why are you not famous and why do i have 6 versions of this on my phone.

somewhere between the drag show in the east village and the nine hours of karaoke that ended sometime around sunrise, me-plus-three traveled 80-some blocks uptown for this:

you might think to yourself, “now that is one hefty cab fare for 34 seconds of a scottish accent and a modern-day spin on a Braveheart moment.”

and you would be right.

[although you may also notice that kristen, as seen in the bottom of the frame, is completely amused. cab fare wins.]

in that case, let me make this worth it to you by explaining just how fantastic this little place called Sing Sing really is.

[the karaoke joint, that is. not the maximum security prison. i don’t anything about that, other than the fact that they were electric-chair-happy right up until the moment everyone realized it was constitutionally barbaric. insert 8th amendment rights here.]

for free+8 bucks per hour per person, you get your own private recording studio “party room” complete with pleather couches and binders chock full of every single song you ever sang alone in the car or shower.

oh, and a butler. you also get a butler.

one mash of the button on the wall and taa-daaaaa! THERE HE IS . . . ready to bring you whatever assortment of booze drops your inhibitions low enough to make you sing loud and sing proud.

for me, it doesn’t take much.

my rendition of “Summer of ‘69” is enough to have you fully convinced that i’m canadian and that bryan adams is my father.

the resemblance is startling.