Illustration by Jorge Colombo

On a recent night at the door to Otto’s Shrunken Head, the bouncer’s lip piercing dangled into his snow-white beard, and he told a story: the name of the bar, he thinks, has something to do with a sailor who got lost at sea and went mad. Just past him, the fourteen-year-old establishment feels like an island haven for odd souls, with a dark, submarine air. The teal ceiling is crowded with paper lanterns and colored lights made from taxidermied puffer fish; hanging just above the front door is a yellow surfboard with a skeleton clinging to it, bony limbs locked around the board for better purchase. One Thursday, the d.j. Pat Pervert played punk’s greatest hits, and the murmurs of patrons in black leather jackets sank beneath the throbbing rhythm of Turbonegro’s “All My Friends Are Dead.” A mosaic of ink was proudly displayed on the arms and legs draped over zebra-print bar stools and vinyl booths. The cocktails were as loud as the music. Adorned with tiki umbrellas, pineapple chunks, and festive straws, drinks are served in mugs shaped like skulls or glaring totems. The piña colada is strong and fiercely sweet, as are the Stormy Skull (dark rum, coconut, ginger) and the Shrunken Skirt (“Ladies Beware! Don’t forget your underwear if you go for this mango elixir”). The specials deliver on uncomplicated promises: the Crème-A-Licious, while difficult to order straight-faced, is indeed, as advertised, like a Creamsicle. On the weekend, the back room, with its Hawaiian-printed walls, filled up with a clientele as outré as its décor: a five-person band took the stage, and in the sweaty final crescendo the audience joined in, drinks raised, for the chorus: “I’m just trying to be myself.” ♦