Ballads, beats, and the banter of Sabrina Blaze.

(Side note: This is my one hundredth post. Hollah.)

So, all day yesterday I was feeling a little claustro in my homecity of New Bedford. I wanted anonymity. I wanted to not be contacted, connected, or technologically tied down. I really wanted to throw my phone into a ravine and walk away and not see anyone I knew who might ask me where my phone was and why I didn't respond to their text message. I wanted to not see anything Facebook; no mutual friends, no more fucking doppelganger photos, no more status updates, friend requests, page suggestions, Kidnap requests, Yoville requests, Farmville bullshit... just nothing.

And, while I'm near the topic, the "Kidnap" thing is fucking creepy. Please stop trying to kidnap me, I never accept. I don't want you to kidnap me. That's a terrifying concept. Jesus.

So, anyway, last night... I shut my phone off, got in the car, picked up Jesstie and drove to Providence. We had no plan, no destination, no ideas, so we stopped in to my fave default spot as of late: DownCity. The general plan for the evening was to migrate... but then we got comfy.

All About Eve was playing full volume on the telly behind the bar when we arrived. We were just in time to wish we were in black & white, and born to a different era. I have a feeling my hips would look better in black and white. So would my issues. Kind of like this one line, that just couldn't have been more perfect in that moment.

Margo: "So many people know me. I wish I did. I wish someone would tell me about me."

Me, too, Margo. Me, too.

Just as Jesstie and I finished our delicious dinners - two words, one exclamation: Tater Tots - Sabrina Blaze showed up. A statuesque blond with a bouffant to die for, Sabrina Blaze hosts karaoke at DownCity every Monday.

For as long as I can remember, Mondays have been associated with Neal & Kenny, the Monday night gig at Freestones. I've worked there for six years, which makes my total number of Mondays worked somewhere in the hundreds. Nothing, and I do mean nothing, about Monday has changed since I was hired six years ago. The same band plays the same set. The same people come in, sit in the same seats, drink the same drinks, sing to the same songs, and see the same staff.

I kid that there should be a Monday night discount for people suffering from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, but it's not entirely a joke... Monday at Freestones is evidence of the world on repeat. It is predictable, safe, know-able. Mondays are familiar and lately all I've wanted is the unfamiliar, the unknown, the shot at experiencing something other than what I've already experienced.

Monday at DownCity, with Sabrina Blaze karaoke, is not repetitive. Monday at DownCity is just what I needed.

There's something about karaoke... It's really an intimate relationship between one person, their song selection, and a television - and then people watch. There's very little eye contact between performer and audience, because most people are just reading the television... it's like we're all voyeurs, watching a person define themselves, declare themselves, express themselves.

Last night, I watched people chase letters across a screen, their lyrics chased laughter out of strangers, their banter chased a community out of booths and barstools - it chased an identity out of me.

Last night, all I wanted was to go somewhere and be nobody, but instead I went somewhere and I was me.

And, on the way home, Jesstie and I listened to Amy Winehouse in honor of Randy Bush (yes, real name), who is the new bestie we made at DownCity karaoke, and who's voice is - can I just say - bananas, and who's rendition of Beyonce's "Ego" I will not soon forget. We left before we could hear his Winehouse, hence the choice for driving home music.

Well, would you look at that... my tears really do dry on their own. Drip dry.