I Got McConaugheyed
How the awkward art of solo adventure led me onto an Oscar-winner's film set.
A couple weeks ago, I treated myself in true Mike fashion and scoped out a local dive that I’ve been meaning to try since moving. Hank’s Bar & American Grill sits in the oily armpit of the Stillwell Hotel on Olive Street, a 2-star, 11-story motel, described on Yelp as “not as bad as I thought.”
The bar’s walking-distance proximity to our apartment lured me in, as did the cheap brews, which cost a pittance compared to the rest of the City of Angels, but still a total rip-off compared to anywhere else.
Oh, and also, there were balloons on the sign outside. I’ll drink anywhere with balloons.
After echolocating my way to a barstool, I eavesdropped on conversations from retired attorneys discussing their glory days. Hank’s was the last stop on their bar crawl; they were ready to turn in at 5 p.m. That’s when I realized that I was the youngest patron there by nearly two centuries. I felt sudden pangs of awkwardness in adventuring by myself, a buzzing self-doubt through which I’ve trained myself to power forward.
Hank’s of DTLA was the first dive I’d dove solo. Like a deep-sea swimmer surveying a wreck, I was missing my scuba partners.
In Philly, I visited Paddy’s Pub (famous for its role in Always Sunny) with Maddee and my parents. In Mad Beach, my parents brought me to beach bars that I later paid forward to unsuspecting friends. Vice versa for the delightful dives of St. Pete, which I discovered with my roving band of Floridians, then introduced to my blood relatives.
Drinking alone may not be the healthiest habit, but exploring bars alone is one of life’s greatest pleasures. I see why culinary writers dedicate their whole lives to reviewing Michelin stars and holes in the wall alike. If my bill had been comped, I’d probably still be on that torn barstool at Hank’s.
“There's something wonderful about drinking in the afternoon. A not-too-cold pint, absolutely alone at the bar - even in this fake-ass Irish pub.”
- Anthony Bourdain
Though that bar was a great excuse to leave the sofa on a Friday afternoon while Maddee was in class, it’s only the booziest in a long line of great reasons. I love exploring by myself. My ability to go out solo is one of my greatest superpowers, but it’s one that took a long time to master; one that, I admit, I’m still mastering.
Last year, when Maddee moved away, I entered that oft complained-about scourge of Long Distance. The thought of going out and doing anything without an adventure buddy was too awkward. A single dude at the movies, a table for one at the restaurant — what kind of loser goes and does that stuff alone?
This guy, it turns out.
As a Myers-Briggs certified extrovert, I’ll always opt for company where possible, but my year of long distance opened me up to a whole new world of reservations for one. It took a lot of courage, and plenty of months to warm up to, but since gaining the superpower of solo exploration, I have clocked half a dozen solo movies, several dinners for one, a few stints at the library, and, yes, a couple of drinks here and there.
Though it’s horribly awkward at first, the spirit of solo adventure has a liberating effect. Hank’s is just one small example of how a quick, little trip can bring a sense of invigoration and self-sufficiency.
The little things are all I need. A dark bar, a movie theater, a cafe, a library.
Just me, a book, and some headphones.
And, when exploring alone, you never know what (or who) you might bump into…
My best solo expedition through Los Angeles thus far came on a Friday afternoon not unlike the one that dragged me to Hank’s.
The urge to happy hour had grown inside me like a weed throughout the week. The thought of an eve on a barstool in a dark, dingy dive did cross my mind, but my eagerness for fresh air won over. I opted instead to order a cocktail to-go from a mysterious liquor store located in the basement of a prestigious and exclusive social club.
(Because that would be the closest liquor store in LA.)
I ordered a Negroni on recommendation from an old Anthony Bourdain recipe video, strapped on my sneakers, and plugged in my knock-off AirPods, then set sail, dodging both the suits and the shirtless alike as I meandered from South Park to the Historic Core.
My sights were set on the Central Library, a post-modern ziggurat of knowledge, next to which stood the California Club that had sold me my drink.
Nothing could stop me. I was on my way, alone and alight. Nobody could possibly get in my way!
Except for Matthew fucking McConaughey.
