The story of how I ended up at a bar called the Tilted Kilt is not the most interesting part of the evening. Suffice it to say that once I got there it was a jolly freak show completely outside my usual demographic. The waitresses wore tartan bras and matching skirts so tiny that if they rode any lower on their lithe bodies they would have been part of a gynecological procedure. This outfit was completed with a sporran or kilt purse and a white cotton Catholic school girl shirt designed to reveal rather than to cover. The noise level was deafening. Karaoke. The song book: everything from Abba to ZZ Top with Ethel Merman and Ludacris in between. All belted out by drunk people having a fabulous time in a circus of overstimulation. Inaudible TVs were mounted high and encircled the room. Basketball, football, Boston Legal and informercials for exercise equipment, acne cures, a hand held device that corrects bad canine behavior and a kitchen gadget that cracked eggs thereby sparing you the embarrassment of serving a muffin containing bits of eggshell. I'm not a singer, but if I were I would have been tempted to take my turn with the microphone. As it was, the evening was a complete escape from my current woes. Thank you K & T. Thank you singing drinkers. If I weren't so tired, I'd raise a glass to you right now.