Haven in Madness

            Can this get any weirder, I think as I raise my bottle of Singha and take a generous sip. The bottle is damp, condensation flowing from the uncomfortable heat permeating throughout the city of Los Angeles. Putting the bottle down, I take a napkin from the black Formica table in front of me and wipe sweat from my brow; a trait I seem to share with the beer bottle. I glance across the table at Mike, my cousin, and see he’s no better off. This convection oven of a restaurant looks like it’ll be the end of us!

I take another sip and return my attention to the stage a few meters from me: a small, elevated platform littered with low-quality strobe lights and smoke machines that look ready to explode, it is flooded with blue stage lights from above. And, standing in the middle… stomping his foot, is a middle aged Thai man in a business suit; he is holding a microphone and staring up at a television monitor. Just as I turn my attention back to this stranger, the sound of music begins radiating from oversized speakers located throughout the restaurant’s interior: the walls vibrate, silverware rattles, water tremors, and every other person in the room other than my cousin and me quakes in eager anticipation. I feel the unmistakable guitar chords resonate in my skull.

“Oh no,” I hear Mike say. “Really? Is he really going to sing this?”

Sure enough, as the opening instrumental to Satisfaction comes to a close, the Thai man closes his eyes, stops his preemptive gyration, and begins to howl.

***

The night had started out pretty simple, especially considering the events that would unfold. It had been just a banal, ordinary Saturday… a day completely regimented by routine: breakfast while watching Sportscenter, writing till 2pm, much needed exercise at the gym, a chance to read in the tub, and concluded with an evening writing session.

I had been writing for a couple of hours, making decent and vital progress on the new book, when I decided it was time to take a break and make some dinner. I’d gone to the grocery store on my way back from the gym and stocked up, anticipating a night in to focus on work. So I cleared out the kitchen, blasted Nirvana on my laptop, and set about cooking: I pre-heated the oven, oiled pans, diced onions, minced garlic, julienned red and orange peppers, seasoned and spiced steak tips. While making a red wine marinade I thought, what the hell? Why not a glass while I wait?

The problem with wine is that a glass is never just ONE glass. As the cooking continued, my already balmy apartment becoming a terrarium of the Mojave, I cooled myself off with the blood of the grape. Once dinner was finished, I propped up on the couch to calm the mind with some television before getting back to the keys. I surfed through channels with the speed a of drug addicts scrolling through a phonebook for their preferred dealer.

“Can you believe this shit,” I asked the nearby picture of Walt Whitman. “How much worse can things get? That belligerent boozehound hobbit from the ‘Jersey Shore’ has a book deal and Russell Brand now has a TV show. Can things get any worse?” Uncle Walt just stared back… a depraved, demented glee shining from behind that utterly epic beard.

“Ehhh… shut up and get back to work,” I pictured him howling while ardently shaking his fist. Good advice, I thought.

I cleared my plates and went back to my microscopic IKEA desk. Booting up the manuscript, I sat down in my wicker desk chair and leaned back, nearly toppling over onto my bed. My bedroom was so damn hot that I needed to turn off the overhead light and rely on low-wattage desk lamps around the room.

For the love of Moses, I thought, sweat dripping down into my eyes, this is inhuman! No one should have to live in this damn climate! Blinking furiously, I tried to get my thoughts flowing, my ideas going, but I just couldn’t seem to think. It was just too hot for rational thought or irrational fiction.

Just when I was about to pound my head against the wall, I heard my phone wring. I grabbed it and said hello.

“What’s up, pal?” It was Mike, my cousin.

“Hey man,” I answered, “just writing.”

“Nice.”

“So what’s shakin’ with you?”

“I’m having dinner right now,” Mike said,” but after Jen and I are going to Baja Cantina to meet with Brandon and Chad. You wanna come?”

“Ahh man,” I said as apprehensively as possible. “I dunno, buddy. I’ve got pages to work on and I’ve been on a roll today.” The truth was I would have given my left big toe for an excuse to get away from my computer and out of my own private sweat lodge. After all, the words just refused to come and I was growing tired of staring at a blank page.

“Come on, pal,” Mike protested. “I haven’t seen you in forever. And we’re going for cocktails. How can you say no to that?”

“Alright,” I replied after a moment. I needed to sound as if I were reluctant to leave. Even though I was already on my way out the door at this point. “I’ll head out in a couple of minutes. I’ll see you guys there in a little while.”

“Well we’re about to head home. Why don’t you meet us at our apartment and we can call roll over together?”

“Sure,” I said, a devious grin on my face, as I turned my key and locked my front door.

***

I listened to Tom Waits on the way over to Mike’s. Which, admittedly, probably wasn’t a good idea given the pending social interaction. Every time I listen to Tom Waits, I get into a wonderfully introspective melancholy in which all I want to do is drive around at night while taking sips of whiskey from a hip flask. So when I arrived at Mike’s, I was anything but social.

