I never suspected I was crossing over into a hot fudge Twilight Zone. : Ana Banana and the Ice Cream War

I could not believe the chaos. A bass drum was banging, children were screaming and camera strobe lights were flashing around me like exploding stars.

The moment carried overtones of the bedlam that must have accompanied the sinking of the Titanic or a ritual of human sacrifice in the ancient Aztec kingdom, complete with howls of grief and pain. I had never been in the midst of such absolute disorder.

But then I had never been to Farrell’s before.

Farrell’s, I have since learned, is a tradition in the Valley, an ice cream parlor chain that specializes in children’s birthdays, and in the precise and deliberate destruction of the human adult mind. Let me explain.

You and I understand that birthdays are meant to be observed in a quiet manner, at best attended by a close friend who possesses the capacity to cook an adequate meal and mix an honest martini. Nothing fancy. Kiss me on the cheek if you must, but spare me the doo-dah of a happy-birthday song.

Children, however, do not have the beast aged out of them yet and are therefore prone to demanding that their yearly passage be celebrated in a manner roughly equivalent to a food riot.

They stomp their nasty little feet and shout for ice cream, cake, hot dogs, balloons, paper hats, the works. And they prevail upon their doting mommies to take them to Farrell’s.

I was an innocent victim. I love ice cream. I love Smirnoff more, but I love ice cream, too. A psychologist I know whom everyone calls Uncle Irwin explained that my love for ice cream was rooted in a latent desire to curb tendencies toward violence.

It wasn’t until I went to Farrell’s that I begin to realize that Uncle Irwin’s theory might have some validity.

I was attracted to the ice cream parlor in Woodland Hills by its sign, a friendly enough invitation to enter and eat ice cream until I had sufficiently purged myself of whatever mad twist had brought me to the doorstep of Farrell’s in the first place.

I never for a moment suspected I was crossing over into a hot fudge Twilight Zone.

There were, to be sure, groups of children seated at various tables, but while modestly noisy, they seemed otherwise behaved. I could, like a man who raises cobras, tolerate them at a safe and reasonable distance. I ordered an ice cream concoction called Ana Banana and settled back to await its arrival.

I never in my life thought I would eat something called an Ana Banana, but then I never thought I would end up writing from Chatsworth, either.

The world, I thought as I sat there waiting for Ana Banana, is filled with small and stunning wonders.

Then in came Artie.

His presence was preceded by a good deal of noise at the entryway. Children’s shrill and exciteable squeals pierced the atmosphere like laser beams through Styrofoam, and one single female adult voice, in a strain of disorder that seemed to parallel their random chaos, squealed right along with them.

You know there’s trouble ahead when a grown woman squeals.

A fat little boy, whom I’ll call Artie, led the procession of a half-dozen other children to a table across the aisle. The sole adult (for lack of a better word) in their midst was Artie’s mommy who, in an effort to create what one can only guess to be a party spirit, carried on in a manner faintly reminiscent of Gidget and PoPo the Clown.

She was, at her youngest, in her 40s, Nautilus-trim, tight-jeaned and high-booted, and no doubt wishing to God she were still 17, still a cheerleader and still the most popular girl at old Taft High.

I suspect further the poor woman was a single parent, for I cannot imagine a man tolerating all that high-spirited perk for longer than it took to impregnate her.

But I digress.

Fat little Artie eventually was swept up by the spirit of mommy’s party madness and proceeded to introduce chaos to the festivities. Packaged gifts were ripped open, presents flew into the air, balloons were popped and the shouts of the monstrous children reached a level of sound roughly equivalent to the firebombing of Dresden during the Second World War.

As though to heighten the calamity to levels beyond even that, a Farrell’s employee began pounding a bass drum and yelling that it was Artie’s birthday and wasn’t all this fun? Mommy squealed in absolute by God delight, Artie bounced around the room and a waitress brought my Ana Banana.

I think it was the sight of the Ana Banana that finally got to me. I could no longer tolerate any of it, and the ice cream seemed to represent all that was strange and mad about the moment.

I left without eating and without tipping, for I felt I had paid enough in mental anguish and emotional pain. I am back to drinking Smirnoff and avoiding Farrell’s and finding quiet moments in places where children are not allowed.

And to hell with Ana Banana.