The Return Of My Groupie

My groupie. My only groupie. Tara Adrienne.

Even after two weeks’ worth of separation, she had still remembered me. A vivid recollection of our duo fusion dance rendition and flawless lip syncing moment was still fresh in her mind. Only this time, she wanted the real deal.

She wanted to sing, and she wanted me to take turns singing with her. Like seriously sing. As in to actually vocalize melodious tones–gods knows how– from our mouths, without cheating. So no trusty radio or real music to back us up. And I had no say in it. No negotiations. No bargaining. No chickening out. To sing I must and to sing I shall.

Clearly, I was doomed.

Without delaying, she quickly positioned herself in front of the telly, in front of David Letterman nonetheless. Clutching her fake microphone (which by the way was a cardboard cylinder taken from the aluminum foil that was previously used to whack Jothy with), she mumbled some words from the song ‘Paparazzi’ by Lady Gaga. It was more of a humming. Almost disappearing.

But then her voice started clearing up and became immoderately louder upon reaching the chorus bit. I’m assuming that’s the only part that she actually knows. She continued singing, wailing, I’m your biggest fan…I’ll follow you until you love me…Papa…Paparazzi…Baby there’s no other superstar…You know that I’ll be your…Papa…Paparazzi.

In the midst of singing those words, she’ll point the fake microphone towards me once in a while, signaling whenever it was my cue to cut in. So I sang my tone deaf heart out. Papa…Paparazzi. And every time I’d jumped in, the corner of her lips would curve upwards. That was good news. Her smile was a positive indication of her approval towards my singing. I was liberated.

Nevertheless, the song felt like it lasted forever because she re-sang the song again and again and again, countless of times. I, by the way, felt like my throat was going to dig its way out and strangle Tara if I had to sing another Papa…Paparazzi.

I can’t remember how but I had managed to divert her Red-Bull-I-wanna-be-a-superstar driven attention towards Raja. It was totally right down his alley. After all, he used to sing for his band and even made an album, so he was way over qualified for this job.

Tara: Uncle Raja, please sing for me.

Raja: I’m your biggest fan…I’ll follow you until you love me…Papa…Paparazzi…Baby there’s no other superstar…You know that I’ll be your…Papa…Paparazzi...

Tara: *Burst out into laughter* Oh my god, why your voice is like so lousy? I’ll never bring you to any of my concerts.

Raja: *Speechless*

Tara: *Continues laughing and adding salt into injury* Oh my god, your voice is like a mouse you know…cheee cheee cheee (trying to impersonate a mouse squeaking).

In all fairness, Raja was singing in a carefree, comical, and high-pitched squeaking manner for the fun of it. Even so, I strongly believe with no doubt in my mind that Tara has great judgment when it comes to music. Which is incontestably why she favored my singing compared to Raja. Great talent is so rare these days. Ahhh…I [heart] you groupie.

On another note, apart from a beating baton and a prop microphone, the cardboard cylinder appeared to have a couple of other uses, such as a Telescope.

And a Play-Doh pastry roller.

Impressive. It’s almost as sophisticated and multipurpose as my favorite mortar and pestle.