“Hey pal,” Mike said, a mischievous grin on his face as he opened the door, “good timing. We just got home a few minutes ago.”
            “Guess I’m lucky that way,” I replied as I closed the front door behind me. Jen was on the couch, her undivided attention focused on the kindle in her hands. “Hi Jen.”

“Hey,” she replied cheerfully yet keeping her eyes locked on the screen. Jen has the ability to read, comprehend, and converse at the same time. This both greatly impresses and makes me feel utterly intellectually ineffectual. “How are you?”

“Eh… same as always.”

“Okay,” Mike said, sounding like he was a pep-talking coach from an 80’s sports comedy, “you guys ready to go?”

“I don’t really feel like going out,” said Jen, putting down her literary tablet.

“What? Really? I thought we were all going out together?”

“If we’re being honest,” I chimed in, “I’m not too keen on driving all the way to Marina del Rey myself.”

“Come on.” I could see the frustration and annoyance building in Mike. He buried his hands in his pockets and cocked his head. “Fine… we won’t go.”

“I’ll go with you,” I replied. “I’m just sayin’ that I really don’t feel like driving a half hour to grab drinks. It is 10:15 already, after all.”

“Forget it. I thought we were all going to meet up with everyone. It’s not worth it now.”

“Why don’t you two go for a drink somewhere around here,” Jen suggested. Mike and I exchanged a look… one of those looks that speaks volumes. It was a non-verbal debate that pondered and contemplated the possibilities. It was the look that says, ‘yes… let’s do that. Because what’s the worst that could happen?’

“That sounds good to me,” I said.

“I’ll drive.”

***

We were in Mike’s car, cruising down Santa Monica Blvd… listening to the gypsy ridiculousness of Gogol Bordello, trying to figure out our next move. Despite the intent of hitting the town, we couldn’t manage to agree on a place to go. From our usual haunts to the more eclectic gin joints, we ran through the list… only to be denied by disharmony.

“Well that’s all the places I can think of,” I said, staring out the window at the perpetual caravan of oddities on Santa Monica. “Anywhere you want to go?”

“No, I don’t know. I just want to do something.”

“That’s helpful.”

We had just crossed Martel, heading east, when a thought crossed my mind. I recalled a crazy night I’d had several months prior at a nearby bar. A staple of the Los Angeles dive bar scene, it’s vintage walls had once been a second home to the likes of Shannen Doherty. Before I even had a chance to say anything, the bright red exterior with its green and white awnings came into view.

“Hey,” I said quickly, “turn here!”

            “Whatever you say,” replied Mike as he swung the wheel quickly to the right. We parked on Formosa, got out of the car, and walked to the corner. “What’s this place?”

            “This, cous… is the famous Formosa Café. This place has been around since the 20’s, and has been the watering hole for countless celebrities. It’s a great landmark of a different time in a city that is rapidly gentrifying itself.”

            “Oh. I’ve never heard of it before.”

            “What,” I nearly bellowed as we entered the dimly lit interior. Framed photos of celebrities adorned the walls, displaying the bar’s popularity amongst the celebrities. “You’ve lived out here for years and you’ve never been to the Formosa? That’s just absurd. This must be resolved immediately.”

            In a mere half hour, our simple act of grabbing a beer had degraded into a savage, unrelenting drinking contest. Unfortunately for me, while my opponent was drinking beer… I had kept on with martinis. So it goes without saying, things had gotten interesting.

            “Can I ask you something,” Mike said after downing another beer.

            “Shoot,” I replied, nearly gesticulating violently and spilling my martini.

            “To do what you want to do, is there any specific place you need to be?”

            “You mean writing?”

            “Yeah.”

            I mean, technically no,” I said, pondering as I spoke. “New York definitely has the largest population of publisher and agents, but I really don’t need to be there thanks to the internet.”

            “Why did you move out here, though?”

            “Honestly, I haven’t the slightest clue.”

            “What can I say,” I said with a shrug after finishing my martini, “I like the illogical course of action! Now you’re buying the next round.”

***

            After several hours and more than our fair share of drinks, we stumbled out into the night. We’d laughed, bantered, pondered, schemed, and exchanged bullshit. We were ambling back to the car, laughing over a memory, when Mike changed topics.

            “I guess you want to get back home and start writing again?”

            “Ehhh…,” I groaned, miserable at the thought of resuming work, “not necessarily. Why, what do you have in mind?”

            “Feel like getting a couple more?”

            “If I have another martini,” I said matter-of-factly, “I’ll end up passed out on your living room floor.”

            “No cocktails,” replied Mike, clearly trying to convince me. Little did he know, I really didn’t need much convincing. “We’ll go for a couple of beers then head home.”

            “Correct me if I’m wrong, but it sounds like you’ve got a specific joint in mind?”

            “There’s a place I’ve always wanted to see,” Mike said with a grin that would have made a con artist shudder. “Have you ever been to Jumbo’s?”

***

            Jumbo’s Clown Room. If one were to combine a biker bar, a drunken circus, a roller derby, a strip club, and a former meth lab run by punk rockers… one would still be miles away from the oddity that is Jumbo’s Clown Room. It is a bar that is bizarre, miasmatic, and salacious while simultaneously humorous, lighthearted, and absurd.

