“Toto, I've a feeling we're not in Kansas any more.”

First, let me welcome my brother-in-arms, TJ, back into the Crooked Straight fold. I was just as eager as the rest of you to read about the events in his last post, because I can only remember approximately 20% of that night myself. From around the time I called the taxi company, to about 7 a.m. the next morning, my mind is a blank sheet. I came out of my blackout standing at the door to the apartment’s bedroom, where Ashhad was passed out. I had turned on the light, and was now staring intently at my buddy slumbering in the bed, trying to figure out just who he was, and why I was in his home.

This past Friday was another head-scratcher, but for much different reasons. It started under quite normal pretenses: My friend, Abbie, was having a birthday party for her fiancé (“KC”) at Mullaney’s Harp and Fiddle, an Irish bar & restaurant in Pittsburgh’s Strip District. KC is a proud Irishman; and, with St. Patrick’s Day nearing, everyone is growing fonder of all things green and/or made of hops. Harp and Fiddle, therefore, was a fitting choice of locations. An energetic Irish band rocked from the stage with enthusiastic participation from a standing-room-only crowd, and draughts of Smithwick's, Guinness, Harp, and Bass Ale populated hands and tables throughout the establishment (except for Girlfriend, who stuck to her beloved Corona).

The place is somewhat small, however—especially when it’s packed to the limit and a live band is onstage ten feet away from your table. A subset of our larger group decided to move to a quieter, less-expensive bar nearby. KC prepped Girlfriend and I, neither of whom had ever been to this new venue before, by saying, “It’s a bit of a dive. It looks shitty from the outside, but it’s not bad inside.”

As we walked up to the bar, which was in an old former hotel, we appreciated KC’s honesty. From the outside, you might mistake it for an abandoned building. When we walked through the door, however, we found that things indoors were much more vibrant. Smoke, music, the crack of billiard balls on a pool table; gruff-looking middle-aged white guys and stone-faced, thuggish young brothers staring holes through you; this was a typical Pittsburgh dive bar.

Or so we thought.

About an hour after we arrived, Girlfriend caught the eye of a guy at the opposite end of the bar. He waved at her—with his fingers. She waved back, but quickly realized that I had only seen her half of the exchange. “Don’t worry,” she assured me, “he’s gay. He waved like this *imitates the wave*”

This put both of our brains on pause: An openly homosexual man at a dive bar? It’s not unheard of, true; you could go to most small, local bars in America and find the token neighborhood gay guy hanging out amongst friends and people who won’t hassle him. But this felt…different. Suddenly, En Vogue’s “Free Your Mind” came blaring over the speakers…and all Richard Simmons broke out.

Many of the “thuggish” Black men began pantomiming and dancing. One young white man was quickly shirtless, twirling around his corner of the bar and occasionally dancing while staring at himself in a mirror on the wall; the man who had waved at Girlfriend sashayed to and fro to the beat, with his arms swaying back and forth up in the air, frequently gyrating closely with his buddy. Wrists everywhere were joyously limp and proud.

Girlfriend and I finally understood what was going on: We were in a gay bar.

Most of the people in our circle hardly blinked. Girlfriend and I, nowhere near new to being around gay men, were enjoying every last minute of it. One of KC’s friends, however, was suffering from a fit of homophobia. “He’s scared to go to the bathroom,” KC laughed, pointing at his nervous friend. When Girlfriend felt the need to walk to the ladies’ room, she asked if I was going to be okay by myself. I laughed and waved her off—I was about to be the belle of the ball.

Two guys—one taller, chubby, and middle aged, the other short, thin, and slightly younger—were walking past and decided to stop when they saw me standing alone for the moment.

Larger Man: “Well! Aren’t you a tall handsome one?”
Me: *laughing* “Thanks.”
Smaller Man: “My god, he looks so strong!”
Larger Man: “Doesn’t he? I bet you could just make us your slaves!”

I was called away from my new fans by Girlfriend. The door to the women’s bathroom didn’t lock, and she wanted me to stand guard.

“Baby, if there was ever a bar in this city where you would be safe from guys trying to walk in on you when your pants are down, I think this is it.”