Yes, dear reader, you read that right.
I was McConaugheyed.
It happened slowly. The way in which all McConaugheyings happen, I’m certain.
The path north in Downtown Los Angeles inclines slightly, such that locals call it going “up the hill.” As I surmounted said hill, I noticed a blurry, massive crowd of rambling psychopaths going down the hill in the distance. They marched seven bodies wide and a dozen rows deep, shoulder to shoulder, from storefront to street curb.
They were a couple shields and spears short of a perfect Greek phalanx. As they grew closer, I noticed they were led by a sweaty, heaving maniac in a powder blue suit, directing them my way.
My fight-or-flight instinct kicked into overdrive.
I made a pact with myself: I would absolutely not under any circumstances move over if they were a power-walking or jogging club. If they wanted exercise, they could get it by moving out of my way.
Likewise for performers ready to flashmob. If 6th and Flower were about to become a musical theater, I’d enter stage left as the comedic relief.
I would, however, yield for them if they were a walk for cancer, or other such illness, or if I could surmise without a reasonable doubt that they were a cult. If this blue-suited weirdo was about to serve Kool Aid, they could find me three blocks over with my mouth duct taped shut.
As it happened, they weren’t a flashmob or a march. But they were a cult of performers, in a way.
I approached the corner of 6th and Flower hesitantly, and parked myself between two traffic cops as I put the pieces together.
Somebody shouted for the take to end. The street had been closed off for filming. The brigade of weirdos were paid actors.
And the cult leader in the powder blue formalwear was Matthew McConaughey, staring right at me.
The Texas actor shed his blue sports coat, unbuttoned the cuffs, and jaywalked his way to his double-parked trailer. He looked out scornfully, tiredly, at us peasants on the sidewalk. Equal parts exhaustion and annoyance poured down his Oscar-winning face as he glanced my way.
Then he disappeared behind a tinted car door and was escorted by police onto I-110.
I was stunned.
I was angry.
I was tired, thirsty, and starstruck.
That Easter Bunny suited millionaire had the nerve to shut down the whole street? When I needed my Negroni?
I seethed as I walked, thinking of all the ways I could deride him in this very newsletter.
Interstellar is his only good film. (It isn’t.)
His accent isn’t all that cool. (It is.)
Texas is a stupid place to be from. (The jury is still out.)
But as I crossed the street and wandered into the California Club, my attitude softened. McConaughey didn’t choose the filming location that afternoon. Maybe he wasn’t staring at my fellow inconvenienced laymen and I as a king looks at peasants, but rather as anyone looks at anyone else when 5 o’clock on a Friday rolls around.
If, upon seeing his newest film, I find myself in the background of that take, I’m sure I’ll look just as exhausted and pissed-off as he did.
I like to theorize that McConaughey was off for his own post-work cocktail, just like me Only, y’know, in a mansion, after a police escort.
But my Negroni wasn’t half bad, either. Indeed, the liquor store beneath the exclusive California Club was a whole ass wine cellar, operated with care by a French sommelier in a three-piece suit. Hugo (I learned his name from the doorman) invited me in and gave me advice on how to chill the drink I’d ordered.
No ice cubes, he said.
And he meant it.
Hugo looked like he would personally sick a dog on me if I even considered watering down the drink he’d signed over to me.
At this point I felt like pinching myself from a very strange, wonderful, exhausting dream. I was McConaugheyed, then Negronied, and reprimanded by a French man in between.
When I told Maddee all of this, upon her return from class that night, her question was simple: “Why does cool shit always happen to you while I’m stuck in class?”
Not every solo outing brings celebrity sightings, film expeditions, or newsletter-worthy stories, but the chances are high enough that every trip is worth it.
To paraphrase David Sedaris, who made a living recounting the weird and the funny he sees on his own adventures: it’s not enough to write funny, you have to get off the couch and observe funny, too.
The funniest thing I’ve observed on my trips off the couch?
Matthew McConaughey walks like he’s holding in a fart.
Shouts out to…
The Fightin’ Phils, for their first playoff appearance (and series win) since I was 15.
One of the old men at Hank’s, who said he was Jimmy Hoffa’s milkman.