September 14, 2016

Back in the Saddle (Portland, OR)

9:46 pm. Luck House karaoke. 
Table full of losers is watching their sole female sing that stupid Queen song about wanting to ride a bicycle. I fucking hate that song and I can't tell what the woman looks like because of the lights. 

I'm here in part because I want to be; but in part because there's a pair of good-looking women I was kicking it here with a few weeks ago. Not at the same time, of course—those days are gone, unfortunately. But I didn't seal the deal with either one, so here I sit. 

Went out with a sort of unpleasant young woman last night—more tedious and not to my standards physically than anything else. Not a bad woman—a girl, really, at 23—but not very exciting. Rather looked like Jonathan's old gal, Pizza. Not my type. Nothing came of it. 

It sure is a lot of rednecks in here tonight. Why is it that so many people (who think they can sing really well) sing shittily in the same way: a sort of yelping, almost a moan, sort of performance?

10:30 pm
I'd almost completely forgotten that non-chord formed by two chicks (who can't sing) chasing the same note simultaneously. I'm listening RIGHT NOW to two blondes just, like, annihilate "Wicked Game" by Chris Isaac. 

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