A neon purple sign that reads L.A.’s flashes above the door, along with a red OPEN sign. We climb out of the car and trail Brian through the parking lot and up to the door. There are few burly patrons outside smoking cigarettes and chatting. I watch two of them go to take a drag but stop when they see us, a gaunt red-headed surfer and his bevy of women, one wearing what could easily be mistaken in some circles as a formal gown and one with Christopher Walken emblazoned across her chest. Oddly poetic.
