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Memoirs: True karaoke stories
Yankees Down South: What NOT to Do!

In My Quest for Karaoke, I Had Led Myself and My Husband to a Redneck Biker Bar in North Carolina

A Yankee in a Southern Karaoke Bar

Okay, I admit it - I'm a junkie. A hard core, incurable, "gotta have it, get out of my way or I'll deck ya" disciple of Karaoke. And that's how I found myself in a country bar on a lonely southern back road one warm southern September night.

Hubby and I were on vacation but, you must understand, Karaoke junkies never vacation from Karaoke. Whenever we're traveling, I have one eye on the map and the other searching for Karaoke banners. While my husband has learned to accept this insane obsession of mine, he's not happy when I don't leave it behind when we go away. So it was no surprise when he told me "NO, I am NOT driving to Winston-Salem so you can try out your country songs on a southern crowd." Retreating to pouting mode, however, I got him to acquiesce. "Okay, if you can find someplace close, I'll take you to Karaoke.

Now, I knew his plan. We were in Fancy Gap, Virginia, a rural area right off the Blue Ridge Parkway. The closest, decent sized towns were Winston-Salem, North Carolina, over an hour south, and Charlottesville, Virginia, almost two hours north. He didn't think I'd find any Karaoke joints within the distance he was willing to drive.

Now, this man's been married to me for 26 years.

He should knooow better.

One rainy afternoon while he napped, I started making phone calls. I called the local paper. I called the Chamber of Commerce. I called every bar and hotel in the area. I even called a church, thinking they might have a country supper night with Karaoke as entertainment! By the time hubby awoke, I had located "Karen's Place," right over the border in Mt. Airy, North Carolina - fifteen minutes away!

His plan was foiled.

"Karen's Place." Sounds tame enough, doesn't it? How was I supposed to know it was the local biker bar?

The next evening, guided by a flashing neon sign advertising "Karen's," we turned into a gravel parking lot to discover a long, whitewashed cinderblock building, and plenty of pickups and motorcycles to keep our candy-apple Silverado company. What do you think this place used to be," I mused. "A gas station," muttered my husband, killing the engine.

Upon entry, we discovered a redneck biker cave. We took in the worn-out frayed jeans with chains as adornment, leather jackets with death heads on them, skimpy halters over Daisy Mae shorts and tattoos

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