Don’t tell me to stop singing

I’m in Las Vegas. It’s 2:30 in the morning. I’m bored. I’m broke. I’m on a plane bound for… I’m in Las Vegas. It’s 2:30 in the morning. I’m bored. I’m broke. I’m on a plane bound for home in six hours.

It’s karaoke time.

I slip out of my room and cross the raised walkway from my hotel, The Bellagio, to the decidedly less fabulous, but still very charming Four Queens across the street.

I order an Amstel Light and watch the singers from across the country – intoxicated conventioneers from Texas and a few college students playing hooky from summer classes at the University of Tennessee – belt out country standards like “On the Road Again” and “The Devil Went Down to Georgia.” After the third, then fourth, then fifth Patsy Cline song of the evening, I realize that my karaoke standard, Madonna’s “Don’t Tell Me,” might not be the best choice for this crowd.

I don’t care.

I flip through the fat beer-stained binder of songs to “M” and sign up for my song, THMP0103-13. The karaoke DJ, a wrinkly, twinkly old man in a crushed linen shirt and Sansabelt slacks, takes my slip and asks me where I’m from. When I tell him I live near Philadelphia, his face lights up and he tells me he was born at Pennsylvania Hospital.

I settle myself down in my squeaky leather chair and nurse my beer. A big-haired Texan swoons through “You’re Still the One” and stumbles off stage back to her chair. A tiny, angry man in acid-washed shorts and a black leather fanny pack dedicates an angry rendition of “Cat’s in the Cradle” to his mother – who is sitting in the audience, looking on adoringly.

I decide it is time for another Amstel.

After endless renditions of “I Fall to Pieces” and “Crazy,” the karaoke DJ introduces me, saying, “All the way from Philadelphia, please welcome Clare to the karaoke stage!”

I pull the mic off the stand and turn away from the monitor that shows the words. I don’t need the lyrics – the monitor is for amateurs.

“Hi, everybody.”

“Hi, Clare!” the few insomniacs and drunks left in the lounge shout.

“My song is a little different than what everyone else has been singing, but I hope you like it.”

The pizzicato opening notes fade in.

“Don’t tell me to stop …”

Maybe it’s because I’m an only child and I crave the attention.

“Tell the rain not to drop …”

Maybe it’s the kitsch value inherent in letting your inner Madonna out.

“Tell the wind not to blow …”

Maybe it’s because singing in my car or in the shower is just not good enough.

“‘Cause you said so … mmm hmm.”

But these are my 4 1/2 minutes of glory, the 4 1/2 minutes a week when I can forget the rest of my life. And no one can take my song from me.