A while back my friend Max invited me up to Lompoc, CA for a weekend with his folks. Dropping everything and going was a no brainer on four fronts:
1. I’ve never been there
2. It’s wine country
3. Lompoc is home to Playboy magazine’s 6th best dive bar in the country
4. I was told there was a strong possibility of his father drifting off mid-conversation and playing the banjo, and that sounded really entertaining
We tossed a couple of bags in the Honda and left early on a Saturday morning. Along the way north we saw two members of a motorcycle club almost die in a screeching wreck on the 101 and I took a leak in a random porta potty on Santa Claus Lane (yes, this exists and it is littered with well kept outhouses, presumably for the use of its aging residents out for their afternoon stroll when the urge strikes) near Ventura. I consider both of these a relief though for different reasons.
1. I’ve never been there
2. It’s wine country
3. Lompoc is home to Playboy magazine’s 6th best dive bar in the country
4. I was told there was a strong possibility of his father drifting off mid-conversation and playing the banjo, and that sounded really entertaining
We tossed a couple of bags in the Honda and left early on a Saturday morning. Along the way north we saw two members of a motorcycle club almost die in a screeching wreck on the 101 and I took a leak in a random porta potty on Santa Claus Lane (yes, this exists and it is littered with well kept outhouses, presumably for the use of its aging residents out for their afternoon stroll when the urge strikes) near Ventura. I consider both of these a relief though for different reasons.
Lompoc is a smallish town in Santa Barbara County near the Danish tourist trap of Solvang. There is not a whole lot going on in these parts. There are some modest homes, a mission (La Purisma Concepcion) and a prison (the most notable inmates include members of Nixon’s cabinet who served there for their varying degrees of perjury and shadiness).
One thing I learned quickly about the residents of Lompoc is that they are very eager to impart their knowledge on the filming locations of the movie Sideways. Unbeknownst to me beforehand, the Academy Award winning Paul Giamatti film was shot in and around Lompoc. This is clearly the greatest thing to happen to the area since they chased the last of the Indians out and built the first Tex-Mex restaurant. I’d read the book and seen the movie years before – thought both were rather good – and then forced Alyssa to watch it, against her better judgment, when I got back to town. Apparently I’d drank the Kool-Aid while I was up there as I was spouting things like “It’s a great movie!”, and then eventually, “Don’t worry…it’s about to get good”, until realizing at the end that it’s actually pretty bad and she was right all along. Moral: a woman’s intuition is stronger than everything you think you know.
Anyway, Max’s family is incredibly inviting and the cold cut sandwiches were delicious, but by 9 that evening I was ready to see the local watering holes.
One thing I learned quickly about the residents of Lompoc is that they are very eager to impart their knowledge on the filming locations of the movie Sideways. Unbeknownst to me beforehand, the Academy Award winning Paul Giamatti film was shot in and around Lompoc. This is clearly the greatest thing to happen to the area since they chased the last of the Indians out and built the first Tex-Mex restaurant. I’d read the book and seen the movie years before – thought both were rather good – and then forced Alyssa to watch it, against her better judgment, when I got back to town. Apparently I’d drank the Kool-Aid while I was up there as I was spouting things like “It’s a great movie!”, and then eventually, “Don’t worry…it’s about to get good”, until realizing at the end that it’s actually pretty bad and she was right all along. Moral: a woman’s intuition is stronger than everything you think you know.
Anyway, Max’s family is incredibly inviting and the cold cut sandwiches were delicious, but by 9 that evening I was ready to see the local watering holes.
Occasionally I make poor decisions, and as a shining example I should have known better than to trust Playboy for a dive bar recommendation. There is a reason I haven’t picked up that magazine since I was about 12 years old - and only then because the Romanian family on my street had a looser (or more worldly) set of ethics and kept them in the bathroom. The publisher of a glossy, airbrushed, semi-nude publication is a bit removed from low-brow drinking culture, however, they’d recently paid a walking herpes sore named Lindsay Lohan a gang of cash to show her freckled tits so maybe they were attempting to cater more to the gutter set.
Jasper’s Saloon, one of Playboy’s esteemed dives, is just another bar where someone thought that nailing a bunch of junk from the neighborhood hoarder’s shed would give it character. Although there was a pretty good mix of bearded prospector types, rednecks and clean cut folks, I was immediately soured by a DJ playing shitty dance music from his Mac Book in the corner by the door. Upside: they offer free shuffleboard. We decided to stay for a few drinks.
Jasper’s Saloon, one of Playboy’s esteemed dives, is just another bar where someone thought that nailing a bunch of junk from the neighborhood hoarder’s shed would give it character. Although there was a pretty good mix of bearded prospector types, rednecks and clean cut folks, I was immediately soured by a DJ playing shitty dance music from his Mac Book in the corner by the door. Upside: they offer free shuffleboard. We decided to stay for a few drinks.
