Karaoke Night in Wilton Manors.

A thick haze of cigarette smoke, the cloying odor of stale beer, the hideous sound of a screaming alley cat in heat coming from the speakers. Yes! It’s karaoke night in Wilton Manors, Florida.

Tuesday is the worst night of television for my tastes. That is why Mark and I usually watch a movie on that night. Mark suggested that we go out for a couple of drinks this past Tuesday night instead of a movie, and I agreed.

We were sitting in ‘Bill’s Filling Station’ minding our own business, and suddenly the juke box music stopped in the middle of a song. After a few minutes somebody stepped up on the stage and asked for the first singer. We had stumbled into karaoke night. I should have figured it out when I saw everybody with their noses buried in books all around the bar. They were picking out songs with which to torment me. Karaoke creeps me out, and after about ten minutes of listening I feel like taking lime wedges out of the vodka drinks and stuffing them into my ears. Usually it’s a lesbian doing a bad Melissa Etheridge or a gay man with a phony twang singing Country and Western. Please, don’t get me wrong. It’s not like I’m saying I could do any better, I can’t. As for Mark, he sounds like a badly rusted wheel slowly turning on its hub.

After sitting through three ‘American Idol’ rejects, I suggested we go to ‘Boom!’, the bar across the street. When we walked in the music videos were playing, and I ordered our drinks while Mark made a quick toilet stop. After a few minutes the videos stopped. I looked around and asked "What’s happening?" The bartender looked at me and said "karaoke".