#79 - Home Court Jester

Home Court Jester

1/20/06 (#79)

Every bar that features rock bands also features a resident jester---already drunk as the first band starts to play, standing too close to the stage, aching to make eye contact with the musicians in order to confirm his delusive sense of community with the band. It doesn't matter who the band is---as soon as the guitar player steps on the distortion pedal, this guy's fist pumps with Pavlovian obedience. His is not mere enthusiasm---the music starts, and no matter how pedestrian the chord progression, he acts as if he is present in the delivery room for the rebirth of rock 'n roll itself, clumsily nudging every nurse within elbow's reach with a too-intimate lean followed by a Pabst-scented exclamation: "These guys are awesome!"

Like most people, I prefer to keep my distance from these characters. Rarely is the house-drunk a genuine concern, but their tendency toward inappropriate intimacies ("whispered" comments that involve inadvertent physical contact) and/or imaginary alliances (the assumption that, because I am tapping my foot to the beat, we're now pals) makes them much more enjoyable at a distance of 15 feet---out of earshot, but close enough to enjoy the steady stream of "whatever-buddy" blow-offs stitched throughout the fabric of his evening.

Most amazing to me about this particular strain of village idiot is that nobody knows him. Even regulars or de facto house bands, who by virtue of frequency should have had occasion to acquire the most rudimentary of biographical facts, have little knowledge of this man. Most bartenders would fail to pick him out of a line-up unless the line-up consisted of him and four Aborigines---and even then, there better not be a tall aborigine. The fact is, no one wants to see this man, because eye contact might lead to conversation, and conversation inevitably leads to an uncomfortable revelation of a particular factoid or opinion that immediately causes the listener to urgently "remember" a forgotten task. These tasks range from "I need to get a beer" (dangerous, as he might concur) to "I forgot to lock the car" to "I'm allergic to colored lights"; plausibility is not an essential part of the alibi---any preposterousness can be used as leverage for prying yourself out of such a conversation. (In fact, it makes for a better story later if, rather than a fact-checkable excuse, you concoct something glorious: "Hey, sorry to cut this short, but my fish is graduating from obedience school and I have to help him with his commencement speech.")

Last week, I witnessed just such a charmer at The Ash Street (I want to say I have seen the guy there many times before, but I just can't be sure.) He was brimming with enough enthusiasm to declare himself "the unofficial fifth Roaring Lion", and I experienced a eureka moment of scientific observation: Physics will not allow two resident drunks to occupy the same space at the same time. The alcohol-fueled buffoon is, by nature, an exhibitionist: note the sloppily played air guitar, the ubiquitous index-and-pinkie raised "rawk" hand gesture, the non-syncopated Angus Young impersonations enacted by swinging his head like in was attached to a 5'10" trebuchet. Such a person longs to enjoy every band the most, more than you, more than anyone---thus, the introduction of another soused center-of-negative-attention is like a Discovery channel show featuring the arrival of a rogue bull elephant on the fringes of another bull elephant's herd: you can't say exactly how, but you know that after the commercial break, things are going to get ugly.

In the week since seeing the resident drunk at the Ash Street, I have been preoccupied with one particular mathematical calculation: The dearth of rock clubs here in Portland. With half a million people in the city, and only a couple of dozen rock clubs featuring bands on a regular basis, Portland must have reached critical mass when it comes to available residencies at local watering holes. It's heartbreaking to think that at home tonight will sit some sad-faced man, hating everything that his basic cable has to offer, longing to go out, have a few drinks and "interact" with people, but feeling like he can't because the Ash Street already has a guy who leans in much too closely to remark that tonight's mandolin-and-conga outfit rocks just like early Black Sabbath.

So I've been contemplating alternate climes for these characters, places where their disconcerting enthusiasm and proclivity for unsolicited conversation can be put to good use:

• Abercrombie and Fitch: The music is deafening, the patrons are youthful---just fill a stylish "water" bottle with Hamm's and give the lush a chair by the dressing rooms. When a self-conscious customer emerges from the dressing room hoping for reassurance, she'll be greeted with a disturbingly emphatic, "This might be the Weezer talking, but damn, your ass looks awesome!" Sure, it seems like a terribly misogynistic idea, but we're talking Abecrombie and Fitch---they're in the misogyny business. If a customer makes it as far as the dressing rooms in that store, the objectification of phat booties obviously doesn't offend them.
• The Roller Rink: Again, plenty of blaring Def Leppard to fuel his enthusiasm. This could also be a boon for management: Charge the skaters by the hour, and at 5 minutes before the end of each hour, encourage your drunken shill to "help" at the exit gate. He will inevitably engage the very first exiting couple in a discussion of whether AC/DC was better with Bon Scott or Brian Johnson, and the skaters will suddenly remember that they can afford one more hour. Ditto on the next folks to attempt an exit. By the end of the night, the skate floor will be packed like a commuter train at rush hour. Send the man home half an hour before close, and celebrate a ridiculously profitable evening.
• Wine Bars: Sure, it will be hard to find a candidate who will get the same adrenaline rush from Miles or Shostakovich that he does from a judiciously stomped overdrive pedal, but I love the mental image of the Ash Street rummy weebling up to a quiet couple in a dark booth and slurring, "The brie plate here $#@& rocks, dude!" as he makes the well-known "rawk" hand gesture. (And most likely receives another well-known hand gesture in response.)

Then again, maybe these folks don't need my help. None have ever asked for my assistance, and since I never see two of them in the same room, perhaps there is already a negotiated agreement amongst the city's drunken mystery men. After all, while the Ash Street is but one club, they have music seven nights---maybe when the guy I saw shows up on Tuesday, the doorman will accost him at the door: "C'mon, Jimmy, you know the rules---you're our Wednesday and Saturday lush. It wouldn't be fair to Ed if I let you in tonight...but hey, ever go roller skating?"

©2006 wpreagan