We’d grown a lot in our three years at Legoland, but we’d primarily been performing for kids. 

While there’s nothing wrong with that, we knew we’d need to be entertaining to adults if we were ever going to do cruise ships and the corporate market.

“But how do we prepare for and break into those markets?” I mused aloud.

“No idea,” Jonathan answered, then added, “You think we could pull off a show at a nightclub?”
I shook my head. “I dunno, I’ve heard it’s notoriously tough, that jugglers go in and get eaten alive.”

He grinned, “Loud music, drunk crowds, and everybody itching to dance, how hard could it be?”
“Right. They’re not going to press pause to watch us do some cheesy schtick. So if we’re going to try it, we have to kick ass and knock their socks off.”

Jonathan interrupted, “But before we can do that, we gotta get the gig.”
“And how are we gonna do that?”
“I’ve got an idea.”

* * *

 

Jonathan and I drove to Pacific Beach (PB), a northern San Diego neighborhood known for its nightclubs. Then we walked Garnet Avenue, or “Club Row,” to scope out the scene. The first club we came upon had a big bouncer outside, but since it was early, he wasn’t very busy. We told him about our act, including sword swallowing and lighting ourselves on fire, then asked whether there was someone we could talk to about it. He looked unimpressed but threw a deadpan wave to an overly done-up blonde who was busy shouting at a waitress. She was exasperated by the interruption and walked over angrily to ask, “What?!” 
The bouncer pointed at us, so she turned her blazing eyes on us, “WHAT?!” 
Knowing we were off to a bad start, Jonathan asked if they ever hosted entertainment. 

Behind her, whatever situation she’d been trying to deal with inside the club boiled over again, and several people started yelling at each other. “We don’t do bands,” she said flatly. “We have a DJ.” 
I tried to say, “Wait, but we…” but it was useless; she’d already walked away.

Shot down but undefeated, we continued our stroll.

The next few places we tried were even worse; the bouncers stopped us cold, and we couldn’t get anyone in authority to talk to us. 

Another club had its doors shut so tightly, I wondered if they were even going to open. 

Jonathan joked, “They must have heard we were coming.”
We both laughed. 

Reaching the end of the street where it dead-ended into Crystal Pier, we crossed over and started back the other way, ducking into the remaining clubs we saw along the strip. Most of them were half-dead, thin crowds, bored bartenders, no soul, and no vibe. 
We were about to call it a wash when a wall of sound hit us. 

The chorus of “You Give Love a Bad Name” rattled our chests so hard I wondered if Bon Jovi himself might be giving a concert. Ahead, a line of red velvet ropes cut across the sidewalk, with two dozen people queued up in their best party gear. This felt different. Colored lights swept the pavement, laughter spilled out the doors, and the bass thumped like it had a heartbeat of its own. I looked up and caught the sign glowing above us in bold blue and red neon: Typhoon Saloon. 
Jonathan shouted over the music, “This place is hoppin’!” 
“Should we get in line?” I asked.

Jonathan shook his head. “Naw.” And with that, he walked straight up to the bouncer at the front of the line. 
The bouncer, a mountain of a man, didn’t even acknowledge us. But Jonathan leaned in boldly and asked, “Hey, who’s in charge of special events?”
This got his attention, and he looked at us coldly, clearly weighing whether or not we deserved his attention. I was sure he was gonna shut us down, but then a half-asian-half-white-looking guy dressed to the nines tumbled out of the club with three beautiful women chasing him. 

The Asian guy held his hands up defensively, “No, I can’t; it’s too early!” 
But the girls insisted, “Come on, do a shot with us!” 
He continued his resistance, but they grabbed him and tried to force a small glass of pink liquid into his hand. 
Finally, he accepted defeat, “Ok, OKAY, but I’m working, so JUST this one!!!” 
He took the offered shot, which made the girls cheer drunkenly, then they all clinked glasses. As soon as the girls brought the shot glasses up to their lips, the man deftly flicked his wrist, dumping his shot across the sidewalk, then quickly brought the empty glass to his own lips, making it look like he had taken it with them. 
“You are a bad influence!” he accused. 

