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Monday, December 04, 2006 |
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| October 12, 2006 |
Singing for me is actually something that comes unnaturally. Like bearing conjoined twins or having three nipples.
It's one artistic venture that is not part of my genetic composition. More often than not, I get away singing musical pieces with theatrics and incessant mid-chorus commentaries. Like faking a crustacean accent and sing Under the Sea or gush out the guttural lines to Born to be Wild to give that rock star flair, which works great in redirecting focuses.
But sadly, I have faced the fact (and my own parent's perpetual public disapproval) and have long reserved my RAGE BLACKOUTS on occasions where the life of the world depends on my prowess in howling.
So the Red Box stint that day was more of a social call than the BIRIT-slash-DIVA caterwauling that Mike, Dave, Jenny and Mark was looking forward to.
Luckily, the food was decent enough to appeal to my impending vocal doom.
Mark had his own repertoire all set like a cassette tape on cue. If I haven't known any better, I swear he bears a GOLD PASS MEMBERS ONLY Card here in Red Box. Like he can navigate the machine like the back of his hand. After a few Christian Bautistas and Spice Girls later, we all ended up doing an all-star pass-the-mic around with a series of songs.
Jen and Mike did Celine Dion's The Prayer, which, simply put, clearly stood witness to their range. I, on the other hand was enjoying Meatloaf, which for me stood witness to my impeccable taste for good food. |
posted by LetsGetSoakingWet @ 1:18 AM  |
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Name: LetsGetSoakingWet
