West Hollywood Bar Review, Silverlake Edition.

Just as each bar in West Hollywood has its own little personality, so do other bars around the city.  The gay bars in Silverlake are like the older, dirtier, and usually smellier brothers of the bars in West Hollywood.  It’s an entirely different crowd, visually—but, as I’ve come to discover, it can be just as pretentious and clique-like as their hairless and overly tanned counterparts. 

I got an oddly large number of requests for a Silverlake Bar Review, and so, here it is. 

Before I talk about the bars specifically, let’s just speak on the men of Silverlake for a hot minute, shall we?  Firstly, let’s make no mistake here, they are every bit as gay as the boys to the west.  They try to act all butch and macho, but they’ve just replaced a V-neck American Apparel Stripped T-shirt with a leather vest, a fedora with a page boy cap, and expensive jewelry with handkerchiefs in their back pocket.  These generally (and yes, I am speaking in general, there are exceptions everywhere) are the “leather” guys, or the “alternative” guys—guys who never felt accepted  in West Hollywood, or the main stream gay scene, so they created their own little niche, where they could feel welcome. 

The problem, however, is that they are just as exclusive as their slender brothers in Boys Town.  If you don’t look a certain way, or act a certain way, or weigh enough, you’ll get the cold shoulder.  In my experience, most times I go to the Silverlake bars, people give me looks of disdain, as if to say “you don’t belong here, go away you little twink.”  I find it unsettling that a group of outcasts can be so unwelcoming.  If I wanted to feel like that, I’d go hang out at a straight bar and listen to frat boys call things gay (as in stupid).  Or with my father. 

Now, don’t get me wrong, I enjoy the bars in Silverlake as much (or as little) as I do the bars in West Hollywood, but I find the hypocrisy a little ridiculous.  I watched a documentary on LOGO about “butch” guys, such as you would find in Silverlake, and was insulted at how they thought they were somehow more of a man because of all their facial hair.  Honey, just because you’re fat and hairy, doesn’t mean you’re more of a man than me—you still like it up the butt, and there’s nothing “masculine” about sucking a cock.  Calm down.

Alright, enough gay bashing.  Let’s talk booze.

I used to go to The Eagle all the time.  I’d go with my boss a lot, because he liked to be around people like him (or as he calls them, Fatties), and I liked to be able to play pool and smoke at the same time.  If you’re looking for a fetish bar, this is your place.  There’s so much hardcore porn playing on the TV screens that even I blush on occasion.  They have 2 pool tables, one inside that is kind of awkward to play on, and one on their “patio” (which isn’t a patio at all and I still can’t figure out why we can smoke in there, but I’m not about to complain) which is much more popular.  They also have a pin ball machine and some arcade games—both of which make no sense, but hey, if you want to relive you’re incredibly awkward childhood, then by all means, insert your quarters there. 

They’ve got a fantastic selection of beers, and when you order a Hefeweizen, it comes in a glass the size of a large black penis.  It’s fantastic, one of those things and I’m down for the count (the beer, not the large black penis).

The bathroom is really fucking scary, I won’t step foot in there.  Someone’s always getting blown, or getting their ass eaten, or pissing on someone.  It’s weird, and not in the fun, “let’s get weird” kind of way.  I use the ladies room, like a classy gentleman.  Or a girl.

The bartenders are, in my humble opinion, gorgeous.  Most of them seem really nice too, at least the ones who will give me the time of day, considering I don’t weigh 200lbs and I don’t have a big bushy beard, and I take a shower every day.  

The best part of this bar, however, is the patrons.  These people are fucked up!  And I love it.  One time I saw a guy dressed head to toe in latex, wearing a dog mask.  I’ve seen people bound and gagged.  There’s a guy named Principal Bob, who goes around the bar with his paddle, spanking people (I’m up to a level 7 with his plexiglas paddle—yea bitches, now what?).  It’s like a fucking freak show in this place, and it’s hilarious.  The best part is wandering around, looking at all these macho men with their leather outfits and disgusting cigars, knowing that they are all, most likely, big power bottoms.  I got your game figured out, daddy.

