A few months ago I dropped by Burbank's Whiskey Bend bar for their open mike stand up show. The Bend was eerily reminiscent of a dozen bars in a dozen backwater burgs my comedic travels allowed me the displeasure of visiting: Daleville, Alabama, Fernley, Nevada, Dundee, Florida, et al. The Bend's roomy interior and nondescript décor gave the impression that it had been a warehouse or a barn before becoming a nightlife venue. The bar began a few feet to the right of the main entrance and ran the length of the Western most wall. The hand full of broken, middle-aged men intermittently lining it conversed in country songs. The wide-open central area hosted a jukebox, a few cocktail rounds and two decrepit pool tables. A surprisingly adequate stage sprang from the wall opposite the bar. Several comics sat along its perimeter patiently awaiting their turn to perform.
Standing out like cellulite on a Supermodel were two Latinos in their early twenties. One amused himself by halfheartedly poking at pool balls, the other by engaging in acts of duesch baggery including but not limited to shouting swear words and bullying the show's middle-aged, one hundred and thirty pound emcee.
I hadn't been there more than an hour when I heard a heated, boisterous verbal exchange erupt. I turned to see the Loud Latino staring down a tattooed Irish tough who outweighed him by about thirty pounds (most of it muscle). The way they spoke to each other made it clear that they'd met before, and the degree of their animosity spoke to more than a stolen parking space. It seems that the specter of a life threatening beating compelled the Cowardly Latin to embrace a pacifist philosophy. He began proselytizing the virtues of peace, but The Mad Mc wasn't buying. The bar owner and bartender tried to diffuse the face off by repeatedly placing themselves between the two men. Their efforts stalled the brawl but did nothing to diminish The Mad Mc's rage. Realizing that his pleas for clemency were falling on deaf ears Spanish picked up a pool cue, but when he drew back the bartender swiped it out of his hands. Meanwhile, camouflaged by the commotion, Latino's buddy snuck up behind Mighty Mc and cracked him in the cranium with a cue ball instantly knocking him out. The bar owner seized the sudden respite to exile the two Latinos.
A minute or two later the Irishman came to. The moment he regained an erect posture the bar's owner ordered him out with his companion in tow. Irish tractably complied, but only after removing his Hanes Tee and using it to stymie the ruby river pouring from his head wound. The bar staff had seen enough drama for one night. They announced that the show was over and the bar officially closed. The Comics began plodding towards the exit without protest. I decided to void my bladder before beginning my homeward jaunt. In the time it took me to pee, flush, wash my hands and walk to the door, Irish and his wingman caught up to their Latin counterparts in the parking lot. One member of the Caucasian Duo pulled a knife. One of the Hispanics pulled a gun and fired a round into the air in response.
I was approaching the main door when a clown car's worth of comics nearly broke it down re-entering the bar, several of them shouting that a shot had been fired. Afraid that the gun might make its way inside they took shelter behind the first solid objects they found. Fortunately that one warning shot marked the end of that night's violence.
Long after the bad guys had left the COPS showed up. By then the comics had convened in the parking lot to recap what had happened. The COPS asked each person for their account of what had taken place. What followed was high irony, several stand-ups who bared their souls and shared their skeletons to silence only an hour before earned belly laughs from their peers simply by speaking without pretense. One officer asked a tall, dark haired comic, "Did they say where they were going?" "They said they were headed to T-J Sir," Dark Haired Comic replied, "To fuck brown bitches for fifty bucks." A different officer queried another comic, "Where were you when the shots were fired?" The young man turned, pointed, and with the utmost sincerity answered, "See those bushes down the block?"
