Port in the Storm

Port in the Storm use to be an ordinary bar in an ordinary working class neighborhood. It lost the ordinary quality long ago. Now it has advanced to exotic. It is a straight-gay-lesbian-bi-black-white-poor-rich-seedy-smoke filled, splendid place. Five of us, three of whom had had a really rotten day, crashed into the Port late last night to renew our acquaintance with the bar. Of the five of us, I am the only one who dances. I float around the floor and have the best view---a view full of surprises. That's what makes the Port so alluring to me.

There was the woman dressed head to foot in pink and white camo. And there, on the east end of the bar, under the Bud Light sign, next to the Lil' Angles cookie tin, a nice assortment of crock pots. I wondered if the Port offered a crock pot cooking class during the daytime hours? I counted five crock pots from small to huge.

Coupling at the Port defies any common understanding of the word "couple" and the racial mix is infinite. Everyone is included at the Port, in any combination, especially if that combination can move to the music. Personally, I had an eye for the DJ, a sparkling burnette with great moves, but an awful taste for music. She lip-synced to every tune with the precision of an experienced rock star in MTV mode. I noticed that most in the crowd were also orally in sync to the music. Watching the whole room lyp-syncing to the songs, I realized that there was some alternate world of music unknown to me---one that would remain so.

I have to admit that I feel the new dance style that includes the movements of sexual intercourse, choreographed into the hip-hop dance style, is ghastly, except at the Port. Here, the orgiastic movements are perfectly counter-balanced by the crock pots. There is only one Port in the Storm.