Karaoke is the logical extension of Talkin' World War III Blues – now that Bob's lost the melody. It's folked up music, folks. But you got to go for quality, not to Japan where jaded workers try to forget their long office hours by assassinating their livers. Come to Cape Breton where singers are often unemployed, rested, in fine voice and drunkards just for the fun of it. No, I wouldn't trade one quality Karaoke night with Phil Kasouf at the Radio Club in Glace Bay for all the Al Lomax LPs in your collection (and I've only Karaoked at the Radio Club twice.) I wouldn't trade any of the Northside's finest inbred Karaoker for your entire population of moonshining, cousin-kissing, banjo picking, Appalachian crooners – not even Hank Williams the 47th.   It weren't just ground up record labels in the black vinyl making those awful noises. You should hang down you head Tom Dooley, they replaced your scaffolding, or was it a tree they hung you on, with the Statesville Plywood and Veneer factory.   They changed your fiddle into a banjo. Besides, you should have a better cover story when you stab a woman that many times. (Have you noticed that some mental illnesses don't interfere with our writing – you loquacious bastards? OK, I'm going for treatment.) I'll let you be in my dreams if I you'll let me in yours. He said that. He said a lot too. Perhaps, too much.

Sounds like a worthy gig, milky.