I was fast asleep, and I was having that dream again.
I could see Jack Nicholson running away from me on the ground far below. I could never understand how I barely kept up with him, chasing him with a Harrier when he was on foot. He must be a fast sprinter.
He is getting closer and closer to the bridge. I have the gun sight readied, switch weapon modes, and line up to strafe my target. I squeeze the trigger on the stick, and the world slows down. I can feel the seat of the fighter shake as each round leaves the barrel. I could hear Brian’s voice come over the radio…
“Dude! Matt! Watch this!”
The plane jarred severely to the left. My body and my head, affected by inertia, are suddenly and violently thrown to the right. The motion startles me, but doesn’t wake me, that is, at least until the right side of my head hits the canopy.
WHAP!!!
Brian and Matt were in the front seat of the car, giggling like schoolgirls. My hands began to shake from the adrenalin, and my head started to hurt from the glass it just hit. Brian had just swerved the car and slammed my head against the window, not to avoid an accident, but for mere entertainment purposes.
Rat bastard…
Matt and I had just graduated from high school 2 months earlier, and figured it would be kind of cool to do a ‘Senior Trip’ of sorts. Brian had graduated the year before us, and the three of us were about to move to Tucson to go to the U of A. Matt was to be a business major, Brian and I were engineering majors, Mechanical and Aerospace, respectively.
We were making our way to Desert Hot Springs, California, to pick up our friend Ryan, who had just moved away to be with his family. We each had two packs of clove cigarettes, and I distinctly remember telling my friends that 2 packs each was far too many cloves for a four day trip. By the end of the trip, we ended up buying a carton of cloves in addition to the ones we had already purchased.
The first night was rather laid back; we had a cheap dinner, and then ended up in downtown Palm Springs, smoking cigars and playing like we were notorious. That was of course, until the four of us got into Ryan’s 1986 Toyota Camry. I don’t care who you are; you can’t look like a badass in a Camry. The four of us barely fit in the vehicle, and I’m fairly certain that Matt, who stands 6’5”, had to stick part of his head through the sunroof to fit in the car without having to crane his neck.
Ryan lived, and worked, in Culver City, a suburb of Los Angeles. He was a Best Boy, or Key Grip, or one of the other obscure titles that you see scrolling down the screen in the credits of a movie. He worked for Sony Pictures, and had a hand in making ‘Armageddon’, among other films.
“I don’t like Ben Affleck, he smokes.”
“You smoke too, you moron!”
We spent what was left of the night in Culver City, not waking up the next morning until around three in the afternoon. We grab a bite to eat, park the car somewhere in Hollywood and start strolling down Sunset, taking in the sights. The three of us that weren’t Ryan looked very out of place.
Let me rephrase that…
We looked like monkeys, staring at a flame for the first time. You could almost smell the money in the air; you could feel the pretension in every local that passed by us. Our mouths were left agape by the things that we saw. As we paraded down Sunset, Matt glared at something that he had never partaken in at his tender age.
“Nudie bar, nudie bar, NUDIE BAR!!”
The Body Shop sat next door to The House of Blues. It happened to meet all of the requirements we were looking for in a strip club, namely, an 18 year old could walk in. While waiting in line, the four of us struck up a conversation with the bouncers, quickly learning how seriously they take security at this establishment. We found out that two out of the two bouncers could easily kick our assess blindfolded, with one hand and one leg tied behind their backs. The bouncer standing to the left of the door, checking our ID’s happened to be Mr. Korea as a part time job. The gentleman to the right of the door was a former middle linebacker for the University of Arizona. Anyone who has played football knows that middle linebackers are not to be trifled with, considering most of them are certifiably insane.
I took a seat, ordered my 2 minimum, 8-dollar cans of soda, and thought about something for a second. Something just didn’t seem right, and it didn’t hit me until all four of us were seated. I leaned over and whispered into Matt’s ear…
“Would you mind telling me how the hell you just walked through that door?”
