Nikon D7100.
Honorable mention
by Pete Whalon
Travel back in time with me for a nostalgic journey to the ‘70s and ‘80s in the South Bay. The classic beach cruise in the ‘70s and ‘80s began at 45th St. and Highland Avenue, dipped down to Manhattan Avenue and then to Hermosa Avenue, which turned into Harbor Drive, culminating at the Redondo Pier. I received my honorable discharge from the Army in 1971 after spending 22 months in Vietnam. I had just turned 22 and for the next two decades that hallowed stretch of pavement would be my “adult playground.” The bars, clubs and restaurants offering music and dancing littered those streets of the three beach cities. For a young single male on the prowl, it proved a mecca for meeting nubile, perky, suntanned chicks (yes, that’s what we called them before the invasion of political correctness). And for most of that period the Red Onion on Harbor Drive was, hands down, the quintessential stop for achieving that goal.
If you arrived at the “O” after 9 p.m. on a Friday or Saturday evening you would find a line of enthusiastic young mavericks zigzagging out the front door and down around the mosaic water fountain near the parking area. Ladies, however, were never turned away and never had to wait in lines. The whole process reminded me of fishermen throwing chum into the ocean to attract fish. As the guys stood anxiously in line waiting their turn, a steady stream of hotties in body-hugging shorts and skin tight tank tops sashayed into into the restaurant. A high school friend of mine worked as a bouncer and allowed me immediate access anytime he was working. Of course, whenever you mix alcohol, macho men with raging hormones and desirable females, chaos occasionally ensued. Over the years I did witness some of the most vicious and brutal fights in barroom brawl history. They usually involved a damsel in distress.
The most notorious bouncer working the front door during those years was a mammoth, fierce, callous looking Hawaiian dude with an impressive Fu Manchu moustache, shoulder length black hair and arms the size of telephone poles. One evening as I sat outside at the fountain talking to a hot blonde chick with perfect teeth, Fu Manchu appeared from the building dragging an unfortunate drunk by the neck. As he shoved him to the ground, Fu demanded, “Stay the f- -k outta here asshole!” As the Hawaiian returned to his position at the front door the drunk awkwardly arose from the brick walkway and made a painfully costly mistake. “Who the f- -k is gonna make me ass face!” Fu turned around as the ill-fated idiot staggered toward him. One swift, powerful punch and Mr. drunk hit the bricks like a sack of flour right in front of Blondie and me. He was out cold. A few minutes later three of flour-sack buddies came out looking for him. By this time the drunk was mumbling and moaning simultaneously. His pals began asking about who had hit him. Between spitting out blood and attempting to balance himself he agonizingly replied, “Bouncer dude with the whiskers.” His clueless toadies started talking tough. “Let’s kick his fu- – -ing ass.” Since they were only a few feet from where I sat and I wanted to impress what’s-her-name, I attempted to do the humanitarian thing by offering some sound advice. “Hey dudes, if I were you I’d just go home now. I’ve seen guys challenge him before and it did not go well for them.” Now, you’d think they would be grateful…they weren’t. The three stooges started flipping me off and firing f-bombs at me as if I had decked their comrade. So much for impressing blondie. I just sat there silently, questioning my poor decision to get involved as the trio scooped up their dented playmate and began carrying him toward the parking lot. Of course they maintained their verbal assault toward me. I took away a valuable life-lesson. Discretion is the better part of valor. In other words, keep your trap shut.
Besides the Red Onion there were a variety of hangouts close by the Redondo Harbor. One of the all-time classics, The Flying Jib, was only a few blocks away but light years removed from the clientele at the “O”. The Jib was on the corner of Broadway and Catalina, which today is part of Dive N Surf. It was a rendezvous point for hardcore druggies and alkies. The born losers. They were the wayward souls of our first generation of serious drug addicts. Inside the Jib the scraggly, motley crew were either in search of drugs, passed out on narcotics or selling the stuff. I did have some druggie friends and visited the Jib five or six times. Frankly, it proved too depressing for my taste and smelled like a pile of moldy, dirty laundry. Everybody knew that it was unwise to drive too close to the Jib on the weekends since most of the burnouts were totally wasted when they staggered out of the bar and they were usually driving ratty looking, banged up cars. It was truly an accident scene waiting to happen. On Friday and Saturday night it was commonplace to see cop cars, fire trucks and flares as you drove up or down Beryl Avenue or Catalina Avenue in Redondo.
