Private: Do yourself a favor and skip this post unless you’re hell-bent on reading more competing karaoke tales

Karaoke at Enid’s on Monday night was great fun, no thanks to those of you who assigned songs to certain participants but expressed an unwillingness to venture to Brooklyn even if it were covered in crack cocaine.

Actually, maybe some thanks are in order.

After all, Cowboy Sally’s performance of “Maggie May,” while stellar on its own, was greatly enhanced by the crack suggestion. I don’t mean to imply that the Cowboy partook of the rock; of course she didn’t. But let’s just say that the men in the room were all too willing to snort lines of the real stuff from her nubile young breasts.

I kid, people. (They weren’t snorting from her breasts.)

I realized before I arrived that I would have to forgo the nightly calls to my parents and put the cross-stitch to the side. After all, how often does one have an opportunity to hang out with a room full of bloggers? Never let it be said that I, Maud Newton, don’t know how to have a wild and crazy time. I even went out for pizza and soda beforehand.

Anyhow, I knew the Cowboy would beat me up again if I didn’t perform, so I signed up early, for AC/DC’s “You Shook Me All Night Long.”

I was called to the stage and the crowd smiled politely. As I began, smiles froze on everyone’s faces. Even my friends picked at hangnails that didn’t exist. One young man launched a few spit balls in my direction, but only three of them hit me, and only one stuck to my glasses.

When I finished, the crowd stood and cheered because the torment was over.

The DJ applauded, too, promising a drink on the house provided I didn’t sing anything else all night. Enid’s bartender and star of The Restaurant, Miss Lola Belle, was also thrilled about the conclusion of my song. She did a little jig, her ponytails bobbing up and down, as she filled my pint glass. (I’ll be damned if Lola Belle can’t make you sweat with her karaoke performances, by the way. And did you know she was once an Ice Cream Man?)

Two among us were professional musicians. Maxx Klaxon signed up for “Space Oddity,” but it was mysteriously unavailable, as were his second, third, and fourth choices from the list of songs. He ended up doing a version of Young MC’s “Bust A Move.” Three fly girls materialized during his performance, dancing behind him, and Cowboy Sally had to beat them off with a baseball bat at the end of the night.

The man behind The Evil Twin Theory sang so many things well that I lost track of what they all were. He and Cowboy Sally did the first third of Human League’s “Don’t You Want Me.” A riot nearly ensued when the CD started skipping.

“I can’t work like this,” Cowboy Sally cried, exiting the bar stage left and weeping at the curb. Every man in the room ran to console her. Including the DJ. The women were left blinking at each other, a skipping “Don’t You Want Me” playing in the background.

Once Cowboy Sally dried her eyes, she came back fresher than ever and joined the gentleman who singlehandedly manages World New York. They belted out a duet while dancing the Charleston in their unmentionables. I hadn’t until that moment known that Cowboy Sally owned any unmentionables, but she does, and they’re quite tasteful.

I mean tasty. “Grape flavor,” she told me, in a stage whisper.

The Cockeyed Absurdist had enough whiskey in him that he sang a handful of songs. Here’s a photo of the man himself, taken by the Vidiot. The two of them did Beck’s “Loser” toward the end of the night. Everyone sang on the chorus.

Two of my best friends in the whole world–the lovely Antigeist and her boyfriend, Mr. Nine Years–endured the entire evening. Neither of them sang, despite the fact that both are talented musicians. (They will deny this. As Mr. Nine Years recently said when the three of us sat around a table, insulting ourselves, “Someone could come into this room ready to distribute a bag full of compliments and leave with every single one of them.”) The Antigeist kept her lighter in her hand, ready to light it and wave it around if a performer’s confidence flagged.

Zeebah and Lauren also showed up to lend support, and it was good to meet them, finally. They said they would sing next time. (We’re holding you to it, ladies, if there is a next time.) Zeebah has posted her own version of the events that transpired.

A nice friend of the Cockeyed Absurdist was there. She was beloved by all for purchasing and distributing a full tray of shots. I blame the shots for all my memory lapses, particularly for forgetting her name.

Petitions were circulated to convince a certain person in Florida that he should pick up shop and move to New York City. Do drop by his site and add your voice to the many.