Serendipity

Prior to my flight from NY to LA, I scavenged an assortment of pharmaceuticals necessary for smooth travel. I popped a Xanax while waiting to board and once in my seat, I chased it with a vike. The girl next to me was young and attractive, which is contrary to the odd-smelling geriatric I usually get. I found the cabin temperature to be cool, but she stripped down to a skimpy tank-top and gently brushed my side as she shifted her position. Any attempt at speech on my part would have played out like a tranquilized Will Farrell in Old School. I drifted off, eyes closed and neurons dancing gaily to the iPod shuffle.

I arrived at LAX in a proper frame of mind. My luggage spit out promptly and my dear friend Janine was waiting outside the terminal. We whisked off in her sporty convertible to a Mexican restaurant, where I immediately ordered a margarita.

Day two in the downtown office and a colleague suggested I check out the Dresden, which was featured in the movie Swingers. As it was on the way back to the hotel, I decided to give it a shot.

I emerged from the train station at Vermont and Sunset, confronted by a busy intersection. I had no idea which direction to go, so I phoned the office. After I relayed my bearings, they confirmed I was headed the right way.

There was a film crew across the street from the Dresden with blinding lights. I eagerly took refuge inside. The place was familiar, whether from Swingers or my imagination, I'm not sure. I took a seat at the bar beside a cast of characters straight out of a Bukowski novel, but there was no bartender. I had a message on my phone from Janine, so I went outside to answer it and scout my options. The sidewalk was empty and then there was a lone passerby ... my friend, Hoda! The odds were impossible! Random! Absurd!

We crossed the street to the Tiger Lilly Lounge and ordered drinks and I was delighted to have company in a strange place. To think we lived in the same neighborhood in Brooklyn for years and never had occasion to bump into each other.

We hopped over to The Vermont for mojitos and afterward Hoda had to ask a patron for directions to the highway and I had to ask the bartender about the train schedule.

I went back to the hotel and it was still early, so I headed over to the City Walk where I heard music thundering down from a place called Howl at the Moon. Behold, dueling pianos complete with a house band and patrons lined up to perform a song of their choosing. I ordered a beer and this guy operating under the name of Fat Navajo worked the crowd into a frenzy with a bluesy rendition of Stormy Monday. To my left, two women were dancing like nobody's business while their friends fed them shots of tequila. Finally, they jumped on stage and shook their moneymakers to the delight of the crowd and the boys in the band.





The End.