One evening this past fall, I sat in on a karaoke night on Dundas West that consisted of a run of popular 80s synth crowd pleasers, mournful Indonesian pop and a languorous Lana Del Ray number performed by a drop-in diva clutching a small Pomeranian to her chest throughout the whole performance before she swiftly exited the bar.

All it cost me was two $8 beers and my own rendition of “The Killing Moon,” something I knew the host would appreciate and what my tween obsession with the “Donnie Darko” soundtrack allowed me to soundly deliver. It was mediocre at best — but my friends screamed and egged me on anyways, and I had the time of my life doing it.

I think singing to a room of (mostly) strangers is fun. I also think it’s good for you, whether you can sing or not, and whether or not you

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