They laughed, “You just wait and see how bad we can be.” 

“So naughty!” he shouted as he collected their shot glasses from them. Then, “Hey, you gotta go back in; no alcohol outside the bar!”
“Ok, Raymond!” they jeered poutily before turning and going back into the bar. 

Jonathan didn’t hesitate, “That was a pretty slick move. Not your first bar-b-que!”
Raymond laughed, “I tell ya, these girls will be the death of me. I may be an alcoholic, but I’m not a drunk.” 

We all laughed, then Raymond asked, “Can I do anything for you?”
Sensing he was someone of import, Jonathan said, “Actually, we’re entertainers; my buddy here lights himself on fire, juggles chainsaws, and swallows swords.”

I jumped in and said, “And Jonathan here eats fire; we worked at Legoland for the past few years doing shows, but are looking to expand our horizons.”

“Wait, chainsaws, fire eating, sword SWALLOWING? That’s incredible, come with me!” Raymond nodded to the bouncer, and the red ropes parted for us. As we stepped in, the girl who was next in line exclaimed, “Hey, how come they get to go in?”
The bouncer, stone-faced as ever, said, “They’re special.”
“What, so I’m not special?” 
His eyes narrowed, and he snatched her license from her hand, holding it under his flashlight longer than necessary. “Depends what this says,” he muttered.

We followed Raymond into the maze of people and were swallowed up by the maelstrom of sound and light. We emerged in the inner sanctum and found a room built up with multiple levels. At every turn, Raymond dodged groups of girls, all of whom wanted a piece of him. Seeing a break in the mob, Raymond broke into a jog across a raised stage area, then up a set of black steel stairs that led to a catwalk. Halfway up, he pressed on what looked like a solid wall, and a hidden door swung open. We slipped through into a dark, narrow hallway that led to a fire escape. To the right, tucked beneath the elevated stage and dance floor, was a small office. I leaned my hand against the wall and felt the bass from the speakers shaking the place to its foundation. Raymond knocked, then entered without waiting for an answer. We squeezed in behind him and saw a balding man sitting at a desk reviewing paperwork. 

Raymond spoke to him, “Hey, these guys are performers, and I thought they’d be great for one of our big parties.”
The guy looked at us like he was evaluating cattle, “What kind of music do you play?”
“No,” Raymond interrupted, “they’re circus freaks, fire-eating-sword-swallowing, crazy stuff!”
I quickly added, “I also light myself on fire.”

Raymond threw his hands in the air and said, “And they light themselves on fire!”
The man behind the desk smiled at this, then said, “What’s your rate?”
Jonathan and I were unprepared for this question, and it must have shown on our faces because the man continued, “I’ll give you $250 for three spots; you’ll go at 10:00 pm, 11:00 pm, and midnight.”
After all the rejections we’d had, we were too stunned by an offer to even think to negotiate, so we just nodded and said, “Okay.”

“Raymond will show you around and tell you everything you’ll need to know.”
He didn’t say, “Dismissed,” but it was clear the meeting was over.

Raymond led us outside and began to share his vision for what we might do. He showed us the stage, and we suggested we could do a flaming torch passing bit around a volunteer. 

Raymond blinked, “Wait, you’re going to throw flaming torches around someone?” 
“We’d like to?”
“That sounds cool, but we better do that with me; I don’t want someone passing out or getting hurt.”
“Sounds good; we can do that.”

Raymond pointed to a small elevated platform inside the circle bar. It had rails around it and was only big enough for one person. “That’s where we put the gogo dancers. Could you do the sword swallowing up there?”
“Absolutely,” I said, hoping I sounded more confident about it than I felt. Though I could technically swallow a sword, it wasn’t consistent; some days, I could do it, and some days, most days, I couldn’t, but I didn’t mention that part.

