Us vs. The Jesuits

Every year, a group of thirtysomething Jesuit novices comes to Cape May to sing karaoke and get up to no good. They all wear unflattering khaki shorts and leather flip-flops, and they dedicate every song to the Phillies, each other, or some bashful middle-aged woman in the front row. This year I learned that not all of them are Jesuit novices, though the ones that are seem to be the drunkest. Their karaoke lineup (which Terry of "Terryoke" kept screwing up anyway) included "Piano Man," "Born to Run," and "Sweet Caroline." Needless to say, the boys are crowd favorites.

I wasn't too shabby with my usual "Like a Virgin" deal, but unfortunately one of the louder and grosser novices latched onto me for the rest of the night, occasionally screaming my name and telling my mother that he had a "little crush on her - welllll, maybe a big crush." This is the same guy who blared "I'll be here all week!" during every musical break in his song.

The kid who did "Don't Stop Believing" was not a Jesuit novice, but some random son or cousin in a group of hundreds of tanned Long Islanders with balloon hats. Aunt Patti leaned over to me during his performance to say, "Well he's half shot-in-the-ass."

And you know how at every single karaoke bar there's an old guy wearing a polo shirt who'll sing three or more Frank Sinatra songs? Our guy's name was Skip, and he closed his eyes and clutched the mic with both hands while singing "My Way," which I thought was a little dramatic given that we were at the Jersey shore in a bar called The Boiler Room. Mom seemed to like him, though.

I've always gone out to karaoke with a group of like-minded friends, but let me tell you, there is nothing on this earth more hilarious than singing karaoke with a whole host of older family members, each of whom has had two-and-a-half stingers apiece. If you can't convince your family to suffer through an entire night of amateur singing, I'll gladly lend you mine.