I have a bizarre urge to go to the Gladstone tonight, but I think I'll resist.
Despite its rep as Toronto's signature kararoke venue (and yes, that's where I t'iefed the title of this blog from) I've always found the 'Stone to be emphatically meh. The book sucks and Styles is neither a good host nor a good sound guy.
The crowd, however, is almost always hot, and love you if you sing something they recognize (and you will, because like I said the book sucks). In short it's exactly what the stereotypical karaoke night should be like: drunk cougars and bacherorette party-goers singing along to the fifth different rendition of Living On a Prayer that they've heard in the last three hours.
For us karaoke snobs, of course, it's, everything that makes us embarrassed to admit we like to sing karaoke. But that's why I occasionally go. It's kind of a voluntary fall off my high horse thing.
Plus, the cat's in heat again, which is always incentive to be anywhere else.
Damn, I've almost talked myself into it now.