When I first started going regularly to karaoke shows, my family and some of my friends weren’t thrilled.
“Why do you want to go to a bar? It’s just a place full of drunks!” they would say, as a gentle way to suggest I shouldn’t go every week.
“You could get hurt!” they would warn, as visions of barroom brawls straight out of Clint Eastwood films filled their heads.
“Don’t forget to wear sunblock!” they would add.
No, wait, that’s what they said when I went to the beach. The point is, they didn’t much like my hobby. I’m a tiny, tiny, woman (see previous articles), and they were convinced I would be beaten to a bloody pulp some Saturday night.
I went to the same bar every weekend for eighteen months, and I only witnessed two fights. Maybe I was just in a good neighborhood … maybe I was just lucky … maybe I have magical powers that promote peace and harmony … who knows? The first altercation was between two friends. She thought he was being a rude pig (he was). He thought she was overreacting (she was). A drink was hurled, a bottle was thrown … …