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.
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