Go Big or Go Home!

Karaoke.

The word sounds like an affliction.

Which is good since that is an apt description of what occurs as people of varying skill levels proceed to the microphone to afflict the eardrums of others with their version of someone else's hit song.

Inflicting the most vocal damage is the point, right?

That's good.

Because at the church party Saturday night, I was reluctantly coaxed into singing something, anything. "The Itsy Bitsy Spider" was out because a cute, adorable waif with a tooth missing sang it first.

Parusing the catalog of bygone hits, I decided that if I was going to make a fool of myself, I was going to do it on my terms and promptly picked a song by Whitney Houston.

Let it be said now the only thing I have in common with Ms. Houston is that we are both female.

Her range is atmospheres above mine. Being a second alto is a great thing. I can play vocal limbo with the big dogs and get away with it for a while. You know, how low can you go?

But karaoke is different, you are singing to a prerecorded track that you can't speed up or slow down to add nuance to your performance and in this case, although someone more in Whitney's range was dubbed in, it did nothing to enhance my ability to hit the high notes.

Adding to the hilarity was my best friend singing along with me. Beth and I were doing good to keep up with the flow of the words and were not too concerned with the notes in most spots.

I realized as we were going along murdering Whitney's music that the very reason it is so much fun to do so is that most of us believe as we belt out the Top 40 in the shower that we sound every bit like Steven Tyler or that our range is as impressive as Whitney Houston.

When the dog starts scratching at the door and whining, well . . . Houston . . . uh,
Ms. Houston . . . we have a problem.

Although I can sing well enough to carry my part, it was not my destiny to have gold records hanging on the wall. And unlike the lyrics from Dr. Hook, I won't experience "the thrill that will get you when you get your picture on the cover of the Rolling Stone".

The closest I am likely to get to that particular accolade is that I once tripped because of rolling stones and I own a cover to the BBQ grill propane tank.

As the music ascended the ladder of musical wonder and joy, there was nothing that we could do to match the pitch, so what we lacked in pitch we made up for in 'loud'.

Poetry in motion never had it so good.

Mercifully, the music ended, but we laughed ourselves silly and I gave us a stage bow to be the finale.

Wherever Whitney is, she is cursing the makers of karaoke machines and their abuse of her lovely songs.