Bahamian Rhapsody, Pt. 1

So...to explain the Oregon pronunciation debacle, which is most assuredly not worthy of the hype, I must explain about Jake the drunk as well as my many technical difficulties onboard.

In my previous ship experience, my main objective was to host. Any glimmer of a technical issue was easily resolved with a page to the lounge tech. Admittedly I’m not the most technically savvy person when it comes to sound boards and 8-channel mixers, despite my stint as a radio deejay. Knowing this, I usually spend a great deal of time and energy learning the bare bones so that I can avoid any embarrassment or take away from the guests’ experience of the events I host. Well, the oldest ship in the fleet (hereby the OSF), is as I’ve mentioned a “special” place. There is no dedicated lounge tech to take care of karaoke. There is such a person, but I have no real understanding of their job description, as they are like ninjas, never seen during an event and turning up mere moments before I am to walk into the (spot) light.

I was given no training, and had to be proactive in learning the ropes, thus I accompanied a fellow staff member to karaoke to see how he handled things. The technical aspects of sound and mike control, as well as song input, and hosting all fell to him. (And therefore to me, when I was scheduled to host.) I was leery. I suspected disastrous results. I’m not a very efficient multi-tasker (one more reason I still don’t have a driving license). However, I went for it. My first attempt at hosting karaoke went…alright. I had no idea where the sign up sheet was, so I improvised. I didn’t know how to turn the broadcast music back up after the event, so I paged the tech ninja. I’m not sure if anything ever came of it. But that’s the benefit of being somewhere for only a week. While it’s uncomfortable to know nothing, it has no real effect on your overall employee status as you’ll be long gone by the time the guests’ comments are received.

My second attempt at hosting karaoke was slightly more complicated, as it was occurring in a separate and unfamiliar lounge. I showed up more than twenty minutes early, hoping to get everything set up and have a smooth, worry-free evening. The sound guy arrived and made the room sound amazing. The deejay handed me my mike. I figured it would be a smooth evening.

We are required to show up fifteen minutes early in order to set up and meet the guests. It’s a way to make them feel comfortable and have a stronger connection during the event itself. I know of fellow team members who sit in silence until it is time to host, but that’s just awkward for everyone. Also, I detest silence during karaoke. While bad singing makes me want to stab myself repeatedly with a fork, being forced to cajole unwilling guests into “You’re the One That I Want” is far worse. The alternative is to kill time by singing FOR the guests. That’s just a crap idea, and as it was required on my former ship, there was no way I was going to do it willingly on the OSF. So I would often go into the audience and inquire as to who they might wish to sing, and try to get the entire group into the decision. Attempts to induce them by introducing their bar staff didn’t seem to work that evening (strangely most people seemed to be oblivious to the fact that they were on a “booze cruise). Yet when someone asked for Otis Redding, and the only track we had to offer was “Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay,” I found my savior in a woman named Kris.

She drunkenly shouted above the din, “I’ll sing it!”

We walked hand in hand to the stage where she informed everyone that she was from Tampa, and sang poetically with adlibs about Tampa Bay, and sitting on her deck. The mood began to shift. Kris had become a star. She enjoyed the limelight and throughout the evening danced for everyone, both interpretive and line. Karaoke became a lot more fun.

At some point while on the dance floor, a young man by the name of Jake began to drunkenly weave around Kris, while a man sang in the background. Jake shuffled to the Doobie Brothers, and cocked his hips as provocatively as is possible while lumbering about with a bottle of Corona. At some point, freeing himself of his dinner jacket, he made glazed eye contact with Kris. Answering his siren’s call, she picked up his jacket, managing to slide his jacket between her legs without any hint of sexuality. A woman clad in a cleavage-baring gown ran onto the dance floor presenting Jake’s crotch with a dollar bill, and escaping his pawing clutches to return to her seat. An inebriated form of the lambada began between Kris and Jake. And then the song ended. As Jake and Kris began to part ways, I urged them to stay. Accompanied by the male singer, I turned to Jake and said, “There are some people I’d like you to meet Jake. The woman you’ve been dancing with is Kris. And this is Wayne. Kris’ husband.”

The crowd enjoyed the show.

The night wore on, and Jake did not find himself wanting for partners. Yet, while he howled a Dean Martin song (“Ain’t that a Kick in the Head”) with his friend, he set his sights on me. “Dahnth vif meee.” I blushed. I shyly looked away and shook my head. I used the “I’m not old enough” and the “I don’t dance” excuse. To no avail. He continued to hound me throughout the next song. Finally, over the mike I informed him that “Jake, sometimes dreams just aren’t meant to come true.” He didn’t take the hint. Luckily it was time for the deejay to begin his set and he asked Jake to step away from me, and also to leave his Corona on the side of the dance floor, as there is a strict “no drinks on the dance floor” policy. Jake seemed confused by “God’s” interference into his mack...

Upon the strains to a deep R/B dance track, I busted a move in my long formal gown, shocking the other guests as they’d drunkenly believed me when I had said I don’t dance. Little did they realize I was on my way to a crew party...where it was learnt that I most definitely do dance…and with little shame.

I’ll continue this saga of the pronunciation of Oregon tomorrow...