A Toast to the New Building, If Only I Could

My workplace moved buildings over the last thirty days. For me, this is largely insignificant, as I've moved from cubicle to cubicle in the old building. Yes, my new space has a floor-to-ceiling window, but after 11+ years of casino lighting, I expect I'll stare wistfully outside when the weather becomes nice again. Until then, I'll merely close my shades so I'm not distracted by every car and pedestrian passing. (Why must my attention be so easily diverted?)

There are benefits of the new space, of course. The lobby is immense and contains a piano, just in case I'm suddenly overpowered by the spirit of Billy Joel. With no tip jar (and no musical aptitude), the odds of that happening are unlikely. Even so, why place a piano in an office building? It's not like the security guards have a minibar stashed behind the counter? (Or do they?)

The shower room was poorly planned by architects, but if people choose to look inside a bathroom as they pass down the hallway, they deserve whatever burns their retinas.

The oddest aspect for me is the lack of a toaster. The firm employs over 300 people, and we're not allowed to heat our pop tarts? Sure, we have a bank of microwaves with which we can nuke the tart, but I discovered yesterday that (1) a microwave makes the crust crack to the point it's un-pick-up-able, and (2) strawberry filling is one of the quickest-heating substances on the planet. It takes only 25 seconds of spinning under radiated lights to achieve a temperature comparable with molten lava.

Today's mission: deduce whether strawberry is the only filling to reach nuclear hot, or if blueberry will follow the same path. If you run into me on the street tomorrow and my lips have somehow melted together, you'll understand why.

High Notes in Low Places

While walking through a less-than-reputable part of downtown named Printer's Alley, I noticed one of the adult entertainment clubs had constructed a new video screen to advertise their wares. Indecent bits were kept hidden, and much of it was flourescent graphics to catch eyes of unsuspecting pedestrians. The advertisement that caught me was for Naked Karaoke.

Yes, I live in Nashville, where singers are a dime a dozen, and in this recession, you can probably get a second dozen for free. Though I once experimented performing karaoke in Dallas, I'll never take an open microphone here because people take it too seriously. People move here all the time to pursue music ambitions. My wife sings. I've been known to belt a tune in the shower (though not the showers at work).

But naked karaoke? I'm so curious.

1. Do the performers start the song naked, or are they supposed to strip during their serenades? Must they pace themselves so their intimates aren't on display until the high note in the bridge?

2. Do they have to sign up with the club beforehand, or are audience members encouraged to participate? Would your friends egg you on to get on stage and let your inhibitions (and your undergarments) go?

3. While I suspect the songs are largely thought out beforehand, can you bring your own track? I'm not interested in singing "I Want You to Want Me", "Just a Gigolo", or "I Touch Myself." But I can do a mean Phil Collins "Another Day in Paradise."

4. If you pay extra, can you be individually serenaded, or must you go to a special room for a lap song and dance?

I'll never venture inside the place, so all of these questions will end unanswered for me. I do, however, have one last inquiry: when is LaserQuest going to jump on this train?