Babalu

Ricky Ricardo was a one-trick pony. He was a second rate band leader in a smokey night club. He couldn't sing as well as he wished he could, and his star-attraction percussion skills were limited to a single bongo.

The monochromatic audience always looked entertained though, and never more entertained than when he pulled out the blockbuster signature hit "Babalu." Pounding maniacaly on his tribal drum, head banging in time, pompadour flapping to the beat; the white bread squares would work into an absolute lather. They were entertained though. No matter how campy the performance, they could dine and see a show and have an evening on the town.

That doesn't exist anymore. There is food. There is plenty of food. And then, there are shows. Usually, that means a movie, or sometimes a rock concert. However, there are simply no sit-down, sport coat and cocktail dress night clubs anymore. Around Portland there are a couple of bars that do weekend jazz or karaoke, but that is far far far from the Copa Cabana.

So, I was shocked to discover Saturday night that the local suburban Mexican/Peruvian restaurant has live music, and I 'm not talking mariachi. We walked in to the ever-morphing dining space, where the booths have been banished and shimmering blue icicle lights dangle dauntlessly from the tropical painted ceiling.

It wasn't Frank or Dino to be sure. In fact, it was just one gray-haired guy with a guitar relying heavily o the John Denver play list, but it was nice nonetheless.

Well, Come to think of it, it's just sad, really. But it goes to show just how far we'll stoop for a little entertainment.