The Iguana Cafe (People's Republic of Iguanaland) was a teeny-tiny San Fernando Valley hole-in-the-wall fuckin' MIRACLE of a cranium-shop, sammich/muffin/bookstore/haven/nest for poets and preachers, anarchists and music-makers, shy beautiful outcasts and outlandish acts of right-on wordsmithery. Much-loved, deeply-mourned (closed down in the 90's)---The Iguana gave birth to some famously infamous famous folk. But the no-names were the real reason everyone dug it. The bathroom doubled as a loverly acid-trip Green Room. Proprietor Tom was the grooviest elf-god EVER. It was a Zen koan in a state of constant rebirth.
"Get your shit together and let's go to the Iguana...I have some new goodies I wanna read at open-mike tonight!"
"Where the hell have you been, Rainbow? That place is, like, totally SHUT DOWN. It's gone."
"OMG. Are you serious? Oh WOW...you don't even know how bummed I am right now. That confirms it---there IS no God. Where the fuck is my pipe?"