Friday, January 21, 2011

West Hollywood Bar Review. For real, yo. Part 1.

I think my most commonly asked question at work is “What’s fun to do tonight?”  I usually try to respond with “me” or something similar.  I mean, really, I would prefer if you stayed at my bar and threw your money at me.  But I understand the need to wander.  So, I’ve decided to do a bar review, of all the gay bars in the area.  Every bar has a personality.  It’s like being in high school.  The Abbey would be one of those socialite kids that everyone thinks is perfect, but she’s secretly snorting cocaine out of her Jesus necklace.  Motherlode would probably be that really fat art fag that, when he grows up, will be a little eccentric, but gorgeous.  Rage is the jock who failed his senior year and had to be in high school for another year.  Fiesta is the cool kid that everyone loves.  Mickys is the cool kid that everyone’s afraid of. 
You get the picture. 
So, without further ado (what does that even mean?) here’s the beginning of my gay bar review. I hope you enjoy it.  If not, get drunk and read it again. 
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Motherlode is probably one of my favorite bars.  I like the little smoking patios.  They make me feel like I’m in a zoo.  I haven’t been able to figure out who would be the caged animal—me, or the trannys walking the street.  Very strong drinks, very large drinks, and surprisingly cheap.  They usually play really, REALLY weird video clips on their TVs—I never know why they do it, but I think it has something to do with the fact that the place usually smells like pot.  On Tuesday nights, it turns into a super ghetto hip-hop dance party, with so much fog from the fog machine that you can’t see who you’re making out with, which is usually a good thing.  The bar staff is friendly, and they have a pool table—but no one seems to know how to play pool here, which is cool, I guess. 
Whenever I’m there, I usually get a boner, because there’s lots of hot, easy guys.  It’s a very diverse crowd, sometimes you get muscle daddies, sometimes you get twinks, and I even saw a lesbian there one time.  We kicked her out though. 

Before it burnt down, Mickys was a dark, dirty bar, full of trashy strippers.  And mostly, it was FUN.  I can’t even count the number of times I did something I wasn’t extremely proud of in there.  Now it’s lit up like a fucking homosexual beacon.  It’s so awkward to get groped and fondled and licked when everyone is watching you.  It’s also awkward that the mostly naked gogo boys are dancing on the patio, while children are going next door to the yogurt shop. 
That being said, I still usually have a pretty fun time.  The “dancers” are, for the most part, very attractive, and fairly uninhibited (meaning, I don’t have to use my imagination to picture what their junk looks like, they usually just whip it out).  I put dancers in quotes because a lot of them just stand there and rub themselves.  The bartenders don’t seem to have any personalities at all, I think they might have bought them at Costco—but then again when the music is so loud that I can hear it when I’m at a live show at the Key Club on Sunset, they probably don’t have much opportunity to let their charming personalities shine.  At least they’re pretty. 
They also have a second level, though I don’t know what it’s used for.  I think bar mitzvahs, maybe.

Fiesta Cantina used to be my go to bar.  I was there 7 days a week.  It was like my version of Cheers.  And then I realized that it probably isn’t healthy (or financially responsible) to be drinking 7 nights a week, so I cut down.  Still, I go back on occasion, and very little has changed.  The staff are all ridiculously gorgeous, and are well aware of this fact.  I hear rumors of bad service and major attitude problems, but everyone’s always nice to me when I go there—but then again, I pay in cash, and I tip really well.  HINT HINT. 
They always seem to have a decent sized crowd, despite the fact that the much snazzier Mickys is within spitting distance.  One time I played beer pong upstairs.  Completely unrelated, but it should be noted that I kicked ass. 
They serve Mexican food, which is actually pretty damn good.  One time I had too many of their endless taco Tuesday tacos, and ended up throwing them up when I got home.  It might have also been all the margaritas.  Their margaritas are delicious.  And they are fantastic at subtly up selling the Patron. 

Gold Coast is not quite the oldest bar in West Hollywood, but it’s damn close.  And while other bars have kept up with the times (and kept the young crowds coming back), Gold Coast has enjoyed the 1980s for the past 30 years.   Here you’ll find lots of older men getting their drank on, a hustler or 6, and some really, really odd bartenders.  And if you’re looking for some extra entertainment, go out back and take a peek at Vaseline Alley—never a dull moment.  There is a fierce liking for pool at this bar, and most of the people who play take the game a little too seriously.  In fact, the only thing that people fight over more is probably the jukebox.  You never know what’s going to be playing—it might be a Latino playing an hour of Spanish music, or a depressed old man playing 20 dollars worth of Barbara Streisand, or a drunk idiot playing Pokerface 10 times in a row.   
Despite the severe lack of teeth, and deodorant, you’ll definitely have a good time at this bar.  Everyone’s treated like family, and most people there really don’t take themselves too seriously.  The drinks are awfully cheap, and extremely strong.  It’s a great place to start out your night, and depending on how you look at it, an even better place to end your night.

