I stopped by my gayborhood watering hole tonight after I learned – from the Instagram – that there was karaoke.
Think Simon Cowell does Portland.
Sometimes I was alone, others I was pushed aside by PYTs. Ask ’em, they’ll confirm that they think they were/are indeed purdy.
Seriously, ask them.
Having been pushed to the edge of he reefer scented side bar by the aforementioned preciousness, I strategically fought my way back to the edge of the karaoke pit.
Seriously, who has to fight to get close to karaoke? Or as I like to think of it, “America has not got talent”.
But these guys brought it.
So, regardless of weed exhalations that were abounding…contact high be damned…I moved from the edge of the establishment – bravely risking checks of both fragile hip and ego – until I was back in the fringe of the performance arena.
My last stop?
A seemingly unoccupied corner of the room – with a view.
Until a hunky white boy type decided to insert himself into the space between me and the next party over. Apparently he was one of them.
As he inserted himself into the space I had claimed as my own, I said – vaguely grumpily, I freely admit – “Excuse me”.
Oh, you’ve heard then. Good.
He didn’t get it.
Did I mention the Ganga scented air in this place? Just checking.
Then again, maybe he was just precious.