From my book:
Every city has a bar that is tucked away from the downtown. A bar where local music bands come to toast themselves after a successful set. The Spaceroom is such a place. A look inside with the walled murals of downtown, the sun rising over Mount Hood, the token black-light stars, moons and hanging Saturn-like sphere over the main bar, and you know you are someplace out of the ordinary.
One night at the Spaceroom I met up with some friends in a local Portland band, Western Aerial. Stiff drinks are the norm here, especially when one knows that a good tip on the first round will ensure no water seeps into the rounds to follow. Back in the corner booth I sat listening to the guys talk about their newest CD release gig that night at Dante’s, the vibe of the crowd, the favorable reviews and mentions in local newspapers.
The groupies, of course, come and go. Still, I occasionally find myself making conversation with one for a minute or two until they discover I am not in the band, and the flirting subsides.
It is a testament to the unknown currents of life, of how one can be down-trodden one minute, and the next on such a high because you are watching people you know and care about do something extraordinary with their lives.
Even if they never are able to conquer to world, I find myself energized from the vibrations that resonate from our corner booth this night. And in this bar, a homage to mystic dreamscapes, spacescapes and stars, I drink with my friends... to my friends.