First of all, welcome everyone to 2021! For those of you reading this, we made it. For those of you not reading this, well, congrats anyway. I begin 2021 and Where the 91 Ends, with another Tale of Andrade. This particular tale takes place in 2001, shortly after my arrival to Los Angeles from Palm Springs. The name of the main character shall not be divulged; the person in question, made a derogatory remark and I will keep his name scrubbed for legal reasons. We shall dub him 90s Sitcom Star.

When I first moved to Los Angeles, I stayed at a couple different houses, house sitting for actors and rock stars on vacation or on tour. At this one location in the Valley, I house sat for a couple of rockers on tour in Europe. When they returned, I stayed at their house for a few more weeks as I searched for a more permanent residence.

The rock stars were nice enough but dopes. To be fair, calling them dopes isn’t fair to dopes; these guys were idiots. One night, the two guys and I attended a midnight showing of the film, Fight Club. After the showing, as we returned to the car, one of the dope’s had a brain charge.

“Let’s start our own fight club!’

“Brilliant,” I remarked, knowing full well that disaster would follow.

“But, we’ll do it on our trampoline.”

You see, these gentlemen, owned a trampoline in their backyard. Nothing too fancy, just a run of the mill trampoline that is doom for any drunk, stoned or cracked out homo sapien. I, of course, encouraged them to proceed and they did. They invited fifteen of their closest dope friends and one of these friends was 90s Sitcom Star. Now, 90s Sitcom Star had seen better days and he was spiraling toward a drug-induced circling of the drain. He’s recently pulled out of that spiral, but for a long time, the mention of his name created snickers.

The guests arrived the night of Fight Club and they were a buffet of pasty, round stomached or scrawny white guys. With the exception of one man. He stood at six foot six and was a military grade, African-American male who looked like he’d walked out of a Billy Blanks infomercial. I smiled with glee, knowing someone would want to fight this guy.

The Main Dope stood in front of his caravan of lost fighters and announced the commencing of Fight Club… on a trampoline.

“The first rule of Fight Club is no one talks about Fight Club. The second rule is everyone pitches in ten bucks for pizza.”

When the Main Dope asked for the first volunteer to fight, 90s Sitcom Star ran to the front, screaming and yelling that he was first. I smiled inwardly.

“Who wants to fight ….(so and so)?”

The Military Grade Billy Blanks stud raised his hand.

“I’ll fight him.”

Now, rarely in life, does one see something that one can totally see in the future. I envisioned the scene before it happened and boy, did it happen.

As 90s Sitcom Star jumped onto the trampoline, he ripped off his shirt, revealing his emaciated, concaved chest with three blonde hairs. He DID NOT remove his glasses. Military Grade stepped onto the trampoline and the material creaked at the muscled weight of the man. 90s Sitcom Star bounced and jumped on the trampoline, circling Military Grade and shouting insults and a brand of shit-talking to which no athlete would ever lay claim. And then he said it.

90s Sitcom Star said the one word that only black hip hoppers and NBA stars are allowed to use. A gasp came from the crowd and we all knew what would happen next. Military Grade threw the one, and only, punch in the history of Trampoline Fight Club. With a thunderous cross, Military Grade caught 90s Sitcom Star right between the eyes, shattering his glasses and sending the pale, thin man off the trampoline and into a pile on the yard. 90s Sitcom Star suffered a scratched cornea and a broken arm.

When Main Dope asked who’d like to fight Military Grade next, everyone thanked Main Dope for a fun evening and exited stage left. And that was the end of that Fight Club.

Every once in a while, I’ll see a rerun of some show with 90s Sitcom Star and it brings me back to that night. Glorious fun.