So today I was driving around with my camera, looking for things to take pictures of for my new Blog, when I passed a sign for Barry Mannilow. It reminded me of the time that the grown Mecham kids went to Moab for Stephanie's' baby blessing.

The whole family (Coplins included) went out for dinner on Saturday night to some prime rib-karaoke joint. When we got there it was kind of like an upscale bar, and the prime rib was supposed to be the best. We were seated (if anybody has ever seen how much effort goes into finding seating for the family, you would appreciate what an event this alone can be). Anyway, once we were seated this old dude dressed as either a cowboy or a miner got up and announced the karaoke was about to begin. We started looking through the book to find out what song would be the best to goof on. The old dude-miner started off by belting out a song and it was on. The first girl who had obviously waited all week for this, almost knocked Clem on his butt by rushing the stage so that she could be first. She was awesome. Picture the most inbred looking, uni brow, jeans pulled up to the chest hottie and this is what you got. She poured a glass of water so that she could wet her whistle and keep her singing voice lubricated throughout her performance. Her first song was "Daddy's Hands". Somehow I had always thought this song was about a hardworking father, but seeing Mrs Uni brow belting it out, brought out a frightening new meaning to this song. We ate our prime rib, listened to the the great entertainment, and made our singing selections. I remember Michelle and the girls got up and sang a group song (the ultimate karaoke coward move). When it was my turn I got up and sang my all time favorite song. Barry Manilows, "I write the Songs". At first I was nervous, but soon I felt the power that is Manillow building up inside me, and started to stroll around the room serenading strange drunk women. At the end, I looked over for the certain approval from Uni brow girl, but was surprised to see her scowling at me. I realized that the Mecham-Coplins had defiled the sacredness of karaoke-prime rib night in Moab. I did not realize until this moment how powerful bad singing is in a small town miles away from civilization. As I write this I also realize that I owe Uni brow girl an apology for not respecting song night. Everyone else seemed to have a good time, and even though we swore everyone to secrecy about our night of debauchery, overeating, and over indulging in maybe one to many diet cokes, I have now let the cat out of the bag. The Mechams are secret karaoke nuts. We pretend that we don't take it serious, but just let Brett get the mike at Christmas and bust out a Bing Crosby version of white Christmas, and the gloves are off.