Karaoke Night at the Oasis

Any other night, it could be mistaken for any other of the ordinary dive bars sprinkled along highway 301. But this night was different. Underneath the neon sign that reads Oasis Lounge, the block letters spelled out “KARAOKE.”
Walking in past the parking lot various motorcycles, predominantly Harley Davidsons, line up along the wall. As the door squeaks open, a cloud of cigarette smoke billows out as if the bar itself is exhaling after a long drag.
The place is tiny, about the size of a two-car garage. It looks like a typical bar with tall stools, a few tables with chairs, and one lone pool table, which is never empty.
The bartender slaps a roach about the size of a dime off the counter and looks around to see if anyone noticed. But anyone who has spent more than a few minutes there has seen them, scuttling across the bar and even across the tops of the straws in the straw holder with the Tommy Bahamas Rum logo.
Even more invasive than the roaches is the pervading smell of cigarette smoke that clouds the room. Even after a few minutes, any visitor’s clothing and hair are permeated with the sickening smell. There is nothing quite like being awakened by the smell of your own hair after a night at the bar. Smoking is banned only in bars that serve a certain amount of food. However, one can hardly call the corn dogs and pickled pig’s feet they serve here food.
On an ordinary night, and before the karaoke begins, the soundtrack consists of the light murmur of conversation accompanied by the clack-clacking of balls on the pool table. Or maybe an occasional tune from the juke box, which offers a wide selection from Kid Rock to Conway Twitty. A favorite is Friends in Low Places, by Garth Brooks mostly because of the line: “Think I’ll slip on down to the Oasis.”
Then it begins. The song starts of normally with the instrumental entrance, then the grinding, screeching, off-pitch racket like nails against a chalk board blasts out of the two-foot tall speakers. A large monitor displays the words, which often sounds nothing like what is being sung. A good night is when nobody knocks the monitor over in a drunken stupor.
Not every singer is bad. One young woman, who has progressed to the Hollywood level on the hit series singing competition: American Idol, belts out a soulful rendition of the bluegrass classic Old Rocky Top. But this is the exception rather than the rule. The DJ plays requested songs between the off-pitch, howling of tunes such as Gretchen Wilson’s Redneck Woman, Neil Diamond’s Forever in Blue Jeans, and even one particularly wretched version of Zombie by the Cranberries. Some songs one would never associate with karaoke, such as Twisted Transistor by Korn.
Sitting at the bar, a black leather-clad couple seems to meld into one another as the seemingly romantic song Pour Some Sugar on Me plays. Another couple grinds on the dance floor, which is virtually nonexistent. Dancers must weave between the bar and the pool tables, which results in a great many missed shots as they stagger into the extended pool sticks. Anyone who wants to go to the bathroom must brave this fearful mob.
A gathering of performing circus freaks might be more aesthetically pleasing and perhaps less unusual than this crowd. Everyone looks about ten years older than they actually are, most likely the result of heavy alcohol and cigarette consumption. But everybody finds somebody. The blossoming romance between the man with toes for thumbs and the woman with no teeth is the talk of the night.
An incredibly drunk woman at the bar has been doing shots of what they call “blowjobs,” which is two ounces of Kahlua and vodka topped with whipped cream. The only acceptable way to imbibe such a drink is obviously to pick it up off the counter with one’s mouth and throw the head back, distributing the contents down the throat. This woman has had a few too many, and as she throws her head back, the drink goes all over her face instead of in her mouth. This naturally incites a roar of laughter from the crowd, and several rude comments about what drink she spilled on her face.
This will go on from about 9 p.m. until 2 in the morning, until everyone is too drunk to sing, but okay to drive, according to them. The bartenders frequently end up becoming taxi drivers at the end of the night. Getting the last few stragglers out of the bar is another chore, but usually just blasting Tupac’s Greatest hits album will clear the room.
The party’s over until next week.