“Awesome, the DJ can play whatever tracks you want, or if you have a CD of your own, you can just give it to him before you go on. Next weekend, get here at 9:00 pm. We’ll get you set, and then you’ll go on around 10:00 pm. Oh, and don’t wait in line; tell the bouncer you’re performing, and I’ll make sure they know to let you in.”
We nodded and said, “Sounds good, we’ll see you then.”

Raymond looked like he would say more, but five girls had been stealthily sneaking up behind him, and now they pounced. Wrapping their arms around him, they said, “Raaaaymond, come do shots with us!”
“Gentlemen, it appears I’m needed elsewhere,” he saluted crisply, then allowed the girls to drag him away to the bar. 
I watched the exchange unfold and heard Raymond tell the bartender, “The usual.”

The bartender made the girls’ drinks, then poured a shot for Raymond from a nondescript container. When the drinks had been distributed, Raymond clinked glasses with them and drank his shot. After he swallowed, he made a show of it being strong, but I’d bet “the usual” was just juice. 

We’d only just met, but I was already learning a lot from Raymond. He might be the life of the party, but he knew better than to become a partygoer. 

* * *

​

A week later, the day arrived, and we loaded up for the show. When we pulled in, I was stunned — a line snaked out the door and wrapped around the block. Hundreds of people waiting to get in. 

Great, I thought, if we bomb, at least it’ll be spectacular. 

I pictured 500 voices booing in unison, shaking our bones with their disapproval.
Equipment in tow, we walked past everyone in line, making our way straight to the front. 
I’ve seen so many movies where someone struts up to the bouncer, trying to skip the line, only to get shut down and sent back.

Ugh, that would be so embarrassing; I hope they let us in. 
We got to the bouncer, who was busily shining his flashlight onto a woman’s ID, and waited for him to finish. But instead, he stopped and looked at us. 

Jonathan smiled, “We’re the jugglers.”

The bouncer flicked his fingers dismissively at the woman, indicating that she should back up, and when she did, he undid the red velvet rope and pulled it aside so we could enter. 

“Thank you, sir,” I said, dragging my stuff inside. 

The girl evaluated our cases as we passed, then asked, “Hey, are you guys the band?!”
Without skipping a beat, Jonathan answered, “Yeah, we’re the Buddhist Punks.” 
“Would I know any of your stuff?”
“Probably not, we’re bigger in Europe,” Jonathan shot back. 

Classic Jonathan, I thought, always coming up with some off-the-wall thing in the moment. 
A few more steps and we disappeared in the chaotic tide of the Typhoon Saloon.

* * *

 

We glanced around, looking for Raymond, but figured we’d never find him, so we went to the thin, dark hallway behind the main stage. Once there, we set up everything we needed for the first set so it’d be easy to start when the time came. As we did this, I felt a hand clasp firmly on my shoulder. 

“My brothers!” Raymond shouted. 

I stood to greet him, and he gave me a handshake/bro-hug.

“It is electric out there, and I’ve been telling everyone there’s going to be a big surprise tonight, but I haven’t told them what. So, how do you want to do this?”
We told Raymond what we were thinking, and he clapped his hands in approval. “I love it. Okay, you guys are right after the bikini contest; I’ll take them off and check in with you here. As long as you’re good, I’ll bring you out, and you can blow the freaking roof off.”

We nodded in the affirmative, so Raymond gave us a thumbs-up, then split. 

Looking at my watch, I saw that we had about 45 minutes to burn, so I motioned toward the club, silently asking Jonathan if he wanted to go out and survey the scene. He nodded, so we squeezed out the secret door, then up the staircase to “the catwalk,” a tall fire escape-looking platform that rose ten feet above everything else. Once up there, we had a bird’s eye view of the entire club. To the right was the main stage where the bikini contest would be held. In front of that was a pit-style dance area with a floor five feet lower than the stage. Left of that, and below us, was the DJ booth. Across from the DJ booth was a large circular bar, and in the middle of that bar, a tall steel platform with railings, the go-go dancer cage, where I’d be sword-swallowing during our second set.

