I think I'm Turning Japanese...

Vacations are such a wonderful thing. Even if it is what some like to call a "mini-vacation", it allows the mind and body to relax in ways that just can't occur just by falling asleep at my work desk. It made me feel more refreshed than a Torvoldslander falling into a cool well with a frigid free woman after a long walk in the Tahari desert. There is also nothing quite like a nifty vacation destination. In this case, it was just a week-end affair, but to one of the great vacation destinations... DisneyWorld. I was impressed with all of the trappings set up Ol` Walt and company for the visitors. There was night life, there were thrilling rides, and there was excellent food. Although you may want to enjoy the rides and food, I suggest you do it in that order, or you might risk whistling carrots onto a fellow passenger....

If you go on vacation, try new things, but also enjoy things that you already know that you appreciate. In my particular case, it was sushi that was on the Saturday night menu, which is something of which I have become quite fond. Why, you ask, would a person want to eat food that looks as if it were created from creatures from another planet? Well, try it sometime, because you just might like it... just don't eat the big green mint ball that comes on the tray. That's wasabi, and it will light your head up faster then carrying a gun on Gor. The strange twist added into the restaurant was the fact that folks would get up and sing to video music while you dined. As I waited for Rod Serling to serve us up an order of California rolls, we pondered about the talent being as raw as the food being served, even though most of the participants were toasted to the point of being well done. When I mentioned that this seemed an odd combination, one in our little party of Goreans tossed me a clue.... Sushi and karaoke are both, of course, of Japanese origin.

After spending a moment with the menu, I realized that "Tuff Enuff" was not an order or Hamachi gone horribly bad, and "A Pirate Looks At Forty" was a tune by Jimmy Buffet and not a rather large plate of Unagi... No, this was the song list of available tunes with which you might delight, or disgust, the patrons of the establishment. Since a slave was available, I began hunting in earnest for an appropriate number she might use to regale us with song. Now, about the same time I found this proper song, I also began to notice a very odd phenomenon... While some people were contented to hop up in front of strangers and carve up some fine piece of music worse than the Thanksgiving turkey at a school for the blind, others were... well, serious. They were, as we at the table coined them, Karaokians.

I took the slip of paper with the required information of song title, song name, artist name, musical key, name of the person to sing the song, and all of their personal and private information up the grand poo-bah of the Karaokians... Mistress Rhonda of the garish brown velveteen robes. I can only assume those are the colors for their caste of entertainers, but I could be wrong since there were other performers in other colors. Perhaps it is the absurdity of the outfit that marks them out from the rest of the crowd...

Well, Mistress Rhonda took one glance at the title I had chosen and denied my request. Why, you ask? Because some other would be crooner had already done that number. Now, we had been feasting on uncooked fish parts and other delicacies from the sea for several hours, and I had not heard that particular tune mauled in any way, shape, or form. So, being the naturally determined fellow I am, I questioned this woman’s authority over the great jukebox-with-no-lyrics. Evidently, the True Karaokians® will play games of superiority of those less qualified by choosing the same title and doing a far better rendition. Yes, I know... sad but true.

Well, it turns out that the Mistress had her tarsk-bits doled out by the manager, who believed in pleasing the customer that was dropping the big gold tarns. That meant that the little kajira would soon be filling the air with the sweet melody.... At least, I thought it would be soon. Seems my request had gone to the very bottom of the stack, and we would end up waiting a few ahn before it was called. This did give a bit of time, however, to view this new species in their natural habitat. I found two sure ways to tell a True Karaokians® from an imposter. The first was real easy, because a member of this elite group will carry their own compact disk full of specially selected titles that they hand to the Karaokian guru to uniquely delight the audience. If you don't believe me, just look up "karaoke" with a search engine and see for yourself. There are plenty of companies that are more than willing to burn one for you…. The second sign is much more subtle, yet so obvious it was like a slap in the face when it hit. When they got on the little stage, they were as comfortable as a Tuchuk slave girl allowed in the wagon for a night. They don't read the words off the screen, they don't miss any lines, and this one fellow knew there was a long enough break between stanzas for him to turn around and show off his gaudy pair of pants to the crowd. He was in his element, he sang with gusto, he enthralled, well, most of the crowd…. He was the consummate Karaokian.

I must say, the more sul-paga I drank, the better all of them sounded, but what of the little slave girl who was due for the stage? She performed admirably…. A fine voice, an amusing song, but even with Mistress Rhonda singing the backup she certainly wasn't to be counted among the aforementioned group of folks who were more serious about this business than Sam Walton was about his. It raises, however, a very interesting question. What if the girl decided to order some of those bizarre CD's, take up hanging out in sushi bars, wearing odd clothing and belting out little ditties while strange dinners look on. As long as it pleased her master, would she be less of a slave? And what of him? Would his mimic of others work in the same fashion make him less Gorean? While that may seem an absurd question, it certainly begs one of much more depth. At what point does a hobby or interest transform into what one considers his lifestyle? In the case of our Karaokian friends, I would offer that even with all the practice in front of the mirror, they would still not consider this minor obsession as a definition of their being. So yes, I feel that Goreans can have hobbies too. I like football, I like music and movies, and I even like a touch of BDSM now and again. Does watching football make me a Footballian? Of course not. And tying up a wench does not make me a "BDSMer". So in this respect, I urge all of you to differentiate between pastime and the tenets by which we live. As long as a life pleasure fits within the boundaries we have set for ourselves, as a group, one's chin can always be held high... even if you're singing karaoke.