Well, let me tell you about a party we had a Geno's Tuesday.
No, lemme 'splain ....
You go outside my front door, cross the street and enter the empty lot that leads to Congress Street - the lot we've dubbed "Bosnia", back in the day when it was full of rocks and detritus working its way up from the buried foundation of the old Kotchmar theater.
The Kotchmar (named for Hermann Kotchmar, Portland's first municipal organist and the inspiration for the Kotchmar Organ in City Hall) was a combination vaudeville hall and movie palace, active on Congress Street until the mid 70's. It hung on, sadly, as a steadily deteriorating hulk, eventually masked by a false front.
The Children's Theatre looked at it briefly, during our valiant (but ultimately vain) attempt to find a place to call a permanent home. The renovation would have cost twice the value of the land - and the City was not thrilled about such a prime piece of real estate being taken off the town tax roll for non-profit use.
They'd be even more so now.
Anyway - turn left after the rocks marking the end of the lot - or the start of the sidewalk (after the bars let out on Friday night they're just another hazard like the cracks in the sidewalk) and you run into Geno's - "Geno's Rock Bar" to use the full name.
It's a genuine jive dive. Originally it must have been a small, respectable business - then for years it was the "FIne Arts Cinema", showing the best in hard core porn ("hard core porn" - don't those three words go well together - quite a verbal manage a trois - but I digress). Then, when the porn theatre business was done to death by DVD's and home rentals - much less the Internet (who knew?) it was sold to some well-meaning but very, very, very naive folks who turned it into an "alternative performance space"
Then, Geno Senior - or just "Geno" - who used to have his bar farther down Congress and around the corner on a short side street - you had to descend a long staircase to the basement - lost his lease.
About three years ago his building was sold and Geno - or really his son, Geno Junior - or "J.R." - moved the place to it's current home.
It hosts live bands and serves a critical purpose in the food chain of performance venues in PLand.
I like it on off nights. You see the most INTERESTING people in there. It's a clientele that is totally at variance to the folks I worked with as a teacher, actor or board member of a non-profit - even my church friends are rarely replicated there.
And so it was the other night. I've been locked in mortal combat on a new piece, a string trio for my friends "the Barefoot Strings" and it's not been going well. Can't seem to find the line of the piece.
So, I counted up my quarters and shuffled out to Geno's braving the rocks of Bosnia in Tevas to get an adult beverage at my local jive-ass bar.
There were streamers hanging from the ceiling. A table set up, down below the rail on the dance floor (such as it was). Covered with food - Buffalo wings, potato salad, onion rolls, a big tub of American Chop Suey, deviled eggs - the only thing missing was something to drink and JR was ready to take care of that.
Most delightful of all is a charming African American lady - Dee Dee - who is celebrating an un-numbered but obviously well-lived birthday. A white, sequined evening dress, with cape and really nice rhinestone encrusted pumps. A tasteful amount of impressive decolletage showing.
She immediately invited me to fill up a plate - CVS drugstore's best "Happy Birthday" paper plates - which JR was saving for his kid's ninth birthday party.
She was on the arm - if you can call a ham hock an "arm" - of a biker guy, bearded, avuncular and very large. He helped me down - or I helped him help me down - the steps to the table, where I filled a plate with basic, non-pretentious party chow.
I suppose it was only a matter of time - the jukebox fired up and there we were, listening to Aretha Franklin singing "Respect".
Dee Dee hails from upstate New York and claims to have some Cherokee blood. I'll give her the benefit of the doubt - I suppose her lively nature and willingness to party have to have some Native source.
So that's how the evening went - the last 40 minutes of Dee Dee's birthday, certainly filled with music and stories about growing up and watching the parade of Portland. As always there's some profound lessons to be had here.
For the life of me, I can't seem to find it.