Gah, I thought, I hope the sword goes down tonight.
As I worried over the details, an arm slid around my waist. I felt a hand grip my stomach, followed by suggestive fingers dragging across my abs. I turned and came face-to-face with a woman who looked like she’d stepped off a Sports Illustrated swimsuit cover.

She wore a flowy beige crop top scattered with burgundy flowers and high-waisted skinny jeans. Long, straight blond hair framed sparkling blue eyes and lightly freckled, sun-kissed cheeks. Her flirtatious smile revealed flawless white teeth.
My eyes must have widened in surprise, because her expression changed, asking a silent question: Was that okay?
I smiled and nodded to reassure her, and her smile returned as she stepped closer, body warm against mine, hair carrying the scent of summer air.

In that moment, I suddenly realized that I hadn’t thought much about women or dating since the breakup, since the heartbreak. And now, all in a rush, I felt myself pulled in. I wanted this, whatever this is. 

But then, just as quickly, my professionalism returned, and I thought, Oh my god, how does Raymond do this? Calling on all my willpower, I stepped back and held my hands up gently. 

She looked into my eyes as if to ask, “What’s wrong?” 
I nodded my head towards the stage, and since conversation was impossible over the music, mouthed the words, “I have to go.”
She pushed out her lower lip and made a pouty face, but nodded understandingly. I fought the impulse to bring my hand to her cheek, to reassure her, to tell her that if the situation were different, I wouldn’t leave. 
But I couldn’t; I have a show to prep for. 

Jonathan and I turned and went down the stairs to the DJ booth to give him our CD.  
“Everything on here?” he asked. “I just press play?”
“For our first set, yes. But for our second set, the one where I’ll be on the go-go stage, I’m not sure what to play.”

“What are you doing?”
“I’ll be sword swallowing, but I don’t have a specific track yet.”
“Sword Swallowing?! Nice! You know what, I’ve got the perfect thing; trust me, it’ll rock!”
His demeanor convinced me he’d actually make it rock and not do something silly, so I said, “Cool, let’s do it.”

“You got it. Oh—bikini contest is starting. I gotta mic up Raymond.”

I glanced over and saw Raymond at the edge of the stage, holding a mic and flashing the DJ a thumbs-up, as if silently asking, we good? The DJ nodded, and Raymond’s voice boomed through the speakers: “Test, test.”
Then, with a grin, he roared, “Alright, eyes on the main stage, because it’ssssss SHHHHOWTIME!”
Knowing we’d be on after the girls, Jonathan and I squeezed through the crowd to reach the backstage area. I double-checked that everything I needed was set up for the body burn, and then we waited. 

The crowd roared intermittently, and Raymond would shout to rile them up; the crowd applauded extra loud, and another secret door I’d never seen before opened right next to us. One by one, five girls in bikinis stepped through the opening and crammed into the already tiny hallway. As soon as the last of them had cleared the opening, Raymond’s head popped in, and he asked, “You guys good?”
“We’re good!”
“Ok,” he said, running back onto the stage.
“Ladies and gentlemen, are you ready for something crazy?!” 
The roar from the audience shook the walls.

“The two guys coming out next are good friends of mine. They’re freaks—they juggle, they swallow swords, they play with fire, and they’re here to make things hoooot! Give it up for Team Rootberry!”
With that, Raymond swept his arm wide, and we burst onto the stage, hands pumping in the air. I flicked a lighter, and all at once the six torches erupted into flame. The crowd leaned in as we squared off, firelight dancing across their faces.
We locked into rhythm, passing the burning implements back and forth in smooth arcs, and the heat filled the space around us. You never want to drop fire, so we kept it tight, only throwing tricks we were 100% confident about.
On our final throw, the torches spun high, blazing in the dark, and we caught them clean. The crowd erupted, the sound crashing over us like a wave.
We turned toward Raymond and beckoned him forward. He lifted the mic, laughing nervously. “Me?! Oh no, I don’t know about this.”

