Oh, there’s nothing quite like karaoke. From doing enough road gigs, I’m capable of sniffing out karaoke in any town, be it Fishkill, NY, Truth or Consequences, New Mexico, or the town that we all know and love called Portland.

I always get excited as I approach the double doors at the Old Port Tavern, but I’m also a little nervous. All that talent in one room can be rather overwhelming. My routine is simple, I go straight to the bar, order myself something frosty, smooth, and powerful enough to keep my demons at bay, glance upon the stage, and prepare to be knocked out by the performers. (or their burly boyfriends)

And one thing I’ve discovered is this. It doesn’t matter what town you’re in, all the people are the same. You have the token hot bartenders, (optional), the 39 year old men realizing that their youth has escaped them, and they can possibly recapture it by going up on stage to tell the captive audience that the Backstreets back.

Well, All right.

We can’t forget the young girls who run around in barely any clothes and .............ok, I’m not going to pick on them. They’re pretty cool.

Then we have the baseball cap dudes, then the fat guys in the workout suits passed out in the corner. I can only imagine what their workout entailed. Pretty vigorous, I would guess.

And last, but not least, you have the asshole comics in the corner, filling the insecure voids in their lives by laughing at everyone else. I fit into this category. Can I buy you a drink?

The ringleader, Portland’s beloved Don Corman, is the ticket, though. He has a way of playing entertainer, baby-sitter, and lookout for hot chicks on the dance floor. I was at several Karaoke venues in Vegas, and nobody holds a candle to this guy. They would stand up there like a cold fish auctioneer, making a payday, and meanwhile, Corman is the born performer, just wanting an audience. He gets them.

And he gets the drunks, too. (hi!)

There’s this one clown who is convinced that he can sing “Mandy” better than anyone else. He goes up, dances like an asshole, and sings so terribly off key, that even the dumbest of dumb spectators would say, “This guy sucks.” Ladies and Gentlemen, give it up for Shane Kinney. He’ll be here all week. Every week. He’s a loser.

But after a comedy show on Sunday, what else is there to do? Absolutely nothing. I guess I could go home, but there’s no fun in that. I’m a Virgo. I need excitement. Saying that is just another way of saying that I’m an alcoholic, I need beer. Or I’m a drunken ham, let’s go to Bill’s Pizza for the climax.

I’d go into a detailed description of the Bill’s experience, with tons of adjectives, but unfortunately, I suffer from amnesia around 1 a.m. on a Sunday. It’s a condition I’ve discussed with several doctors, and many strangers over state funded pots of coffee and 40 cigarettes. Maybe next time. Now if you’ll excuse me, there’s a dive bar in Dudley, Mass, that needs me to kick it up a notch by enlightening their lives with a rousing rendition of “Suspicious minds”. I aint ‘fraid of no ghost.