I went to Yakima to surprise my buddy from high school for his 31st birthday. His wife had planned this surprise for a month -- and I was her first call... At least that's what my ego was telling me.

So about three minutes after I decided to drive the four hours to Yakima, the Apple Capital of the World, I began my Internet search for karaoke clubs there. OK, taverns with yokee. Can't really call them clubs.
 
I went to Google. I went to DexOnline. I went to Karaokeholics.com. I went to WebRings. I went to the Yakima Chamber of Commerce. I found nothing. I knew that I had to go to Yakima. Yakima was calling to me. Karaoke was there, and it was isolated from the world. I am the chosen one to set Yakima's karaoke free, I thought to myself.

The day came. I drove forever. I sang the entire way. I checked in to the Fairfield Inn by Marriott -- because they are a member of the Yakima Chamber of Commerce -- and headed directly to the party at my buddy's church where he is an associate pastor.

The party was 3 hours of pure murder-mystery bliss... It was a blast. I was Second Officer Michael-somebody. I got promoted to First Officer, then I was murdered by my buddy's mom, I mean the Third Officer. Oh, and my buddy was surprised. He almost humped my leg, so I took that as surprise. Glad he's married.

After the party, I ventured off on my own to scout out the scene. This town was keeping a beautiful woman hidden from me, and her name was Karaoke. I must find her, I thought to myself.

My first instinct was to find the hottest night spot in Yakima. That could only mean one thing: Susie's Hollywood Cafe. There were no cars in the parking lot; only pick-up trucks. Some of 'em were lifted. Most of 'em were, uh-hem, dirty. I pulled up in my clean, white, stock 1998 Mitsubishi Montero Sport. I'm sure they thought I was gay. After all, my belt buckle was of normal size and I had left my cowboy hat in Salem... at the hick store.

After taking off all my bling and leaving it in the car, I mean truck, I mean... Whatever. I went inside and tapped the bouncer for information about Karaoke, the woman I loved.

Me: "Hey, do you guys ever do karaoke here?"
Him: "Yeah, but if you're looking for it tonight, you should check out the Airport, or Jackson's Sports Bar. I hear they've added it.
Me: "Is your band any good tonight?"
Him: "Yeah, they're about to start their second set, and the girls are into it."
Me: (There didn't need to be any more verbalizationalism. Can't talk now. He said the girls are into it.)

So I went inside, straight to the bar. I tried to kick the "city" out of my walk. You know what I mean, like my pants are too tight and I'm carrying a load in them. The walk-thing wasn't working out so I grabbed a Coors Light (when in Rome) and a perch on the outside wall near the dance floor and scanned the crowd. A familiar face walked by. Huh? "Coffey," I said.

"Yes, sir" he returned. Then he recognized me. He was in training in Yakima in preparation to head back to Iraq for a second tour. He was also a little inebriated, and wanted to introduce me to every one of his unimpressed buddies, and all of the unimpressed girls that had spent the last hour avoiding conversations with city-folk, also known as boys without belt buckles. So I took the hint and found a better spot next to the bar where the bartender was eager for tips and never let my glass go dry. A cowboy pulled up next to me and said, "You should get out there. There's tons of single girls out here tonight."

"I'm cool," I replied. I couldn't tell him I was saving myself for Karaoke... He just wouldn't understand. After giving the bartender a healthy tip, I decided to move on to Jackson's.

I could tell as soon as I arrived at Jackson's Sports Bar that this place was going to be different. It's like this one block in the middle of Yakima was a reservation of normalcy. No pick-ups in this crowded parking lot, just a few Camaro's and a beat up Nizzan Stanza. There was definitely no Karaoke here, though. "Dang," I thought to myself, starting to feel a little bit red-necked. I went inside anyway.

I bellied up to the bar and ordered a microbrew, God's intended form of barley consumption. I thought I would just sit and enjoy the rest of the night without being recognized. Then this guy pulls up next to me -- completely out of place -- and starts yappin'.

He's ex-military, and apparently I was wearing a sign on my back that said, "I'm lonely. Tell me all about your European exploits." Raymond did have something good to say though. He's seen Karaoke in Yakima, and she's alive and kickin'. He advised me to check out the Airport on Thursdays, Pete's on 2nd every weekend, and Susie's Hollywood Cafe -- the place I'd just been.

Brooke, my bartender/server/menu-insider asked her co-worker where I could find Karaoke. "Hey, aren't we getting karaoke next week," she inquired?

"Yup." This big guy in a Jackson's shirt steps into the conversation as if there's gonna be trouble. No trouble, mister, as long as you tell me what you know about singing in Yakima. "Tuesday's at 8:30 starting next week. Trivia Tuesdays ain't workin' so good." You're right, Billy Bob, Karaoke will always kick Trivia Tuesdays in the @$$.

My work here is done. True, I did not sing in Yakima, but I lived to tell the tale so that others could sing in the arm-pit of Washington state.

If you're ever at Jackson's on a Tuesday night, try the drummies, buffalo style (not on the menu), and tell Brooke I said thanks for having great taste in chicken.

Go free, Karaoke of Yakima. Let no one keep you secret. Let no one hide you or suppress you any longer.

See you on tour.

Kyle Rokee

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