady? You, lady?
As the night progressed so did our drinking and as I returned to my seat from a not-so-great attempt at "One Night In Bangkok" (hey, they can't all be winners) I saw that the Monstertool was sitting at the table next to ours. Thankfully he didn't make things any more uncomfortable. He just relentlessly stared at my face. How flattering, right ladies? Dude... back it up. I decided it was time for another visit to the ladies room and after my biz, as I exited the stall, Kate walked in saying, "I think he's waiting outside the door. Wait for me and we'll walk up together."
Gimme an S! Gimme a T! Gimme an A! Gimme an L! Gimme a K! Gimme an E! Gimme an R! What does that spell??! No, seriously, Jagoff, tell me what that spells, apply it to yourself and hit the bricks. Thankfully, when we walked out he was nowhere to be found.
Now here's the thing about McGinty-style karaoke. It's awesome. It's so awesome and so great you never, ever want to leave. And the back room at the Manhattan Inn that houses said karaoke is one of those rooms that I dream of having in my future mansion. Exposed brick, tables encircling a white baby grand center stage, strange, moss-like chandelier overhead and, of course, Joe McGinty on keys. I got, how you say, a little caught up. After a third friend joined us and we were on our 3rd bottle of prosecco, the room started to get the spinnzies and I was along for the ride. I excused myself again to splash some cold water on my face. I had a pretty clear head, but felt ill, y'all, and was kickin' myself in the ayz. I carefully walked down the stairs of yee old Manhattan Inn, opened the bathroom door and, when both stalls were taken, slumped in the seat outside the door. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted, who else, F*ckfaceJones again. A stall emptied and I rushed into the bathroom avoiding him even seeing me, or so I thought. I splashed cold water on my face, got my wits about me and went back outside. And there he stood.
JAGOFF: Excuse me?
ME: DUDE. (I screamed.) LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE!!
Exit - stairs. Two at a time.
I decided it was time to leave and as Kate paid the bill, I joined third-companion, Marcy outside where she told me she'd spoken to Jagoff's friends to find out if, you know, he was just a drunk douche or if he was, how you say, a Total Creepball? Apparently their conversation went:
MARCY: Is your friend... drunk? Or is he, you know, trouble?
JAGOFF'S FRIEND: Do you have a boyfriend?
Sooo... there you go. A creep is a creep is a creep.
As we started walking home together we wondered what we'd do if Jagoff et al followed us. I said that, without hesitation, I'd turn to him/them and, using my best Clair Huxtable impersonation, would say, "If you don't exit my site line immediately I will call the cops and have you arrested for harassment" and if it came down to it, I KNOW how to take care of myself. Thumbs in eyes, knees in groins, man on ground.
Here's the thing, I don't want to be a jerk and ignore any man who tries to talk to me. I do think it's hard out there for a guy as well. I have sympathy for the man just trying to make a move and getting rejected before he even begins. I do believe there are nice guys out there. I really do. And, I mean, listen - if they want to compliment my pipes who am I to stop them? I just couldn't help but wonder if I'd been too friendly when he first approached. I mean the waiting room outside the bathroom was a creepy place to approach me, true, but I figured he was waiting to use the facilities, not stalking his future skin-blanket. I feel like I handled the situation well, but something about that night bothered me more than just the creepy, unwanted advances. I felt really great that night. I mean, I felt really great. I've had issues in the past with hiding, in one way or another, because of unwanted advances from men. In fact that was part of the reason my pal Marcy and I started Dance Dance Party Party. Sometimes, sadly, men just don't get it. My smiling at you does not mean I want your man meat grinding on my lady rump! And after the incident at Manhattan Inn I started to feel like going back into my "hide yoself" shell, but then I stopped and stepped and backed that train up. *beep* *beep* *beep* Why should I stop being fabulous because YOU can't take a hint? Answer: I shouldn't. No woman should. We should all be able to flaunt it, work it, walk it and sass it without a man stalking our shit.
Today I saw this in Jezebel. Well, fuck.
Be great, be fab, be the best you you can be and just know there are going to be a few stinkers out there. Unfortunate, but true.