On karaoke

Tonight I sang the Dusty Springfield hit “Son of a Preacher Man” to a live dive bar audience. Not that I’ve ever had intimate relations with a preacher’s son, but I tried to sing it like I had. After all, that’s probably what Dusty Springfield did. Creating imaginary self-assurance works best when you’re a shy girl up on stage in front of a bunch of old Korean men and other avid performing artists (who would do karaoke on the street if that would pay the rent), attempting to put your life into a song you did not write. Okay, maybe it’s not that dramatic, but when I’m up there, I’m suddenly a scared silly, lame actress who has landed the role of a lifetime, so outside of her own skin that the only boy who could ever reach her might as well have been the sweet talkin’ son of a preacher man.


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