Matt was a lot of things during this trip. He was funny, dorky, giddy, a fanboy, and a good friend. Matt was not, however, 18 for another month. I know Matt could be a smooth talker at times, but I didn’t think he could talk his way into a strip club. He reaches over to me as to shake my hand, and he slips me a card.
Clever bastard…
Matt was not resourceful enough to get himself a fake ID, he was smart enough to find a friend who happened to look exactly like him on his ID, and to ‘borrow’ it. Matt had the appropriate height, weight, hair color, eye color, and facial features to pass as Greg, a friend of ours that turned 19 shortly after I turned 18.
“If you get caught, Mr. Korea is going to make you eat that card.”
Over the next ninety minutes, we quietly sat and watched the show. Well, when I say we, I mean Ryan, Brian, and I. Matt on the other hand was as gleeful as a child in a toy store. Had I known better, I would have taken bets to see which one of us had to get up and go to the ATM first. Ryan was out of the running because the three of us were paying for all of his expenses; his birthday fell two days before we arrived.
I sat back a little and watched my best friends throw money at a woman as if they were playing darts and she was the dartboard. I began to get the feeling like walking into that place was going to end up being a costly financial mistake, especially for Brian, who loved to spend money frivolously on crap that didn’t matter. Of course, he was the first to go to the ATM.
I would have easily won the bet. As it turned out that evening, Brian ended up at the ATM more than he did the lavatory.
The four of us got our hands stamped, and went outside for a 20 minute constitutional. We lit up some cloves and walked a short distance down Sunset, having to listen to Matt babble on about how infatuated he was with one of the strippers.
“Dude, I’m telling you, she wants me!”
“Matt, the only thing she wants from you is your money!”
At this point, we walk past a street vendor who happens to be selling single roses for $8 a piece. The vendor put a (albeit bad) idea into Matt’s head. He decides that a rose is a good way for the stripper to notice him. Normally, I wouldn’t give a damn, but he had to go and borrow 3 bucks from me to get the 8 dollars he needed.
Matt ended up being the second to go to the ATM.
We took our seats again and all hell broke loose. I have never once seen my friends spend so much money in so short of a time period on NOTHING. Apparently, they felt as if the money wasn’t being spent fast enough, so everyone went straight from the dollar bills to the lap dances!
Matt gives his favorite girl the rose, she gives him a very gentile, ‘Thank you!’ and she walks off.
8 dollars well spent…
I was the third to go to the ATM, not because I went crazy with the lap dances, but because I had one, and paid for one for Ryan. It was his birthday after all.
Matt shelled out his money for three lap dances, but Brian went nuts. By the time the night was over, I would have to estimate that Brian purchased at least 8 dances, 5 for himself, two for Ryan, and one for Matt.
I take a look back at the ATM, and see Ryan standing in line.
“Matt is out of money in his account, I am lending him a few bucks.”
All of us, save Ryan, awoke the next morning and made phone calls to our parents back home, requesting that more money be deposited into our checking accounts. We made a pact with each other not to discuss the previous night’s activities with anyone.
"Uh... we spent a little too much on 'dinner' last night, can you float me some cash?"
We were on our way to the bank the next afternoon, to retrieve the money that was left for us by our unknowing parents. About half a block away from the bank, we are sitting at the stop light, smoking, and waiting for the light to change, when suddenly the car is hit. Surprised, angry, but uninjured, Ryan shifts into park, jumps out of the car and slams the door.
In true L.A. style, Ryan inspects the damage on his prized vehicle, yells at the driver of the car that just rear-ended him, gets back in his car, and drives off as if nothing happened. Apparently, as he explained on the way to the bank, things like this happen to him all the time, and it's just not worth the time it takes to file a report to repair such superficial damage.
What can I say? It's his car after all...
The next stop on our tour was Huntington Beach. We had no real plan of attack, really, it was more of a ‘lets walk around like a few idiots and see what happens’ sort of thing. We bought a few more cigars and started walking down the shoreline, staring at all the oceanfront property that we couldn’t afford.
“Dude, with all these beach houses, someone has got to be partying!”
As what usually happened in situations such as this, I was delegated the official bullshitter. I was given the task of talking to random girls and finding us a party to crash. The four of us took a seat on a bench, lit up our cigars, and I started to line up possible victims… I mean marks.
