How Do I Get You Alone

It has been pointed out that I might have an irrational love for karaoke. Someone once told me that, with years of opera training, I should probably run screaming from tone-deaf drunk people screaming "Don't Stop Believing," but this doesn't seem to be the case. I embrace it, fully and unconditionally. Besides, I live in Nashville, so the ratio of fantastic singers to tone-deaf idiots is actually quite high.

I used to make a point of going to karaoke at Twin Kegs every Friday night. It was sort of a comfort zone for me; my own Cheers bar where everyone knows my name. Unfortunately, my husband has an irrational hate for karaoke that rivals my own obsessive love. The disdain runs so deep that he claims an actual allergy to the madness. I claim that the beer is cheap, so shut your mouth and drink your Bud Select.

Anyway, the point of this particular post is that I somehow found myself involved in a karaoke contest last night. My original intention was to visit my friend, who is the fantastic karaoke host, and chat with her for a bit about catering the launch party for the book. Imagine my surprise when I stumble in, say hi, and find my name scrawled on the bottom of the list for contestants. (Many of you grumble Yeah, right...you begged to be a part of it but the truth is that I tripped over myself to compete in classical singing competitions, but usually stare lifelessly at the screen when singing pop.) I pulled out my old standby and sang "Alone" by Heart. I felt pretty good about it, myself. And the judges liked it, too, though they told me I should "work the mic more."

When it was time to award the prizes, the guy who sang Josh Groban took first. And it's no lie, he was fantastic. Next time, though, I'm pulling out all the stops. If someone can sing Josh Groban in a karaoke bar, I can sing Madame Butterfly, right?

Always,

Jen