For Thursday, June 26, 1997 Drummer Column, 1013 words, Gibbs
A former student, Phil Pasciak, spent the last few years in Tahoe dealing blackjack. Now he's on the road selling "exotic dancer" costumes in small-town clubs all across America. I talked with him briefly before he left. He'd stopped by my house to donate his old backpack to our high school hiking club.
I asked him, "Where are the best Tahoe night spots? Not the casinos, but the local clubs?"
He didn't hesitate in telling me about Ellis Island, his favorite haunt. It's a restaurant/bar/live jazz and blues club about two blocks before The Line, on the lake side of Highway 50.
My wife and I spent last weekend in Tahoe, and we checked out Phil's lead. Bless that boy.
Above a small two-table pool hall is a rectangular room of glass, with the kitchen and bar taking up one side. The other side is tables. A corner is cleared for the band. A few extra speakers are mounted on the wall.
That night, things started out on a high note. In three tables bunched together in front of the drums and two guitars sat several very large men with very large rings and dates. They talked about stadiums and football games so we assumed they were players. They laughed, chewed on unlit dynamite-sized cigars, and ordered lots of food. The band, Funk and Blues Revue, hadn't arrived yet.
We hadn't intended to eat, but the big guys' food mountain looked tasty. We saw armloads of pasta, huge sandwiches, and bowls of gumbo go by. Susan finally snatched a menu and we got ourselves a bowl of chicken gumbo and Cajun chicken pasta.
It was the kind of food where you take your first bite and freeze. "Ohhhh…" Your taste buds have taken control of your body. They wriggle like little sea anemones sending out pleasure signals that throw your body into a euphoric wait state. A moment of bliss passes and you say, "Umm, taste," and immediately hand a bite to your neighbor. At least, that's what we did.
The pasta was so heavenly, we begged the waiter bring us the chef so we could thank him personally. Pepe came out of the kitchen and we shook hands all around. We talked about sauce for several minutes, then he disappeared back into his cloud.
The band showed up. They didn't say they were the band, and they dressed like you and me, but we could tell. They had band faces. The bass player's face filled his whole head, and the lead singer, guitar player looked like Ricky Nelson's cousin.
To start the first set, the lead singer said to one of the alleged football players, "Wow, man, that's a big ring. What kind of ring is that?"
To which the big guy said, "It's a mood ring."
Once the music started, more characters arrived. It was like a casting party. Each person was distinctive. First in came George Eliopoulous, a big Greek real estate agent with big hair. He was in his fifties, and wore a white suit with a flaming red shirt open at the collar. He sat behind us at the bar and yelled, "Yeah, man, yeah!" to the band. I learned his name later while we were dancing. He gave me a business card.
Next came the young German physics professor - straight auburn bangs and trimmed beard, oval wire-rimmed glasses, plaid shirt, small frame. His long-haired, big-lipped girlfriend I will call Uma.
The next guy in had half his face scared by a nasty burn and sat self-consciously with his back to the band, his scar toward the window. In came a Christian Slater look-alike, a muscle-bound mountain biker with lumbar-length hair, and a big-featured girl who knew the words to all the songs. Next came three Mexican men all wearing moustaches and windbreakers. They ordered beer at the bar.
Then came the highest note. In walked a miniskirted redhead, a noisy blond, and a tag-along guy. They sat at our table, the only two seats left. The guy left for a moment and the blond started to bad-mouth him to Susie, the redhead. "I don't like him. Let's dump him. You stick with me. All he wants is your car keys and your house keys."
The young man returned. He whispered something to Susie, they hugged, then he left for good. "Well, it looks like you got rid of him," I said.
"That's right," said the blond.
In the meantime, George got up and started dancing by himself. The blond joined him. That's when Susie leaned over to us and said quickly, "You have to help me. That girl took my car keys and chased away my new boyfriend. She took my car today for five hours. I don't know where. Please, help me get my keys out of her purse."
Her plan was for my wife and I to rummage through this strange girl's purse while she kept her busy dancing. I had a better idea. "I'll dance with her. You get your own keys."
So I jumped up and began dancing with George and the blond, arms wide, hiding Susie while she dug and dug in the blond's purse. No luck. Susie gave up and started dancing. Pepe came out and sang "La Bamba." More people began dancing. The scar-faced guy joined in. I encouraged Susie to try again. This time she picked up the blond's purse and danced with it, her back to my back. We stood directly under a spot light. At last, Susie put the purse down and showed me a small set of car keys clutched in her hand. She dropped them into her bosom and danced toward the lady's restroom.
The blond came over to me and rubbed my full belly. "Now you'll have to make a wish," I said.
"I wish you'd dance with me," she said. She jumped into the air and wrapped her legs around my waist. That's when my wife and I decided to go home. I met Susie on the steps and she thanked me again.