Mark is Better

My friend Mark is better. Than who? Well, me, for one. And chances are he's better than you, too. At what? Name something.

In the years Mark and I have been friends, he's proven his superiority in the areas of billiards, darts, tennis, guitar playing, woman attracting, drafting, business, salesmanship and swimming. He's better looking than me (incredible, but true). He's got a better sense of humor (also incredible). And until his ex-wife got through with him, he always had more money.

You would think it might be tough to like a guy like that, but it's not. In addition to being better at everything else, he's also more humble, more likeable, more, more, more! Every time I think about it, I want to strangle the life out of him. I might, too, if it weren't for the fact that he's also probably a better strangler than me.

That's why it was such a treat when, this past Fall, I actually beat him at something.

It was a cool October evening. Mark and I were in Central Lake packing up the last remnants of his belongings in anticipation of his reluctant relocation back to the Big City. After a couple hours of sofa lugging and box packing, Mark decided it was time for a break. And I, never one to turn down a chance to goof off, agreed.

Now, for Mark and me, a break just isn't a break without a couple beers. Each. In search of an open bar, we made our way across the scenic Lake Country terrain, eventually coming to rest in Elk Rapids.

There, with the sun setting behind the golden-hued leaves, Mark and I entered the Town House Saloon. Unknown to the both of us, this was to be the site of Mark's long-deserved downfall.

Once we'd bellied up to the bar and ordered our favorite brews, we proceeded to scan the lay of the land for any potential entertainment. We were hoping for redheads. Didn't find any, which is probably why we're both still alive to talk about our little adventure. Neither Mark's wife nor my Significant Other is especially understanding when it comes to the topic of redheads.

Fortunately, another entertainment opportunity soon presented itself. It turns out that on this particular evening, the Town House was sponsoring a Karaoke competition. For those of you not in the know, Karaoke is an entertainment system whereby members of the audience can sing along with pre-recorded music and make fools of themselves in front of a room full of strangers. It doesn't sound like much fun until you've downed a liquid courage. But once you have...look out.

Mark was the first to take the stage, performing a lovely rendition of an Alabama song. He wasn't bad. In fact, he was darn good. I wasn't surprized. Mark and I have worked together in various bar bands for years, and this wasn't the first time I'd heard him sing.

It took a little encouragement from the Miller Brewing Company, but I eventually found myself in front of the crowd belting out some three-chord Bob Segar tune. I was fabulous, if I say so myself (and I have to since no one else will) and the audience responded accordingly. Several other local wannabees also put forth their vocal effort, and quite a few of them were at least as talented as Mark or I.

It wasn't until later in the evening that either of us began to understand this was a competition. Till this point, we'd both assumed it was all just for fun. Now there was money at stake. Not enough money to make any kind of dent in our bar tab, but still...

All of the performers who sang during the evening returned to the stage one at a time to do their best number. Mark, realizing he was badly outclassed vocally, ripped off his shirt and did a Chuck Berry duck walk across the stage during his make or break number. It was an impressive effort, but alas, not quite impressive enough.

Unlike my overly-competetive compatriot, I took the stage with an air of quiet dignity. Or with all the quiet dignity one can muster after innumerable pitchers of dark beer. I left my shirt on and managed to perform my final number in a more or less vertical position. My choice for last tune was the expressive Chris DeBerg ballad, Lady in Red. When the last note wafted gently from my quivering lips, there wasn't a dry eye in the house. At least that's how I remember it.

At any rate, I won the twenty bucks. And I've called Mark every day since to remind him.

I sort of remember the owner of the Town House saying something about a year-end sing-off. He said he'd call me when the date for the thing had been finalized. He never called. Maybe I should have taken off my shirt.