There are certain things I would look for in a mark. Age, height, confidence, hair length, clothing, how many people she was with, and how innocent she looked (yes, I was a little devious back then) are all factors. Optimally, the type of girl I would look for would be in their early to mid twenties. She would range between 5’4” and 5’8” in height, just shorter than me. She would be confident enough that she wouldn’t be freaked out by a conversation with a random guy, but not so cocky that she would stick her nose up at you and walk away. Plus, you want to pick someone who has friends and a place to go. Hair length had to be at least to her shoulders, don’t ask me why, it’s just always been the case. She would have to dress casual, to semi-casual, looking like she was going to a gathering, but not trying to catch anyone’s eye.
She absolutely MUST be either alone, or with one other person. If she is with one other person, the other person MUST be female with the same attributes that she has. This is one of the most important rules when picking a mark. The more girls there are, the greater chance there is that one of them will see through your bullshit, and you just can’t have that. Besides, one guy walking up to one or two girls looks semi-normal. One guy walking up to four or five girls looks like a loser.
All of the factors mentioned combined together determine what I like to call ‘The Innocence Factor.’ Basically, you are looking for someone innocent enough to believe your bullshit, but someone who looked like they partied once in a while.
Make no mistake, when doing things such as this my goal was not to hook up with the chick. I was 18 so I was looking for booze.
I spotted my mark walking our way. She was 5’6”, 22, and had shoulder length sandy blonde hair. She was wearing a t-shirt and a pair of jeans, and she looked like she was on her way somewhere, but wasn’t really in a hurry to get there.
“Guys, get up and stand near the statue behind me, wait there for me.”
She gets closer to the place that I am sitting, and I feign a glance at her. I want her to notice that I have seen her, but I don’t want her to think that I have been staring at her. I wait until she is precisely three steps past me before I say anything. I want her to believe that it is an afterthought to say something, not that I had her marked 100 yards earlier.
“Excuse me, miss… My friends and I are in town for the weekend, and we were trying to find out what there is to do around here at night, would you have any ideas?”
“Well, what kind of things do you guys like to do?”
I’m in.
She begins by telling me of all the bars and clubs in the neighborhood, which makes things that much easier for me, because I don’t have to try to make her believe I’m over 21. But on the other hand, I have to explain to her why I don’t want to go to a bar.
“We were actually thinking of something a little more intimate, like a house party. We just aren’t that much into the bar or club scene…”
…Because we can’t get into one…
Her pager goes off, and I am sensing trouble. She jots over to a nearby pay phone, makes a quick call, comes back and we start up the conversation all over again.
“That was just one of my girlfriends from school…”
“School? Really?”
“Yeah, I’m a senior at (insert local college name here).”
“My friends and I just graduated from the U of A! We are just doing a road trip to celebrate before we start grad school!”
Admittedly, I just dug myself into a hole. The only way out of this bullshit is more and more and more bullshit. Unfortunately, as most of my friends will attest, I had a unique proclivity for seeing how far I can push before someone calls me on it.
I threw off my gloves and let everything fly. I started talking about the projects that Brian and I collaborated on for our internships right before graduation. Somehow the two of is ended up being key design team members of the Mars Pathfinder mission. Matt did his required internship for Solomon Smith Barney as a part time stockbroker. Ryan, who wasn’t even planning on going to college, was the second chair violinist Palm Springs Symphony Orchestra.
“Well, my friend that just paged me just told me about a party going on down the street. Would you guys like to go?”
“Why don’t you write the directions down, while I go let them know what’s going on….”
I had seemed to forget the most important rule of bullshitting, don’t ever, EVER use an accomplice if you have never seen his poker face. I turn to go talk to my friends to see the three of them wrestling around in the sand. I flash a quick thumbs up, and my friends go flipping nuts. Each one of them began dancing and giving each other hi-fives like they had just scored the wining touchdown in the Super Bowl. I flash an angry glare at them and the halt their exuberance, at least for a second.
