Big Trouble in L.A.

I was headed to a gig in downtown Los Angeles. I would tell you the address if I could remember, but I have a bad memory, and all these shows are a blur. Like the days of the week, one after the other, melting into oblivion. I put the dates in my calendar and when the time comes, I use my phone GPS and drive like a mindless hamster on his wheel. I walked late at night in New York and felt safe. Maybe because I’m a guy but mostly because I’m absent minded. I have ample experience riding subways alone and meandering barren streets. I've worn a Ganesha necklace (God of Protection) for thirty years, which has led me to believe that I'm Batman.

L.A. is different. An assortment of different realms: Pasadena, Santa Monica, Los Feliz. Indigenous worlds with unique cultures and vibes.

I took a wrong turn. I was supposed to go left instead of right and boldly strayed from a computer program calibrated to Earth. My car inched through a derelict portal to hell.

“MAKE A U-TURN,” my GPS commanded.

Easier said than done on a one-way street. I took a left turn onto a darker road and saw shadow glimpses moving ahead. I flicked on my high beams.

There’s this fight scene in this cool eighties movie, “Big Trouble in Little China.” People doing karate, flying through the air and attacking each other with knives and chains. And then these karate Gods dive out of the sky and kick everybody’s ass.

That’s what I told my friend when he asked where I got lost, and why I didn’t make his show. I stumbled upon a movie set with no film crew. They had weapons. I swear I saw a guy with a katana. A possible dead guy laid out on the cement. My white beams froze everyone. Three seconds extended into an eternity. One of them ran toward me and yelled incoherently. (Maybe directions to the nearest highway?) I couldn’t hear because I threw my car in reverse and disappeared into black.