Gonzo Report: Dungeons and Dragons and Mothmen at Lefty’s in Mission Hills

“Aw, man! I thought I might get to dance with some cats today!” Knowing that the man in the purple shirt is using olde-timey slang to describe males — as opposed to our furry feline friends — doesn’t stop the thought of me doing the Charelston with my cat Beastie, nor the brief twinge of terror at the inevitable injuries that would result. As for Purple Shirt Guy, his continuous rotation of dance partners doesn’t seem to rule out dancing with a psychotic cat, but lucky for him, my lunatic quadruped is at home. The guy’s line about cats was in response to my question about how many partners he’s had this afternoon — he asked me if I wanted to dance. and I declined. Because, like Beastie, Spike don’t dance.

Unfortunately for me, Purple Shirt Guy “don’t do papers,” so our interview grinds to a halt. “But if you want to dance…” His sentence is cut off as another partner guides him out to the default dance floor on the patio of Lefty’s Pizza in Mission Hills. The music for his gyrations is being provided by The Mothmen, a band with ties deep in the San Diego scene via groups like the Crawdaddys, the Penetrators, the Tell-Tale Hearts, and the Unknowns. Ray Brandes provides vocals for most of the songs, and I don’t recognize many of them. It’s a solid dose of R&B with a ‘60s-era garage shellac that enhances the restaurant’s ambiance. While the band is performing on the patio behind the establishment, I can still hear the music when I go inside to see if Shampree Fritz has survived. I’d met her earlier and talked about music. She’s an aspiring musician with a broader range of tastes than I could ever hope to have, and she is here for a terrifying adventure.

Shampree isn’t in any real danger, but judging by the tone taken by Dungeon Master Steve, it’s clear the players assembled here for an afternoon of Dungeons & Dragons need to tread carefully. His wife Karen — or rather, her character — is checking for poison on a door that has blood seeping out from under it. I wonder how they can concentrate, given all the hullabaloo that is inherent in a restaurant’s going on. But it’s a brief thought, because like the nerd I am, I’m finding myself keyed in on Steve’s descriptions of the environment. Despite the lack of table-top map and figurines, the game is captivating, and suddenly, The Mothmen’s version of a Beatles song in the background feels oddly sinister. Prior to the game’s beginning, we discussed the old rules and books of the game: Steve identified the precise module in which my half-elf Ranger obtained his far-too-powerful two-handed sword, and the need for rule modifications to restore game balance that followed. Steve and Karen are from Chicago, so I get their opinion on Lefty’s signature deep-dish pizza; I don’t know much sign language, but I surmise that a thumbs up with a mouth full of the heavy pie constitutes a ringing endorsement.

Back on the patio, dance space is at a premium, but the audience accommodates with the expected etiquette from an older crowd here to experience live music. Tables are crowded, and several diners offer me a seat. I spot Purple Shirt Guy taking a break — just long enough to re-energize for another series of dances. For me, the music forms a pleasant soundtrack that I can either relegate to the background while concentrating on conversation or make the principal attraction by putting my focus on the musicians. For instance, watching the bassist do things I don’t comprehend. But to the dancers, there’s an unavoidable connection that causes their bodies to move.

It’s all very nice, but a bit laid back for my taste. Then the kids step in. Someone gives a girl of about ten years of age a set of maracas. Cute, but what I notice is the intensity in her stare when she watches the adult musicians. It’s hard to tell if she is waiting for her cue or daring them to make a mistake. As the set goes on, she’s joined by other children, armed with a variety of handheld percussion instruments. Their unrestrained dancing threatens to slip out of rhythm with the music, but they pull back just enough to keep perfect time with their instruments. I’m not just listening to music while I wait for my deep-dish delicacy to be ready, I’m witnessing the making of memories — something that might look like an impending clash of generations, but really resounds as the passing on of tradition, of music, of magic.