Baby invited me to join her colleagues for karaoke.
I'm more of an instrument guy.
I pluck some strings, and blow – who doesn't? – the recorder in primary school. Not to mention the things from kindergarten. The triangle. The handheld, palm size wooden clapping thingy. And the wrist bell thing? I don't even know what all these called.
But when it comes to singing, it's a big no-no for me. Never was. Never am. Never will. Eventhough my subconscious violently refuse, I've tried. And failed that many times. Well… let's just give the show to the privileged.
Have I been to a karaoke place? Of course I had. I truly enjoyed it! By just listening. As an audience. At a corner of an unexplored section of the room. Devouring snacks. Drinks. While puffing smokes. See? By the list of things I've blurted out show that I really enjoy it.
I admired well-sung songs. These talented bunch are amazing. And I'll just keep mums and endure the bad ones – I'm as suck-y if not worse – who am I to criticize?
In the karaoke scene, I'm the kind that mic-hoggers termed as "The Escort". The one that accompany a client sings in a dodgy karaoke joint before venturing into a lustful act. Not that I've been to any, but that's the closest to define me.
Yeah. Escort, me.
Karaoke outing cancelled by the way. Phew…
As much as you've reminded that you can't sing, you can never run away from, "Come lah! One only! Just try lah!" and other similar variance. And it will lead to the awkward silence and blushing towards the end of the first verse. First verse.
Oh. I hum while strumming the guitar, though.
And don't ask.