I, as the kids say, ain’t even mad.
It’s an undeniable fact that I have terrible handwriting. My hands are big lummoxy slabs of meat, completely unsuited for any work requiring fine motor control. My mother used to say it was because I was born with the cord wrapped around my neck, an explanation I used to accept, until I realized my own mother was saying I was brain-damaged.
Today’s strip is taken almost verbatim from a real incident, from back in the days when Mowrer and I were karaoke regulars at Mandarin Gate in Seattle (incidentally, the singer preceding me, Amy-Amy-Amy, was a fellow regular; looking like nothing more than a meek little Christian accountant, she would get up and belt out Journey songs to make Steve Perry proud).
I get it. Writing with my ham-hands, in the dark, with a stubby golf pencil that was last sharpened during the Carter administration, it’s a wonder he was able to make out as many of the letters as he did. And then the poor guy has to go and figure out how to pronounce “Mowrer.”
That’s why you always tip at the karaoke bar.
Incidentally, “Just A Gigolo” – the David Lee Roth version, child of the 80s that I am – is one of my staples, along with “Two Out Of Three Ain’t Bad” by Sir Meatrick Von Loaf. Mowrer rocks “Touch Me” by The Doors, and “Zoot Suit Riot” by Seattle’s own Cherry Poppin’ Daddies. And together, if the place has it, we’ve been known to tear the roof off with “Istanbul (Not Constantinople).”