If you grew weary of the crowd and loud music at the Onion or just wanted to go somewhere less jam-packed for a short break, you didn’t have to look far. Across the parking lot from Red Onion was Castagnola’s Lobster House. I swear, almost every time I walked into that place the house band was playing Sweet Caroline by Neil Diamond. I had nightmares with that song pounding in my head. The crowd at the Lobster House was older (boring) and more subdued (boring). Although I enjoyed the atmosphere, after a short stint I would get bored and return to the raging party next door. One of the best parts of visiting the Lobster proved to be the free gifts. Their drink glasses had a cool Lobster House logo on them, so every time I left the building I would grab a glass or two off of a table and put them in my car to later add to my growing collection at home. Although the glass was cheaply made and would crack if you played loud music, I still have one intact glass. At one time I possessed over 30 collectables of their faulty glassware.
On the other side of the “O” was Beach Bum Burt’s (now the Cheesecake factory). With its tiki décor and their retractable roof, Burt’s was a classy place and perfect location to take a date. However, their Sunday afternoon beach parties were out-of-control with bikini-clad bombshells everywhere. If you arrived too late chances are you wouldn’t get in. Unfortunately, Burt’s closed in the early ‘80s, probably because it couldn’t compete with its big brother the Onion. Around the corner from Burt’s was Ruben’s (now Joe’s Crab Shack) and the Portofino Inn (still there). Both offered decent bands with ample parking, however, much like The Lobster House, a little too laid back (boring) for me.
Another bygone treasure, The Blue Moon Saloon, sat just behind the rocks at Redondo’s breakwater. Unfortunately, it didn’t have a splash-wall . In 1988 it was wiped out by a violent storm. On Saturday and Sunday afternoons in the summer you couldn’t find a better place to party in the South Bay. If you enjoyed chicks in bikinis, reasonable drink prices and promiscuous women, it proved the perfect spot. Due to my notable work ethic, I often pulled a triple shift on weekends — Friday night until 2 a.m. at the Onion, then up for my second shift on Saturday from noon until around 5 p.m.at Blue Moon, then home to take a nap, shower and return to the scene of the crime, The Red Onion, for the Saturday night debauchery.
One afternoon while drinking at the bar in the Blue Moon with a friend we noticed the bartender snorting cocaine in the far corner of the bar area. He returned at least three times within 20 minutes for a quick blast. A few minutes later we observed him in a heated argument with an irate customer a few seats down from us. The snorter began dropping f-bombs as he stormed away from the agitated barfly. The bartender was clearly pissed at something the dude had said and he looked ready to explode. We were laughing thinking he was putting on an act until suddenly he grabbed a glass and hurled it into the sink shattering it into hundreds of pieces. A split second later I felt a slight pinch to my chin. I touched the spot and came away with blood on my fingers. There was a tiny sliver of the glass buried in my chin. The bartender never noticed that I had been hit by shrapnel. Twenty-two months in Nam and never wounded — now I’m hit by friendly fire at The Blue Moon Saloon. The manager, standing nearby, noticed that I had been injured. Before the manager confronted the coked-out bartender sulking in the corner he stopped to apologize to me. He asked me what had happened, although he already knew. The boss then offered me and my buddy free drinks for the day. However, the absolute best part of the fiasco was that he forced my goofball assailant to apologize to me, which he begrudgingly did. A few weeks later at the Blue Moon I asked a waitress if the short, stocky bartender was working and she informed me that he had been fired.
There were so many fantastic nightspots to party at during those memorable two decades, I can’t begin to recall them all. For those fortunate enough to have lived through those hazy, booze-filled glory days of the South Bay, I’ve got a serious question. Including the above mentioned establishments, how many of these joints did you frequent back in the day? Critters, Orville and Wilbur’s, The Lighthouse, The Attic (Santa Monica), The Bull Pen (still standing), La Paz, Tequila Willies, Shellback Tavern (still standing), The Rain Tree (Torrance), Pancho & Wongs, Cisco’s, Buccaneer, Besties, Pier 52, The Flagship, Ercoles (still standing). My apologies for the classic haunts I’ve omitted, due to my severely fading memory. B