Rage was once a place worth going to, now it’s generally a place to avoid.  It caters to the 18-22 crowd (and the 80 year old men who love 18-22 twinks), so maybe that’s why I avoid the place like I avoid smelly people, or Jews.  It’s filled with underage, overweight latin girls (or, “latinas”) who wear skinny bedazzled jeans from Wal-Mart.  They wear too much perfume, are obsessed with Twilight and/or Justin Beiber, and usually puke outside of US Bank at the end of the night.  This is fag hag central.  I feel weird going there because I’m white, and I don’t live with my parents. 
The only redeeming quality of this club is the black security guard who dresses like a cop.  He’s been there for approximately 300 years, but he hasn’t aged a day—black don’t crack, yo.  No one knows what he actually does there, or if he even works there, but he takes whatever his job is very seriously, which I can respect. 

Friday, January 14, 2011

What your drink says about you, Part 2

                There’s an old saying that I once heard, “you are what you eat.”  So, it would stand to reason that you are what you drink, as well.  I hope it’s not entirely true, otherwise I am a giant monster made out of spaghetti and coca-cola.  And last night I was a gelatinous blob of Jose Cuervo.
                When I worked at Starbucks, I could usually tell what a customer was going to order based on their appearance.  14-year old black girls usually got caramel frappucinos with extra whip cream and extra caramel.  Asians usually got green tea lattes.  50-year old skinny white ladies always got non-fat lattes.  And anyone who came in without shoes or reeked of urine usually just wanted water. 
                Now I know, I know, this might be considered “profiling,” or “offensive.”  But I think it should be called “genius” and “hilarious.”  And, as I transitioned from the crazy loons addicted to coffee, to the crazy loons addicted to alcohol, I noticed that there are a few trends with the alcoholics as well.  And so, I started compiling a list.  It’s a “what your drink says about you” list. 
                If you find my thoughts on this matter offensive, well, then you can go suck it. 
                Or have another shot.  It gets better when you’re drunk.  Most things do.

                Vodka Soda—this is the type of person that enjoys the taste of booze.  Congratulations, sir, you are an alcoholic.  You’re the guy who runs into the bar before his AA meeting and downs one of these because you know it won’t leave your breath smelling completely like alcohol.  And then you run in after your meeting for a couple drinks before you have to head back to your sober living housing.  Chew a lemon rind, it also helps with alcohol breath, you alchy. 
                Cuba Libre without a Lime—you’re an idiot.
                Stella—you’re a fucking hipster.  Your pants are too tight, and you’re wearing too much eyeliner.  You just drink this because you think it makes you look cool.  It doesn’t.  Well, ok, it makes you look a little cool.
                “Dark Beer” or “ale”—you’re probably from the Northwest, like Portland or Seattle.  Or you think you’re too good for a bottle of Bud.  Or you’re a lesbian.  Probably a lesbian.  Either way, you definitely own lots of flannel.
                Anything that starts with Glen (Glenfiddich, Glenlivet)—get off your high horse.  You’re at a bar, leave your fancy ass shit for your fancy dinner parties, you rich old man.  I’m so happy that you like the finer things in life, but really, calm down.  Either that, or you’re a fucking badass chick, and you probably have huge tits.  Kudos to you ma’am, I hope you get laid tonight.
                Wine—who the fuck orders wine at a bar?  It doesn’t make you classy, especially if you can’t even pronounce whatever wine you are ordering correctly.  Oh, and to the lady who orders a “white chardonnay,”  THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS A RED CHARDONNAY.  YOU DON’T HAVE TO SPECIFY THE COLOR.  And the “t” in “pinot” is silent.  And finally, if you are ordering wine with ice…that just makes you an extra level of classy, now doesn’t it?
                Champagne—hoooooooomo.   You, sir, are a homosexual.  Or it’s some birthday party, or bachelorette party, or some sort of celebration.  But if you aren’t celebrating, and ordering champagne, you are a big, giant, homo. 
                (as a side note, I LOVE champagne.)
                Water—just leave.  What the fuck are you doing at a bar if you aren’t drinking?  Go back to AA you quitter. 
                Jager Bomb—the only people who seem to order these are frat boys, and middle aged men trying to relive their glory days.  Or me.  Either way, maaaaan are you going to regret drinking that. 
                Belvedere Vodka—seriously?  You’re too good for Grey Goose?  You aren’t Chelsea Handler, you know you can’t taste the difference between this and Absolut, and you know you’re just ordering this to look cool.  Too bad looking cool costs so much?  Especially since you’re probably at one of those fancy bars, like the Abbey.  Y’all can keep your Belvedere, I’ll stick with my Ketel One.

