Sometimes you have to belt out a song

After an eventful day yesterday, all I wanted to do was sleep.  But before going home, my brother dragged me out to a bar to sing Karaoke.  At first I was not going to sing anything, but when I entered the bar and heard how awful many of the singers were, I indulged.  I got the usual stage fright, the anticipation mounting, heart thundering, but once I'm up there with that mic in my hand, I'm in control.  I open my mouth and I become Stevie Nicks, I channel Tina Turner, I cry out Ozzy, moan my best Robert Plant, pull off a Ziggy Stardust, and bust out some Tenacious D's "Wonderboy" like I'm Jack Black's lil' tubby bitch sister.  Within a few moments my exhaustion transforms to exuberance.  I begin to feel like a star, only if it's on stage in a red neck tavern decorated with cheap tinsel and a bad painting of a northern Wisconsin wilderness scene complete with birch trees that look like they are wearing green afros for leaves.  While I'm there, I'm reminded of that silly scene out of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert where the queens entertain the outback rednecks after Bernadette tells off the local hateful ugly duckling.  Okay, so maybe I'm not up there in drag and kicking up my heels, but it's just a tad bit of glamour and a ego fulfilling pat on the back when I exit stage left and get cheered for just letting loose.

I'm not a professional singer, yet I can sound like one when I feel like it.  I may go flat every now and again when distracted, but there's nothing like letting yourself shine for who ever may be available to see.  Just getting over the anxiety of getting up to the mic is enough to remind me that fear passes fast once you decide to let out your voice.  It's sort of like when I used to sing at church, but better because you can drink, smoke, cuss, and holler.  In a way, it's a form of worship.  If you close your eyes for a second while you sing, there's this uplifting going on inside...

Now if only I could go home without smelling like a sweaty ashtray.