I ain't no Freddy Mercury

Since it's my wife's birthday weekend (most people get one day - she's claimed an entire weekend), she and I and Amy went to a Karaoke bar here in town, and tried having some fun.

It had been so long since I had been out, I forgot how to do it. I made a real tool of myself, searching high and low for the rack and cue ball at the pool table. I must have looked like a monkey with a toaster, barely comprehending the purpose and mechanics of the thing, hooting in frustration and screaming in celebration when I managed to get the quarters in and the balls racked. What a yokel.

And then, it happened. I didn't want it to happen, but I do take responsibility for it. Ultimately, the decision was mine alone, and I have to face up to that in the cold light of the morning.

I karaoked. My wife dared me, somehow managed to flirt me into it. I chose Queen's "Fat Bottomed Girls," and took the mike. I started out timidly, hearing my own tinny voice over the tinny sound system. A few syllables in, I resolved to sing it as loud and proud as I do in my car, and pressed on. With Amy and my woman looking on, I gutted it out, trying to figure out how badly I was doing by their facial expressions. Nobody wept, so I guess it couldn't have been that bad.