Just Because I Can’t Sing Doesn’t Mean I Won’t Sing

Come up with a crazy business idea.

I know my Mom is a fan of mine, but I’m not entirely convinced she’s a fan of my big business ideas. Over the years I’ve had several monster ideas — the kind that feel wildly successful over coffee — yet somehow never make it past the table.

My mom just smiles, pauses, and says,

“But your intentions are wonderful, Karen Anne.”

Which loosely translates to: Please don’t quit your day job.

One big idea was born at karaoke during a friend’s birthday. After a few pitchers of sangria for the table, we all started signing up to sing. Now, I cannot sing. That has never once stopped me.

As the night went on, I noticed something unsettling: mixed in with the rest of us were actual professionals. I locked in on one guy who signed up for three songs. Three. He crushed every one. At one point he left the room and came back in a different shirt. I leaned over and whispered,

“Who is this guy — Diana Ross with the costume changes?”

I needed answers.

After his final number, I followed him and struck up a conversation. Turns out he studied voice at Juilliard. He’d hoped to get involved with the early days of American Idol but didn’t know how. Karaoke became his accidental foot in the door — local buzz, local bands, momentum building.

I wished him well and went home to nurse what was absolutely going to be a brutal hangover.

The next morning, walking the dog, I started laughing about the night before. Some of those people were really good. Like, shouldn’t-be-followed-by-me good. And yet there I was, forcing them to endure my heartfelt rendition of The Partridge Family’s “I Think I Love You.”

(Always dedicated to Ruben Kincaid. IYKYK.)

And that’s when inspiration struck.

What if there were a karaoke competition show? Real people. Real bars. Different regions each season, narrowed down to regional winners, all leading to a national finale. Contestants would sing their signature song with the original recording artist on stage.

Each singer gets a bio piece — their story, their bar, interviews with regulars who confidently declare, “We’ve been telling them they’re amazing for years.”

The show would be called Mic Drop.

I was still casting the host in my head. For a while it was Adam Sandler. But then he went and got too famous, so I had to quietly remove him from my fantasy lineup.

I’m still in development at my dining room table.

Maybe my mom is right. My ideas are big and grand, but this one never quite made it to the stage. Still, somewhere in a neighborhood bar, the next breakout star is warming up — probably changing shirts — and I like to think I heard them first.

🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤

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