I believe I have blogged on these pages about the High Noon Saloon: Leavenworth's premier night out, complete with micro brewery and karaoke. Anyway, it was my birthday two days ago, and what better place to celebrate? I will say at this point that I never meant to get up on stage three times; once should have been enough - but give me a microphone and a stage and I'm off.

There are always some interesting acts at the Noon. It has its regulars - some good, some not so. There's the skinny Elvis impersonator, who always turns up in a full-on, rhinestone encrusted white Elvis suit, apparently oblivious of the fact that, at approximately 90 pounds, he's not really beefy enough to fill the King's shoes. But he croons away, and isn't too bad, actually. Then there's the sweet older lady, who must be well into her sixties, who clutches the microphone as if she were drowning and warbles out old time favourites in a slightly off-key manner - endearing, but painful. Last night we saw one of my favourite performers. He seems to be channelling a mixture of Jesus and anarchist for his look: he is immensely tall, immensely skinny, and has a moustache and beard and long hair which he always wears tucked up into a slouchy beanie. He usually sports jeans and a hoody which hang off his lank frame, although last night he appeared in a full suit: charcoal grey, complete with waistcoat and brown shoes. His girlfriend, meanwhile, is generally in some kind of retro getup from around the 1940s - last night she was wearing a floor-length ballgown, with a long evening coat over the top. Her breasts always spill abundantly out of whatever she is wearing.

Anyway, the beardy one, after mooching round the bar for however long, will always, when it gets to his turn, leap athletically onto the stage, grab the microphone and start bellowing out some hardcore heavy metal song. Last night it was something which had the lyrics "fuck the president, fuck the president" repeated many times. His girlfriend, meanwhile, stares adoringly from the floor, mouthing gently along with whatever lyrics her love is belting out. Afterwards, they repair to a side room where they play cards - I like to think it is some old-fashioned, Victorian-style game. They are quite adorably in love, and have, on occasion, performed a duet, clutching each other all the while, and singing something retro and schmaltzy. I believe he is the son of some Army major out here, who obviously kept far too tight a rein on his son, who has now broken free of the parental chain and is pursuing his own path. And good on him, say I. I don't feel scared around him: he's clearly getting all his anger out on stage which is much healthier than taking a gun and shooting people.