The Doorman's Diary 6.13.14

Calamity and lunacy could reign…it’s Friday the 13^th and a full moon. Technically, we’re a couple of ticks beyond the official full moon night and as long as I keep thinking that today is merely the tomorrow of Thursday the 12^th, everything should be fine. And a fine glittery night it is. To celebrate the impending season change, the Latin jazz band plays their version of Summertime, which sizzles in a pan of congas, guitar and deep bass played by the biggest brown bear found south of the Canadian border. The sauce is further stirred by a guest tenor whose horn adds just enough pepper. At one point, a few songs later after their frenzied take on Willie Bobo’s Haitian Lady, the band leader steps out from his drum set and in front of the congas to invite what appears to be a random, nondescript woman to the stage. “She will sing a beautiful song to us in Portuguese.” With every step to the stage she dramatically transforms into the likeness of the Lisbon-born stunner singer Teresa Salgueiro and her voice is equally beguiling. She caresses the quintet and transforms the club into Hot Clube de Portugal in a cellar in Praça da Alegria, one of the oldest jazz clubs in Europe, since 1948. Tele-transportation occurs and we’re in the dark, comfort of this Lisbon jazz club. The proof: left on the side of the congas was an old time travel decal—Portugal—just like the ones travellers in the last mid-century would affix to their hard-body luggage and travel wardrobes as souvenirs of their journeys. I’m convinced. We were there… if only for her smoldering sensuous song.

The Doorman's Diary 4.26.13

Clear, warm Spring eve and there's no telling how busy the club might be. A man wearing a plain baseball cap is seated at the bar near the door. I remark about the pleasant weather to make him feel at ease. He uses my vague remark to pivot into a series of questions while interweaving autobiography, intending to impress. He's a retired architect from a successful firm that has his name on the door. He plays jazz sax--both tenor and soprano, and he lives in a nice condo with some name like Vantage Peak or Exclusive Heights. He asks pedigree info about the club, the music, and the quartet playing tonight. I catch myself on the verge of defending and bragging. I don't and slip into my doorman-don't-know role, to allow him to feel smug and superior. The facelift blonde with her over-plucked brows enters with a different man than previous visits. She oddly vacillates between prancing cutely like a 16-year-old and acting aggressive like the prison yard alpha. She's scary weird. In between a Coltrane and Monk songs, she springs up from her table and storms assertively toward me, then veers sharply to go to the bar. I couldn't tell if she was going to cuff me or kiss me--either behavior would be in character. I look out the window and above the neon tattooing the darkness I see a full moon, which may explain a lot. There's a woman sitting at a table of six who clearly has been touched with lunar madness. She hasn't stopped blathering since they were seated and guffaws loudly every 20 to 40 seconds. I fantasize that they come, muzzle her, and strap her into a straight jacket. Size Medium will work.

The Doorman's Diary 8.31.12

The regular jazz group was back after a month and a half break. Surgery on the drummer's knee. So with his bionic knee and lack of consistent practice, it took a few songs before they were back in the groove. The trumpet player had sat at the bar before they played and was practicing with just the trumpet mouthpiece--sounding like a duck call. I said, "Don't do that outside or we'll have a flock of Mallards storming the club." I imagined well-behaved, mated-for-life pairs sitting at tables and maybe a group of rowdy drakes at the bar rudely quacking orders to the bartender. My fantasy vanished when in walked a checker-flag explosion. S/he wore checker shoes, spandex pants with one leg checker and the other white, and a checker blouse / shirt. In drag and tipsy already, she slurred while leaning into my face, "Whatcha think of my outfit?" Racy, was my response. S/he pulled out three individually crumpled bills in search of a Lincoln to pay the cover, all the while leaning into my space. Fortunately, the second greenback was a fiver. She sat at the bar near the door and ordered a beer and flirted with the bartender. She was trying to engage a guy at the bar in her monologue, but he sloughed her off. S/he got up and did a spastic dance before wandering over toward me with pack of cigarettes and BIC in hand. S/he leaned in and kissed my cheek and slurred, "I think you're cute." I shuddered and said, "I know." S/he went outside to smoke, flipping her gorgeous-looking brown hair. I prayed to all known deities that s/he would get distracted and wander off. No such luck, like a reoccurring bad dream s/he was back all duck-lips and hovering until she handed me three crumpled up cig packs and asked where she could buy more. I directed her to the gas station a couple of blocks away and after she left I ran to the Men's Room to scrub my cheek that was the recipient of so much unwanted love.