So there we have the next installment of my highly scientific, politically correct list.  I hope this is of value to you all. 
                Class dismissed.

Thursday, January 13, 2011

What your drink says about you, Part 1.

There’s an old saying that I once heard, “you are what you eat.”  So, it would stand to reason that you are what you drink, as well.  I hope it’s not entirely true, otherwise I am a giant monster made out of spaghetti and coca-cola.  And last night I was a gelatinous blob of Jose Cuervo.
                When I worked at Starbucks, I could usually tell what a customer was going to order based on their appearance.  14-year old black girls usually got caramel frappucinos with extra whip cream and extra caramel.  Asians usually got green tea lattes.  50-year old skinny white ladies always got non-fat lattes.  And anyone who came in without shoes or reeked of urine usually just wanted water. 
                Now I know, I know, this might be considered “profiling,” or “offensive.”  But I think it should be called “genius” and “hilarious.”  And, as I transitioned from the crazy loons addicted to coffee, to the crazy loons addicted to alcohol, I noticed that there are a few trends with the alcoholics as well.  And so, I started compiling a list.  It’s a “what your drink says about you” list. 
                If you find my thoughts on this matter offensive, well, then you can go suck it. 
                Or have another shot.  It gets better when you’re drunk.  Most things do.
                                        
                Vodka Cranberry—you don’t really like the taste of alcohol, but you like to hang out with the cool kids so you drink this.  Also applies to Rum and Cokes.  Don’t ever order a “cape cod” without a lime, because then you’re being an idiot (bartenders, you know what I’m talking about). 
                Vodka Redbull—you’re probably a youngster who plans on dancing the night away, or you can’t hold your liquor well, so you hope the Redbull will balance you out and keep you going, but it really just makes you act like a crack head.  Or you haven’t discovered the joys of cocaine, and you’re trying to keep up with your friends who go to the bathroom every five minutes and come out with renewed energy and a runny nose.
                Bloody Mary—someone had a little too much to drink last night!  Great way to get rid of a hangover.  Should ONLY be ordered during the morning and/or lunch hours.  If you order it at night, that’s just weird and you’re an asshole for making the bartender make something like that when he’s clearly busy.  You know who you are, bastard. 
                Corona—Mexican.
                Corona and a shot of Tequila—Mexican who can’t speak English. 
                Long Island Iced Tea—maybe it’s your 21st birthday and you don’t know what is actually in it.  Maybe you’re looking to play catch up with your drunk friends (not a good idea).  Maybe you’re just trying to be cool because that’s the only drink you’ve ever heard of on TV.  Either way, you’re an idiot, you’re going to get FUBAR (fucked up beyond all recognition), and you’re probably going to end up on the street puking (and if you’re a girl, you’ll probably be crying as well). 
                Any drink that is Blue—you’re probably black. 
                Frozen margaritas, or “slushies”—you’re probably black.
                Hennessey—you’re definitely black.
                Gin and Juice—black.
                Gin and Tonic—no one should be ordering this unless they qualify for the senior citizen discount at the movie theater. 
                A beer and a shot—you are a professional drinker, sir.  Good job, welcome to the club. 
                Cosmopolitan—STOP WATCHING SEX AND THE CITY, homo. 
                Sex on the Beach, or any other drink with a fancy name like that—if you don’t know what goes in your drink, don’t order it.  You don’t sound cool when you order a “purple hooter,” you sound like a tool.  And chances are, we’re just going to make up something on the spot and pretend it’s what you ordered, because you’re usually too drunk to notice at that point.
                 Large orders of really sweet, pretty shots—ladies, calm down.  You aren’t hardcore for chugging lemon drops, and I don’t care if it’s a ladies night out on the town.  And don’t order 8 shots and tip 2 dollars.  And when you’re ordering rounds of shots, always ask the bartender if he wants one too, because he probably does—and after dealing with your bachelorette party, he probably needs one.
                Martinis of any kind—you’re probably trying to look way classier than you are.  And if your bartender is as lazy as I am, he’ll probably hate you for making him do all that extra work.
                 
                So there we have the start of my highly scientific, politically correct list.  I hope this is of value to you all. 
                Class dismissed.

Lord, I need a drink.