Moronic bastards…
I turn around and the girl that I had just spent the last half hour of my life talking to, in an attempt to get free drinks, had vanished. I’m willing to bet that she didn’t want to party with a few guys that start doing the chicken dance for no apparent reason.
Oh well, so much for the party.
Somehow, that evening we end up cruising up and down Sunset again. I’m sure it had to do with the proximity of Hollywood to Culver City, and lack of available things to do. As we begin to approach The Body Shop, Matt, all of a sudden, becomes a strip club detector. The closer we got to the club, the faster he began to chant.
“Nudie bar, nudie bar, nudie bar!”
We would slow down as we approached, then slowly passed the club and laughed as the chant changed from excited to gradually more and more disappointed. The phrase came out of his mouth slower and slower as we drove.
“Nudie bar…nudie bar...”
After milling about Hollywood and driving by some houses in some of the ritzier parts of town, we ended up on our way to a taco stand of some kind, with the windows rolled down, listening to Loveline.
Another unfortunate mistake made on this road trip.
In the mid to late ‘90s, there was only one thing that Matthew loved more than naked chicks, and that was his favorite band, Korn. A few members of the band happened to be guests on the radio show that evening, and of course Matt, the fanboy that he is, had to get his question in to the band before the show went off the air for the night.
He only had 90 minutes, so he had to act fast. We went through the drive-thru of the ubiquitous taco stand, grabbed our food, and stopped at the nearest convenience store we could find with more than one phone booth, and Matt got to work. I have known Matt for 11 years now, I played football along side him for three of those years. I have never seen him act with as much determination and vigor has he did that night.
With one receiver on the left ear and one on the right he began dialing the number for Loveline faster than my eyes could see. He would hear either a busy signal or no answer, thumb the phone hook and dial again, and again, and again. The pattern continued for about 40 minutes until Ryan piped up and planted a seed of an atrocious idea into Matt’s head.
“Luci, the studio where they tape the show is like ten minutes away, I have passed buy it a few dozen times.”
I think you know where I am headed with this.
The four of us pile back into Ryan’s Camry and drive to a secluded part of Culver City, an area of town that you would never expect to exist in the shadow of Hollywood. The roads were unpaved and unlit. There were no trees to be seen, and the properties were spaced apart like a rural community. We pulled up to a gated complex that was obviously a radio studio. It’s rather difficult to be clandestine with two one-hundred-foot radio towers in your front yard. Matt gets out of the car and buzzes security through the intercom for the gates.
“We heard that Korn is there, can we ask them a quick question?”
“Sir, I have no idea what the hell you are talking about.”
“We aren’t leaving until I get to ask them a question!”
“Sir, if you don’t leave the premises immediately, I will be forced to call the police!”
On our way to Ryan’s place, Matt finally got the answer to the question he so desperately wanted to ask. Apparently, he wasn’t the only fanboy in the country who was absolutely dying to know where the band got their name. Upon hearing the answer to the question, Matt confirmed that he had just wasted 90 minutes of my life.
“That’s what I read, but I just wanted to double check…”
Back home now, with more stories to tell than I can fit into this writing, my parents make a generous gesture to my friends, and the seven of us, Brian, Matt, my family and I are all treated to dinner at Famous Sam’s. I am in the middle of one of the tastiest burgers I have ever had in my life and I see a light bulb begin to hover over my dad’s head.
I can see his eyes light up like he just solved a mystery. I could hear the gears grinding away as he put two and two together. There were 3 18 year olds, one 19 year old, meandering about L.A. with nothing to do. There was the call, begging for more money. My dad stares at me and smiles, and in front of my 13 and nine year old brothers, utters something that shocks the hell out of the three of us.
“So guys, how was the titty bar?”
The three of us are in stunned silence, are eyes are wide open, like deer caught in the headlights. I start choking on my burger, as I try to play the statement off like I have no idea what he was talking about. I am about to deny the allegation placed on me when Matt turns to me and blows the whole thing wide open.
“Dude, I thought you weren’t going to tell anyone!”
“I didn’t, but you sure as hell just did!”
Fresh start
12 years ago
