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Standing before them in my stupid hat and gloves, I begin to feel, well, stupid. The few dozen gathered are well into a night of good old country music, crooning along with songs about booze and broads and blowing off some steam after another hot week at work. By the time they see I have chosen a Prince song, they are skeptical. And I feel apprehension.

After the few first falsetto notes of “The Beautiful Ones,” everyone in the small bar has officially been transported to the First Avenue club, circa 1983, and I’m singing to my girl. I’m doing more than that. I am starring in my favorite scene from Purple Rain, and everyone is playing along with me.

This is not karaoke. This is a dream come true.

I am a rock star.

The first time I remember giving any thought to karaoke was when I met a colleague who had grown up in China. Soon after introductions, he asked, “Do you like the karaoke?”

At first I scoffed. I knew karaoke was big in Asia, but here in America, it’s for losers. That’s right,

L-O-S-E-R-S. That’s what I believed.

Even now, I have difficulty admitting I like karaoke as much as I do. There’s a level of shame associated with enjoying something so undeniably uncool. Slouching away from 30, I’m too old to be emo. My uniform includes a kitschy western shirt, Chuck Taylors, and a badge of irony—my sexy beard.

I didn’t think for a second I would fit in with the red-blooded Red State crowds at most of the karaoke places. Everyone paying attention is full of warmth and encouragement for all of the rock stars, though, and that’s true everywhere. At times, I even find myself caught up in the glamour of it, buying drinks for other rock stars, patting them on the back, inviting Elvis back to my house for a game of bocce. Becoming intertwined in the Baton Rouge karaoke vines, I begin to see common threads.

Genealogy plays a critical role in the local karaoke scene, everyone being connected to other branches of the karaoke family by two people at most. Each bar has its own little branch, and some of them overlap. Sometimes the karaoke family tree and real family trees overlap, too.

Robin Silva went from a hesitant karaoke singer prodded on stage by his friends to a full-fledged deejay, complete with comprehensive karaoke catalogs and a kick-ass nickname. A second-generation karaoke deejay, Crayzee wasn’t even aware of this until a few months ago when he met his dad for the first time—at karaoke. Since then, he’s been meeting a whole other family he never knew when they come to sing and dance at karaoke with him and Pops.

Travis Rockett and his girlfriend Rita Ester are out at karaoke. They are with her brother, Richard Medley, a member of the Army Reserve on leave from Iraq, and they have already begun celebrating his return. Late in the night, Medley unbuttons his shirt and tells us about the tattoo on his chest, a barcode with his social security number. He says it’s sarcastic: He’s property of the U.S. government. When asked about how things are where he’s stationed, Medley says, “I have to go back to Iraq in a few weeks. Right now, I’m just having fun while I’m here.” The smile on his face says, “Mission accomplished.”

Another night I make a new friend in Ronnie, a cowboy if I ever saw one. He introduces himself and hands me a karaoke binder. He says since hitting 40 his eyes just keep getting worse. I ask if he means 40 beers, pointing to the one in his hand. He either smiles or sneers. I can’t tell which. Then he asks me to look up the country classic “Friends in Low Places” by Garth Brooks.

Ronnie sings honestly, in tune, and most of the crowd joins in with him. I, however, still have some principles and listen silently. But after the last round of the chorus, I cheer wildly, and he nods to me as he takes his seat. Following my so-so rendition of The Beatles’ “Oh! Darling” Ronnie says, “That was good; you surprised me,” and we laugh. When I ask his last name, he says we’re friends—already on a first-name basis—and I don’t argue.

The deejay announces the name of the next singer, and Ronnie turns to me, pushes back his cowboy hat, and says, “Now plug your ears up for this guy.” Returning a measured glance to the stage, he says, “but at least he gets up there and sings.” There is the slightest little twinkle in his eye. Ronnie is right; the man singing looks like a dirtier Popeye’s dad, but his unique combination of gruff grunts along with mostly unintelligible mumblings and stumbling dance moves prove to be quite entertaining.

Turning my eyes to the faces around the bar, all of them are smiling toward Popeye’s dad, who is merrily mumbling with great vigor. In a sense, we’re sharing pieces of ourselves singing someone else’s songs. Our stories are in theirs. This is the soundtrack to our lives, and if you piece them together just right, they are memorable.

Sure, sometimes you—and by you, I mean me—end up saying just a little too loudly, “Wow, can she hear herself?” But seriously, can she? None of it matters anyway, because it’s kind of like family. You don’t have to like it.

But you gotta love it.