A shameful confession, and a fond memory
It's time that I came clean on this issue. I hope this isn't a disapointment to the five of you, but I need to get this out in the open. I have been in denial about this for a long time, but it's getting to the point that I can't hide it from myself any longer. Heaven knows I must have been found out by now. There are some things that everyone around realises before we do ourselves.

I had my first taste of it in South Korea. A few friends took me along with them to a little place they knew. It was a smokey room, somewhat dark, and everyone was doing it. Well, almost everyone. Some just thought it was funny to watch. Someone suggested I give it a try. I thought, "What could it hurt? It's just one."

I told the man what I wanted. He told me I would have to wait my turn. They actually had people in LINE. I had to put my name on a list.

I'll never forget my first, though. In The Midnight Hour by Wilson Pickett. From that moment, I formed an unhealthy attachment to karaoke.

Years down the road, and hundreds of songs, I still get the itch for it. I can remember the high points. There were contests I won, involving cash money. There was the cheering of the crowd at the end of Unchained Melody.

There were the degrading moments, to. I once, at the request of a friend, actually sang a Madonna song. There were times I sang in groups of people that could have stunned a water buffalo at 30 metres. And there were those I encouraged, in spite of the pain they were causing.

I had a friend who could not sing. There are many people that will tell you they cannot sing, but Rob was one of those people whom everyone else told you they couldn't sing. Every Friday and Saturday night, without fail, Rob was up there. Rob could not carry a tune in a bucket. Heck, Rob could not carry a tune in a backhoe. Listening to him was like sitting through the suffering of an elephant getting a hemoroid treatment.

The only thing worse than Rob's singing was his dancing. Rob had the moves, alright. He had the moves of an arthritic, epeleptic leech. Sometimes he would try to do this little spin while he was singing, and lose his balance, as well as his place in the song, and just stand there and stare at the screen for a few moments, his mouth in an "O" shape, his eyes slightly squinted, until he found his spot. Those were the moments we prayed for.

Rob had an incredible knack for choosing bad music. Calendar Girl, Joy To The World (sorry to all you Three Dog Night fans, but, face it, it'a a lousy song), the only thing that could have possible made those songs worse was Rob's voice.

The combination was almost deadly. It was like a malevolent force of nature, hurled at an unsuspecting crowd. Like facing a hurricane or a typhoon, all you could do was brace yourself. The crowd heckled him with passion and enthusiasm. And when he was done, they would cheer wildly, not for the performance, but like those people you see in mid-1970's disaster films, who have survived some catastrophic event.

My favorite part, though, was the smile on Rob's face at the end. Rob knew he sang like a hound dog with a belly ache, and couldn't dance his way out of a wet paper bag. But he had fun. And he encouraged other people to get up there and have fun, too. People would buy him a beverage and say, "You know, I didn't have the nerve to get up there in front of all those people, but now I know that I can't possibly be the worst guy up there tonight." He actually enjoyed that. Or maybe it was the free beverages. Either way, he had a good time.

I am reminded of Rob every now and again, when someone tells me that they don't have the nerve to do something because the crowd will be watching. Rob is a good friend, and a brave man.

I wonder what he is up to now ...