            Mike and I pulled up just after 1am, hoping for a couple of quick beers while being entertained by the esoterically insane burlesque. We were quite surprised, however, when we found a line wrapped around the building. As was to be expected, a majority of the potential customers were middle-aged men with serious nicotine addiction and possible drinking problems; there were a few hipsters, clad in their flannel shirts and bringing their girlfriends for an ironic date.

            “This sucks,” I said as Mike talked to the bouncer.

            “It’s at least a forty-five minute wait to get in,” he said bitterly.

            “There is absolutely no way I’m waiting in line with these degenerates, buddy.”

            “Yeah, me neither,” said Mike. He sighed, the sound of true disappointment. “I guess we can just go home.”

            As we were walking back to the car, we passed by an unnamed Thai restaurant. There was a Thai man, dressed entirely in black and wearing sunglasses, sitting on a stool outside the restaurant.

            “Hey hey,” he said, snapping his fingers at us, “hey. We have beer. We have cold beer. Good food, cold beer. You need nothing more!”

            “Beer,” Mike and I asked in unison, our eyebrows perching up. We looked at each other, nodded, and walked into the place.

            The unnamed restaurant was an exercise in irregularity. It was dark, with glossy black tables and a multitude of eclectic artwork on the walls. And, despite the late hour, it was absolutely packed. It didn’t take Mike and me long to realize we were the only non-Thai customers in the building. Just as we sat down the waitress, a 17-year-old Thai girl with hot rod red fingernails, showed up at our table and took our drink order.

            “This is… certainly different,” Mike said as we both took in our surroundings.

            “Definitely a first for me,” I replied. Our waitress was back in a moment with our beers and, after some suggestions, took down our orders.

            A microphone crackled to life, causing us to turn to the stage. “And now ladies and gentlemen… late night karaoke!”

***

            “Can you believe this,” I shout to Mike over the clamor and cacophony in the little Thai restaurant. I just finished my drunken noodles and I’m polishing off my fourth beer.

            “You can say that again,” replies Mike. He is working on some mystery soup that was recommended by a group at the table next to us. It smells like burning tires and the byproduct of lithium battery decay. Every time he takes a bite, Mike looks like he just saw a pack of badgers attack a baby.

            “This might be one of the strangest places I’ve ever been too.” I have to shout, because by this point, half of the restaurant is singing along to the Thai-Mick Jagger on stage while the other half claps along or bangs the table with silverware. These people are on the verge of pure, unadulterated mayhem and ultraviolence: this is how karaoke brawls erupt.

            All of a sudden, the front door swings open and in walks two scantily clad women. One, a feisty looking redhead, is wearing a mini-kilt and high leather boots with a leather bikini top. The other, a voluptuous brunette, is simply wearing red high heels, a red bikini bottom, and stripper tassels covering her nipples.

            “Come on,” the redhead shouts. “Can you guys please keep it down? We can hear this guy singing through the walls and the girls are trying to perform!”

            “You out you out,” the cashier screams, running out from behind the register. “Go back to your trash bar now.”

            “We’re just asking you to keep it down please,” the essentially topless brunette asks, quite reasonably. Before the cashier answers, an actual brawl erupts outside the restaurant between two rival biker clubs. These are not the serious types that will draw weaponry and stain the parking lot with blood. No, these are the more domestic bikers who just get piss drunk and punch each other to sleep. The two burlesque dancers, the cashier, the karaoke singer, and the entire restaurant are stunned: there is only the sound of fisticuffs outside for a few seconds. Then without warning, the place erupts into madness.

            “I think that’s our cue,” I yell to Mike over the sound of hysteria.

            “Yeah, can’t argue with that one.” We leave cash on the table and casually stroll out of one maelstrom and into another.

***

            I’m driving home and I just can’t seem to stop myself from laughing. Jesus and Jodi Foster, I think. That was some of the craziest shit I’ve ever seen! I smile as my car heads north on Crescent Heights, moving in the direction of home. And I realize something as I cross Melrose: I’ve subconsciously been narrating this crazy evening the whole time. Despite my frustration and irritation and inability to write earlier in the night, my mind is right back on the page. Though I’ve learned this lesson before, it’s one that I seem to always forget.

            I love writing. I love the idea of playing with words and weaving tales into my own reality. As such, writing is usually my sanctuary. However, there are times when writing is like a viper, drawing you in with hypnotic eyes… only to strike a fatal blow. It exists as your best friend and your greatest foe, as both heaven and hell, and as ultimate purpose and punishment. So while I always manage to find myself distracted by writing, I realize there are times where I need to seek haven in distraction itself.

            There is nothing like an unexpectedly crazy night to be distracted. Tonight was just that: a litany and barrage of chaos and idiosyncratic characters, the likes of which I’d never imagine actually existed. I’ve come full circle, crossing Santa Monica Blvd on my way home. And I can’t help but feel amused at the absurdity of it: in my attempt to run away from writing for a night, madness ensues and I wind up back where I started…