I grabbed him in a mock show of force, then placed him in the middle of the stage. Jonathan and I lifted the torches again, dropped them low, then passed them around Raymond. My throws passed just inches before his face, while Jonathan’s went right behind his head. Raymond held his hands at his side as we’d instructed him to do in our preshow planning. But when the moment became too ripe not to pick, Raymond instinctively raised the mic to his mouth and said, “I can’t believe this is ha…” His speech was cut short by one of my torches colliding with his microphone-holding arm; when he raised it, he’d widened his profile by a foot, occupying the area where my throws were passing by. Jonathan gathered his torches cleanly, but the torch that hit Raymond ricocheted off towards the front of the stage. Realizing his mistake, Raymond said, “Dude, my bad, I’m sorry, it’s instinct!”
“All good, you ok?”
“I’m good! What do we do?”
“Once more,” I said, setting him up again and retrieving the dropped torch. 
Before we could start, Raymond said on the mic, “My bad! I’ll try not to screw it up this time!”
The audience laughed; everybody loved Raymond. 

We passed the torches again and finished cleanly.

“Oh my GOD, wasn’t that insane!?” Raymond shouted.

I started blowing out my torches, then Jonathan handed me his, leaving just one torch still burning. He then grabbed a thin steel rod, lit its tip from the last torch, and began his fire-eating routine. His first flame was my cue. I hustled to the back hallway to get into the body-burn rig, fueling everything quickly. I had only ninety seconds until his act wrapped, so I moved fast. Lying on my back, legs over my head, I pulled the pants on and fastened them. I checked the pocket for the lighter I always kept there, grabbed the chainsaw and two juggling beanbags, and was ready to go.

The crowd roared as I stepped on stage holding the chainsaw high. I revved it a few times so everyone could see and hear the engine, and blue-tinged smoke belched from the exhaust. Then I stepped to the front and lit the blade. The audience hushed, anticipation crackling through the room. I gave the chainsaw a few exploratory swings, then brought the flaming blade to the back of my pants. The pants ignited—my internal timer started: seventeen seconds. Swing, release, juggle beanbags, catch chainsaw—three more throws, two more, one more—and finish clean. The crowd went wild!
I stepped out of the worst of the heat, partly for show, partly to extend my burn window. Then, turning my back to Jonathan, I wait for him to save me from the fire. Gloved hands press firmly against the burning wicks, then pull them off in one swift motion. The fire goes out, but the heat lingers, radiating through the pants. I had learned from testing: always extinguish the wicks before it starts to hurt; if you don’t, you’ll burn. Pain is a great teacher, and I’d learned its lessons well.
I bring the chainsaw toward my face and blow out the burning wick on the blade.
Raymond takes it from there: “Can you believe that?! Wow!”
We survived our first club set, and they didn’t boo us. Only two more sets to go. 

* * *

 

Raymond leaned into the back hallway, “Ten minutes?”
We both gave him the thumbs up, so he nodded and split. 

Jonathan and I reviewed our plan for the tenth time, then split up to execute it. 
I grabbed my sword-swallowing gear and went to the circular bar in the middle of the main room. It had a countertop ringed around it, so I had to squat and go under an open section to get inside. Once there, I set up my gear for the performance. A few bartenders looked at me quizzically, but they were too busy doing their work to talk to me. In a few minutes, I knew Jonathan would start his act, which left me with unwanted time to think. 

I’d been working hard on sword swallowing, and I’d even gotten it all the way down a dozen times, but most days, I was happy to get it halfway down without gagging or barfing all over. The only time I’d tried to perform it in front of an audience was at Legoland right before 9/11. The entertainment department hosted a low-stakes talent show, and I’d thought it would be a good opportunity to try sword swallowing, so I entered with that. When they’d called me up, I had a terrible showing and couldn’t even get the sword halfway down. The one positive thing I could say about it was that I’d gotten one more failure out of the way on the road to success. 

