Music and grit and Hollywood nights

It was a damp and chilly Friday night, one where I spent an hour in traffic to crawl from West LA to West Hollywood, and I memorized every Jimmy Eat World lyric from their latest CD on the way to my friend's place. The original plan was to eat at an Argentine Grill, but we had to bail since I was late, and we found ourselves at a bungalow-shack off of Sana Monica Blvd. It was called "Boulevard" (not be be confused with the club "Blvd 3") and although it looked like a half bungalow-half train car on the outside, inside it welcomed you with the warmth of walnut floors, candles sparkling and the sweet tones of Marvin Gaye. I found myself singing along to these and other oldies as I pulled meat from my lemon rosemary chicken and sipped a decent merlot.

After reclaiming my car from the valet and making sure my precious Scrabble game was still safe and sound in the back seat (don't ask), the night swept us to Hollywood. Not West Hollywood, but the real Hollywood, old-school style. We were headed to hear some live music, singer-songwriter types, at a place called Hotel Cafe just south of Hollywood Blvd, in the heart of where it all used to be. Antique neon signs glowed past my window as we drove, and hipsters and musicians and gays and crazies from all different compartments of life roamed the streets and let the night guide them to wherever they wanted to go, or didn't know they were going.

I liked Hotel Cafe before I even went inside. The front doors were sealed and we must have passed at least six signs telling us to "Go around back" and "Keep going" and "Door around the corner." Waltzing inside, late to hear my friend-of-a-friend's band play, I truly felt as though entering an old ghostly hotel, with lighting reminiscent of the 40s, checkered tile floors and a dimly lit oak-countered bar, complete with a bartender with a heavy pour. I was at home, in so many ways. The singer sang on stage with a grainy voice, an echo of David Gray, and we caught the last two songs before the next band stepped up to tune their guitars. The entire place couldn't hold more than 50 fans, so when people sang you felt as though they sang with you in mind, that you were receiving a private show.

A few hours passed and a group of us decided to explore. We walked across the street to a place called Beauty, the shell of what used to be a beauty parlor in the 50s. Once again, there was the checkered floors, and lining the side of Beauty were old beauty parlor chairs and hair dryers. The walls let off peach-aqua glows, soft and retro. A rebellious looking DJ with choppy punk black hair and thick eye liner played a stream of oldies that spoke to the time the bar was in the hair cutting business. The crowd was an ecclectic mix of preppies like myself out for a night not their own, men with painted nails, the frat boys I was with and girls laughing and laughing, mouths wide open with lipstick on thick, the shade of blood. In walked a man-woman off the street. It was a "he," I knew that much, but he was 6'3" and black with the body of a dancer. He wore eye make up, had his hair in a bob and a slinky black skirt touched the skin of his knees. He strolled into Beauty like he owned the place, started feeling the music, nodding that bob of his and he danced in front of the DJ, alone, for at least an hour. The best part is that heads turned only when he first walked in, just for the briefest moment, and then he became lost in Beauty.

There was a drink special there: 10 bucks for a drink and a henna tattoo. A steal!

Next: a place called The Room (not to be confused with The Other Room in Venice). Room was jazzy and oldies combined; burgundy leather; walls of wood; dark hallways and secret corners. People grooved to the music rhythmically; women walked by with too much cleavage; my friends and I danced our way to the back, exploring and observing and just being. I ordered a glass of pinot noir here since it felt appropriate, but I was told that I looked like I was drinking from a goblet, and that I should have the wine in one hand and a turkey leg in the other. I agreed.

After this, Big Wangs. I am pretty sure this is the local VT football dive bar. It smelled of fat: fried onion rings, burgers, fries. I felt like the people in the bar went along with the greasy food--they sloshed their beer enthusiastically, took over the red-and-white checkered tables like swarms of bees and pretended not to notice the hot air that suffocated us all. We didn't stay long.

Last, a gay bar called the Spotlight. The sign was a royal blue awning with a rainbow flag. Only four of us made it in; one of the frat guys turned around at the door, stating, "Awww, dude, I can't do this!" and turned around and left. The four of us sat down and we must have been the youngest four people in that bar. It was pretty dead. Sad music radiated from a jukebox up against the wall. It seemed as though everyone in that bar was sad, so sad, and as though no one but the four of us talked to each other and laughed.

We left as fast as we came, up the gritty streets of Hollywood, through the traffic, and into the hills.