I gotta say that I’m not usually a karaoke guy. In fact, the mere thought of karaoke makes my nards shrivel and a little bit of yak bubble up in my throat. It’s not stage fright or anything that gets me about the activity, but the mere painful process of having to watch the earnestness of some of the participants as they suck the life out of yet another classic shit song like “Sweet Caroline.” It’s almost as awkward as watching friends at a strip club ogle chicks named Mason and Georgia like a starving men with a bloody steak. Granted this all pretty much dissolves when my party and I are completely hammered and I’m exposed to a roomful of good friends who want nothing more than to generally embarrass themselves in front of their buddies. Such was the atmosphere at Sing Sing. Somehow we landed a nice, spacious private room just walking in off the street. I’m not sure if this is common, but thank god we did, as the front, public room/bar had the feeling of some East Village version of an episode of Will & Grace gone cabaret. Though, this place is like the Greek Diner of karaoke. The book of songs is endless, varied and ridiculously long. Finding what you’re looking for while drunk is next to impossible, but odds are you’ll stumble across something that will tickle your fancy. The amazing thing is, based on the horrible caterwauling I heard coming from a couple of the other rooms in the hallway when I went to visit the restroom, we weren’t half bad. But the hangover and laryngitis the next day certainly were. [MF]
9 St. Marks Pl.