Last night we had a work social event. Curry-oke. Karaoke at an Indian restaurant. It was highly entertaining in that holy-hell-I-never-picked-you-for-a-screamer kinda way. People’s song choices were entertaining. They really say a lot about a person. There was the usually somewhat reserved guy that screamed “American Woman” at the top of his voice until our ears were ringing. There was an interesting version of “She Bangs” by the girl with the strong Asian accent. There was a stonking rendition of “Bohemian Rhapsody” that defies explanation. I tend to go for very little singing and heavy on the air guitar.
I am not someone that is shy about stepping up, but I’ve learned (mostly from listening to others) that getting up and singing if you can’t sing is not a particularly pleasurable experience for either the singer or the audience. It’s really just inflicting unnecessary pain. I often wish that I was born a good singer. I don’t even have an average voice. It’s just plain bad – although my mother insists it’s not.
I arrived at the dinner already exhausted as the result of a particularly gruelling kickboxing session. My trainer took sadistic pleasure in making me put my legs on a mat and use my arms to drag my body weight around the gym several times. I felt like one of those dogs that has broken it’s pelvis and has to pull itself around on a cart, only in my case the cart had no wheels. It certainly provided entertainment for everyone else in the gym. By the time I got to the restaurant and rehydrated on a glass of wine I was ready to go home to bed.
When that finally did happen I spent a fitfull night dreaming weird things about trying to give myself a lethal injection.
I’ve decided that today is not the day to take up dream analysis as a hobby.