Fame
Once upon a time I had a dream of becoming a lounge singer. I love to sing and I thought that my voice was unusual enough and good enough to make a go of it. For now, let’s ignore the fact that I’m not the best at memorizing songs and the chances of me making a living at this were remote. Don’t ask me to explain why I think smokey Chicago blues bars are romantic. It seemed reasonable. This nugget of a notion must have started when I was in Treble Choir in High School. 2nd Soprano, sometimes the Alto – how come they rarely get the melody? I should have been turned off of singing altogether given the scaring that took place at our concerts. Imagine singing “Fame” and “Bye Bye Birdie” in a lemon polyester dress that was knee-length with a sweetheart neckline. When was that fashionable? Never. Nor was the set of lime-colored dresses that matched. Just in case you’re wondering, we did have dance moves. I’ll leave that up to your imagination. Our choir teacher was a little loopy and so wer