Now, neither of us has read the user’s manual on this and are not totally clear on the rules of play, but sliding the puck thingy up and down the table and making fun of each other for presumably bad plays is good enough to add some form of activity to counteract idle beer consumption.
Shortly, two incredibly drunk women stumble up to let us know that we are now playing doubles with them. The ringleader sends her friend to Max’s end of the table while she proceeds to explain to me her version of the rules through vodka fumes. She began waving her wedding ring around and using my shoulder to stay vertical. I think to myself:
1. Which one of the drunken rednecks here is her husband?
2. Which direction will he come at me from when he thinks I’m trying to pickup his beast of a wife and can I use the wall to cover my flank?
3. Am I sober enough to win a fight with a drunken redneck in his bar with his buddies around?
I conclude that I will not be loosing a few teeth this evening when two other drunk women trip over to remind the ringleader that they promised their husbands that they’d be home early. Apparently it’s Ladies Night, which started sometime around 10am. One reached over and tugged on my beard while agreeing with the ringleader that, yes, Max is a great match for their friend even though she called him Chad and kept screaming “Max!” at me. At this point, the stag mumbled something from the other end of the table that sounded like “I’m way too fucked up for this”, attempted to walk towards her friends, tumbled into a table full of drinks and lay moaning on the floor. All four were summarily ejected. Sometimes your problems work themselves out…
Shortly, two incredibly drunk women stumble up to let us know that we are now playing doubles with them. The ringleader sends her friend to Max’s end of the table while she proceeds to explain to me her version of the rules through vodka fumes. She began waving her wedding ring around and using my shoulder to stay vertical. I think to myself:
1. Which one of the drunken rednecks here is her husband?
2. Which direction will he come at me from when he thinks I’m trying to pickup his beast of a wife and can I use the wall to cover my flank?
3. Am I sober enough to win a fight with a drunken redneck in his bar with his buddies around?
I conclude that I will not be loosing a few teeth this evening when two other drunk women trip over to remind the ringleader that they promised their husbands that they’d be home early. Apparently it’s Ladies Night, which started sometime around 10am. One reached over and tugged on my beard while agreeing with the ringleader that, yes, Max is a great match for their friend even though she called him Chad and kept screaming “Max!” at me. At this point, the stag mumbled something from the other end of the table that sounded like “I’m way too fucked up for this”, attempted to walk towards her friends, tumbled into a table full of drinks and lay moaning on the floor. All four were summarily ejected. Sometimes your problems work themselves out…
We decide to walk across the street to the Wicked Shamrock. Yep, this is more like it. It’s peak bar time by now and this place is mellow: big space with an old bar, couple of pool tables and a juke. No frills. There are a handful of people banging balls on the table and the rest are slunk over the bar; elbows up, heads held low towards their drinks with grim determination. The bartender (pregnant) never let a bottle dry before putting another in front of you. We plugged the juke with some Dio and Zeppelin and watched the local crazy drink Sprite and order at least ten 50-cent bags of Cheetos while we swilled cheap Budweiser and argued about bands. There are few things better than this.
Sufficiently buzzed and now eager for live music, we headed to Johnny’s Bar & Grill, the only live venue in town. This place was packed. About all I remember of this joint is that it was clean, there was Guinness on tap and they had a stage. We were lucky enough to move in on a high top table in front of the stage just as some people were leaving. The band that evening was a crappy greaser rockabilly combo with a lead singer that looked like a slightly more effeminate version of Michael Madsen’s portrayal of Tom Baker in The Doors. Although we couldn’t stop laughing at the time, I think I left pissed off for some reason.
Sufficiently buzzed and now eager for live music, we headed to Johnny’s Bar & Grill, the only live venue in town. This place was packed. About all I remember of this joint is that it was clean, there was Guinness on tap and they had a stage. We were lucky enough to move in on a high top table in front of the stage just as some people were leaving. The band that evening was a crappy greaser rockabilly combo with a lead singer that looked like a slightly more effeminate version of Michael Madsen’s portrayal of Tom Baker in The Doors. Although we couldn’t stop laughing at the time, I think I left pissed off for some reason.
That night, back at the homestead, I slept on an air mattress in a room filled with creepy porcelain dolls and had horrible dreams. I haven’t the slightest idea how that could have possibly happened…
Before heading back to Los Angeles on Sunday evening, Max’s mother gave me this pin:
Before heading back to Los Angeles on Sunday evening, Max’s mother gave me this pin:
Yes, I think I do.
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