But would that success come tonight? 
Not likely, and yet, it had to. Or at least, I sure needed it to. 

Raymond’s voice echoed across the god mic, “Alright, alright, we’ve got another amazing performance coming up for you right now, I wanna see all eyes up here on the main stage because Team Rootberry is back for round two! Let’s hear it for ‘em!”
Jonathan came out to a solid round of applause and began his act. Since everyone was distracted, I used this moment to climb into the go-go cage. My heart began to race, and panic took over. I’m going to fail in front of all these people, I’m going to stand up, try to stick this thing down my throat, and I’m going to projectile vomit from an elevated platform. My lunch will rain down on the bar, the bartenders, and probably splash on the patrons. Everyone will be furious; they’ll have to shut down the whole bar on one of their busiest nights, the management is going to be pissed, we’ll get fired, and poor Raymond is going to be like, “Dude, what happened? I thought you guys were professionals?” I can’t let that happen; I have to get out of here; I can’t do this. 

I completely lose my cool and turn to climb down, intending to run out of the bar, but right on cue, the music stops. I look over at the main stage and realize Jonathan has finished his last trick, and now he’s pointing with both hands toward me. Two spotlights hit me, one from each side, illuminating my crouched figure in the go-go cage. I look over at the DJ, and he’s giving a thumbs-up. The instantly recognizable notes of a clean, haunting guitar riff wash over the room. Its eerie, repetitive pattern creates instant suspense and foreboding. The rolling, hypnotic quality brings me to my feet, and suddenly I’m holding the sword high and spinning in a circle so everyone can see. The music builds, and the heavy, driving rhythm draws the audience in, unsettling themes promised in its tone. I bring the sword’s tip to my lips just as Metallica’s “Enter Sandman” reaches its most dramatic notes. I take a deep breath and drift into an alternate state. My eyes close, and I know nothing except the cool sensation of solid steel passing behind my heart. I hear nothing, I think nothing. In this place, there is nothing but the moment, a quiet in the eye of life’s storm.

* * *

 

The next thing I remember, I’m standing on the floor next to the go-go cage. Jonathan and Raymond are there. Raymond clasps his hand on my shoulder for emphasis and says, “DUDE, that is the craziest shit I have EVER seen! Do you need anything? You want a drink?” 
I nod and say, “Yes, please, a water would be great.”
Raymond grabbed the nearest bartender and said, “Hey, get my man a water. Did you see that shit?” 
The bartender nodded emphatically, then went to grab the water. 
“Alright,” Raymond said, “I’ll see you guys again at midnight; I can’t wait to see what ya’ll will pull out next!” Then he ducked under the bar and was gone. 

Jonathan congratulated me and said, “Nicely done!”
“How did it go? Did they dig it?”
Jonathan looked at me strangely, “Did they dig it? They went freaking crazy, couldn’t you hear them?”
“No,” I said.

“Well, they loved it, and you got it all the way down; you even let go of the handle with both hands; you freaking crushed it!”
I was about to tell him I couldn’t remember any of it, but realized how weird that would sound, so I bit it back.
With the most challenging part over, I relaxed a little and started packing my sword gear.
I suddenly wondered if the blonde from the catwalk had seen the show. I glanced around, but she was gone, swallowed up in the crowd, and I didn’t see her again.

* * *

 

We’d go on to perform many times at Typhoon Saloon, and it became one of our favorite venues to explore our more extreme acts. But at the night’s end, we always packed up and ducked out the back of the club. No drinking or fraternizing, just doing our part, then getting back to full-time training. 

* * *

 

If you’d like to watch a video from our first night’s performance at Typhoon Saloon, you can follow this link or use this QR code to view the Body Burn and Flaming Chainsaw act.