Day 24: Your choice in song, though.

Note: The Rules & Guidelines for the Yes Test can be found here.


Now that I've announced the Yes Test and am quietly talking about it on a handful of platforms, people close to me are getting their jollies off by thinking of ways to make me do shit I don't want to do. For example:  

Go to karaoke bar and have yourself videoed singing a song, and post the video. Your choice in song though. I was going to suggest Katy Perry's "I kissed a girl."

God damnit. I do not karaoke. My attempts to "sing" usually result in my dog scampering under the bed. When a Happy Birthday is required of me, I mouth the words and let the crowd take over. In yoga, I throw off the pitch of the group ommmmm. One of my adult life goals has been to make enough money to rationalize paying for singing lessons, just so I could get through these typical activities without mauling the room's eardrums. I've had musically blessed friends offer to give me lessons, but learning in front of them would be so mortifying that unless I'm paying a stranger, this isn't going to happen.

It's not about making an ass out of myself. I'm perfectly willing to make an ass out of myself in public or on national television, as evidenced by the fact that I was recently featured on an episode of Travel Channel's "Xtreme Waterparks." After face planting into a trio of giant, red, inflatable spheres, I actually uttered the phrase, on camera, "Those balls are crazy hard." My friends were delighted. 

Karaoke is different though, because while most of you bafflingly enjoy singing it, I know that no one enjoys listening to it. Whenever someone gets up on a bar stage and belts out a flat version of Wind Beneath My Wings or decides to turn their suicide note into performance art with a rendition of Nothing Else Matters, I want to reach into the bartender's tip jar and take all of my money back. If I'm at a bar it's because I want to order a beer, chat with friends, and listen to moderately volumed music sung by professionals and piped throughs speakers, not get punched in the cochlea by some American Idol reject. 

I think I might wait until I get back to New York to fulfill this, so then I can bring the questioner along with me and show him what horror he's inflicted on the world.