At the Moth

Across 5th Street from the main Post Office sits one of the semi-anonymous clubs of Santa Monica, Zanzibar. It is more up front about its presence than most, with a large sign on the corner and a small marquee listing upcoming acts. Not like that place on Santa Monica Blvd that doesn't have a name, but some nights has a bouncer and a line outside. But without that sign, Zanzibar looks like just another of Santa Monica's many warehouse/light industrial one story boxes.

Last night, there was a line down the front of the club and around the corner. I parked in front of the library two blocks away and joined the line, by myself in a line mostly of pairs of people. Behind me were two white girls talking about a wedding one of them was going to, her bridesmaid dress and its expensive alterations, the oddity of the bridal shower a few months ago. In an excellent gesture towards friendliness on what for around here was an exceedingly cool evening that made me wish I had grabbed a jacket over my sweater, the management had stationed a volunteer to hang out at the end of the line handing out slips of paper for anyone who wanted to to write a one sentence story of the craziest "after hours" adventure they had been in.

The line moved in fits and starts as groups passed the doorman, paid their entrance, and were released in to find a place to stand. I ordered a beer and found a spot near the bar, the night's festivities just getting started on stage. The room is full, perhaps near its fire department mandated maximum of 212 persons, seats around, standing behind, a crowd at and around the bar. It's buzzing but not loud, friendly but focused on stage.

The MC, perhaps an aspiring comedian? in any case quite comfortable with the mic and the crowd, vulgar and funny, as she described the night's rules. Put your name in the hat if you want to tell a story. Three teams of judges, volunteers from the audience who signed up earlier. Five minutes, then you get a signal on the ocarina (the ocarina of time?) to wrap it up. Six minutes, a louder signal. Seven minutes, they play it in your ear and your score goes down down down. Five storytellers, intermission to grab a beer, five more, pick a winner to go to the GrandSlam next month, go home. It is a Wednesday night, after all.

And stories. True stories, stories of adventures after hours, at pool parties and in strange apartments, hitchhiking through Tennessee and a man with tattoos not remembering how to breath fire. Five maybe regular people, all but one professionally smooth on stage, practiced, putting in jokes and little details and turns of phrase, not quite to the point of poignancy and rarely capturing a mood and fully setting and fleshing out the scene from their recollections of wild days gone past, but fun, enthusiastic, captivating.

It is nearly nine when I leave, walk back to my car through the still open library to pick up a book and stop by the reception for the Swiss Consulate-sponsored coffee table book of photos of glaciers for a chocolate or two, collect myself, drive home the twenty blocks through familiar streets.

Yesterday's run destination: Washington Ave.

Yesterday's menu:
breakfast: cinnamon toast crunch and coffee
lunch: chicken and potatoes
dinner: bean quesadillas