The Intersection of Hollywood and Surrealism

They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, but in Los Angeles, story theft is the sincerest sign of a good anecdote. I once had a friend who loved this story so much he started telling it as his own. I only found out when it looped back to me through a mutual friend.

But this really happened. It happened on January 17, 1994—the morning the ground decided to swallow the city.

At the time, I was living in West Los Angeles, near Venice and Sepulveda. My apartment was a two-level townhome built on top of a parking garage. Around 4:30 AM, I woke up to absolute chaos.

The building was shaking so violently that I sat up in bed and started yelling at the top of my lungs, but I couldn’t even hear myself over the roar. It sounded like a freight train was coming directly through my bedroom. When it finally stopped, I realized a three-foot high school trophy had fallen from a shelf and landed literally inches from me, it’s winged virgin poised to skewer me. Downstairs, things had spilled out of cabinets, but miraculously, a few drywall cracks were the extent of the damage.

My landline rang—remember, this was 1994, so no cell phones, just beepers. It was the charming young woman I was dating at the time who lived in Studio City. Her mother was visiting from Albuquerque, and both of them were terrified, pleading for me to come up. Being a young man trying to be brave, I told them I was on my way.

I grabbed the keys to my Honda Civic and slid a tape into the deck—likely the dark, synth-heavy pulse of Miles Davis’s Amandla. It felt like the only appropriate soundtrack for a city in ruins. I avoided the freeways, fearing collapse (a good call, as several did), and started winding over the Sepulveda Pass. Even the surface streets weren’t safe; the road was littered with what I can only describe as “microwave-sized” boulders.

When I reached Ventura Boulevard, the world looked apocalyptic. Plate glass from every shop had shattered into the streets like glittering rivers. Fire hydrants had burst, shooting water 100 feet into the air. With no electricity, the entire seven-lane boulevard was pitch black, lit only by the strobe lights of fire trucks and the eerie shimmer of the geysers.

I had to drive directly down the middle of the street to avoid the debris. I slowly navigated all the way to Laurel Canyon Boulevard, where I pulled up to the intersection and stopped.

I was the only person out driving. The silence was heavy. Then, coming the other way out of the inky blackness, I saw a silhouette on a black beach cruiser bicycle.

He was wearing all black and holding a flashlight. As he pedaled closer into the beam of my headlights, I froze.

It was Michael Richards.

Kramer from Seinfeld.

He had the crazy, wild hair, and he was looking around with those wide, manic eyes, his flashlight beam darting everywhere. It was the most surreal thing I’ve ever seen: an iconic, zany character riding a bike through a dark, destroyed city. He slowly pedaled past me, and I made my turn in a daze.

When I finally got to my girlfriend’s house, they ran out into the street, crying with relief. “Oh my God, thank you for coming! We were so scared!”

I was completely wired, my heart still racing from the boulders, the geysers, and the earthquake. I just blurted out: “Hey! You guys! I just saw Kramer!”

In that moment of pure terror and chaos, everyone just broke out laughing. It was the perfect, bizarre, utterly Los Angeles end to the most frightening morning of my life.

Decades later, I'm still trying to 'look like me' on the bandstand. Hope to see you at one of these upcoming shows:

Mar 11 - The Brian Swartz Quintet - Sam First, Los Angeles, CA

Mar 13 - Oingo Boingo Former Members - House of Blues, Anaheim, CA

Mar 14 - Oingo Boingo Former Members - Stage Red, Fontana, CA