Almost done with my two-liter beer (that is about a six pack in one huge bottle) and wandering around in a country stereotypically known for its karaoke obsession.

There was a time when I thought that I would go the rest of my life without singing karaoke. Not because I thought it was scary or awful, but because it seemed so absurd, so potentially humiliating, so avoidable.

I mean, really, where is the appeal? My singing voice sucks, I don’t particularly enjoy making an ass of myself and I would have to go out of my way to find a karaoke bar.

But as I learned this past week, there is a simple solution to each of these three hang-ups: pick songs where screaming or goofy voices are appropriate, drown one’s inhibitions in booze and be in Japan.

I spent this past week with 41 other Wisconsinite martial artists on a trip to Japan for a worldwide gathering of practitioners of traditional Japanese martial arts. Of the eight days we stayed there, four were spent in the stunningly beautiful mountain resort area of Kinugawa.

Each day we rose early and trained for six hours. By the time training had finished and dinner was over, we were ready for some fun on the town (“town” being the operative word here). The place was absolutely serene and wonderfully picturesque, but there weren’t a lot of places to go at night.

So there I was, almost done with my two-liter beer (that is about a six pack in one huge bottle) and wandering around in a country stereotypically known for its karaoke obsession.

My drunken level was reaching “charming” and I was approaching a karaoke bar, which eight of my companions had already entered. I finished my beer and stepped inside.

Immediately, I was assaulted by the sounds of two drunks screaming Metallica’s “Enter Sandman.” I rounded the corner and the scene unfolded like something out of a movie.

The two drunken rockers were friends of mine who had found some cow masks and were freaking out on stage. To my left was the group of people I was there to meet. They were already quite smashed and gave me the typical hero style welcome one receives when they are the newcomer to an already raging drunken scene.

“Sake kudasai!” (Sake, please!)

After a few rounds of sake, I passed “charming” and was heading toward “life of the party.” All of a sudden I got pulled onstage as everybody I was with piled on to sing “Bohemian Rhapsody.”

Now, singing this particular song in a group of wasted people was an unforgettable way to experience the absurdity that is first-time karaoke.

Trying to alternate and harmonize the funny chorus parts (“Galileo …”) and doing the head-banging in unison during the middle of the song got us a standing ovation from a group of British folk. They tried to upstage us by singing “Sunday, Bloody Sunday.” Ha! Fat chance.

Later, I did “Ironman,” and “Fight for Your Right,” as well as one other song that I can’t remember.

But I do remember how much fun I had doing something that I had previously made a point of avoiding like the plague. Doing something that one couldn’t or wouldn’t do under normal circumstances is one of the great things about vacations.

They can force you to step out of your comfort bubble and into situations that may be slightly uncomfortable at first, but might end up being grand.

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