I have the dance moves of a mustache, and a singing voice that sounds like a beard on the inside of my cheeks. Carry my love like karaoke in your pocket.

Our relationship is getting serious. I now know she likes Karaoke. Next she’ll tell me she loves coffee. And then she’ll say she loves me—but not as much as she loves coffee.

I sing karaoke like I drink coffee. If my words come out a bit gargled, relax, that’s precisely how Hootie and the Blowfish is supposed to sound.

Driving down deserted early morning roads. Round and round. Round downtown. Through naked streets. Lips pursed on two litre bottles of beer, but pursuing the lips of freedom’s night. Swapping cars. Winding up at karaoke...

I love karaoke. I love maudlin country ballads. In another life, I’d be Loretta Lynn.

Tacos will grow on Christmas trees before I learn to carry a tune. Fortunately, it doesn’t matter. In karaoke, talent means nada; enthusiasm is everything. What I lack in talent, I make up for in...