Little Sister had to go

A few years back, my parents went on vacation at a popular beach, inviting the whole family along -- my brothers and their spouses and children, as well as my own little clan.

One night, my sister-in-law and I decided to have a Girl's Night Out. We kissed the little ones good-night, left our respective spouses in charge and decided to hit a local bar. As luck would have it, that bar was having a karaoke night.

I have a love/crazed fear of karaoke. Occasionally I feel brave enough to open the song book, pick something out, write and give my request to the dj before I chicken out. If I'm completely sober when I do this, the overwhelming stage fright gives me .... ahem... digestional issues. I'm not even kidding about that. But the intense thrill of singing onstage usually outweighs the fear of shitting my pants.

However, this night? I had a couple drinks. Though I grew increasingly nervous as the time approached, I was feeling fine, baby.

My name was finally called, and I got on that stage and had THE BEST karaoke experience of my life. I had chosen "Look At Little Sister" by Stevie Ray Vaughan. And I ROCKED it, absolutely, singing with such passion, fervor and depth, that I heard a shout of, "Sing it, sister!" from the black couple in the front row, who were rocking along with it.

Ordinarily, I do not mention race, because I believe that a person's skin color has no bearing on their worth as an individual human being. Though I am painting with the broad brush of generalization here, just like white teenagers know pop, many black people know the blues.

To me, even now, that couple's call of "Sing it, sister!" is the highest praise I have ever received from singing. I don't know that any compliment I could get would ever match that for me. From what I've read about SRV, he also considered it high praise if his music and style was called black.

I finished the song and left the stage to wild applause, and somehow my trembling knees carried me back to where my sister-in-law was sitting. Who hadn't even noticed I was gone, or heard the song. Distracted by trying to decline advances from another patron, she'd missed the whole thing.

The excitement didn't stop there. We finished our drinks, and left the bar. At some point the SIL and I realized we both had to pee. Really bad. And we were still blocks away from our hotel. There were no stores or gas stations open nearby. We tried asking a clerk at another hotel if we could use their restroom, and the response was negatory.

So, driven by necessity, and the desire for revenge, we snuck onto the beach behind the hotel, and furtively glanced around to see if anyone was present.

And that, my friends, is how I found myself dropping trou and pissing on the beach with my sister-in-law at 3 a.m.