Faultline has been called the Eagle, but with smiles.  It’s basically the same thing as the Eagle, but the customers don’t take themselves nearly as seriously.  That being said, this place is basically dying.  I used to do fire shows for a night there called Blender—and that was pretty much the only time I ever saw the bar even remotely packed.  It’s a great little venue, with an awesome outdoor area, but it’s usually really fucking boring.  They have bathrooms everywhere, which I love, and the bartenders are incredibly friendly. 

Last time I went to this bar, it was on a Wednesday, and apparently they turned Wednesdays at Faultline into Wednesdays at a sex club.  They turned off all the lights and turned down the music, and everyone was having sex everywhere.  I saw things that can’t be unseen, and I was touched in places that shouldn’t be touched in public—luckily, they have since stopped this nonsense, due to a raid by the FDA, or ABC, or MTV, or some other acronym.

The only exception to “Faultline is dying,” however, is Sunday.  They have, quite possibly, the busiest Sunday Beer Bust/Happy Hour out of all the gay bars in Los Angeles.  Apparently it’s amazing fun, with sexy shirtless guys getting all sorts of frisky, all over the place.  I’ve never gone, because I’ve worked every Sunday for the last 3 years or so.  But according to all the drunk whores that I talk to (or as I like to call them, “my friends”) it’s quite the place to be. 

And then there is MJ’s.  Now, I’m just going to go ahead and say it—I hate this place.  I had a really bad experience here a few years back with the owner, and I never got over that.  I’ve gone back since then, and it never seems to make sense.  The drinks seem incredibly overpriced; the dancers look like they either belong in West Hollywood, or a rehab facility.  Every time I try to pee in the stalls, there’s either a girl in there (what the hell are you doing here anyways?) or a bunch of guys doing coke.  They have weird performances and weird nights, and I get what they are trying to do, but ultimately, it seems like they just keep failing.  It’s like they are trying to fuse the Silverlake raunchy crowd with the West Hollywood coke whore crowd, and the two just don’t go well together.  Two bottoms do not make a top.

The big night to go to is Tuesdays, they call it Rim Job.  It used to be so busy that if you didn’t get there by 10pm, you might as well not bother trying to get in at all.  But from what I hear, it’s calmed down a bit, so you might stand a chance of getting in.  But overall, in my oh so humble opinion, it’s just not worth it to come here. 

I’m also going to give honorable mention to Akbar.  From what I can tell, they used to be a gay bar, but it’s not really gay anymore.  Every time I go, I have trouble finding another homo, other than myself.  It’s really just full of incredibly young and incredibly hip hipsters.  I mean, some of these people must spend HOURS getting their outfits on.  It’s really impressive to look at, but after 5 minutes, you kind of just feel like you’re at Urban Outfitters, and only you’re not allowed to touch anything.

Act your age, not your shoe size, girl.

Last week while I was working, I had to perform what I like to call, a hand check.  Basically, what that means, is that I saw two drunk guys getting hot and heavy at the bar, and I couldn’t see where their hands were, but I had a fairly certain guess.  So, me being the subtle and extremely kind bartender that I am, I yell out in my very butch voice “Hand check!”  And for some reason, every time I do this, the guys know exactly what I’m talking about, and everyone involved (yes, sometimes I have to perform a hand check on a group of inebriated homosexuals) lifts their hands up and backs away from the nether regions.  At least until I turn my back on them, and then it’s back to sticking it wherever they deem necessary.  Which can I just say, nasty?  I mean seriously, I’ve had guys stick their finger up some dudes bum, and then try to shake my hand.  Seriously.

Often times I have a customer who gets angry at me for telling him to stop pulling people’s dicks out, or they throw a tantrum when I tell them to get off the table, or they pout when I tell them to stop throwing ice cubes at people walking by on the street (if I’m not allowed to do it anymore, neither are you).  To which I usually respond “listen assclown, I’m not your fucking babysitter, you’re a grown ass man, quitting acting like a child.”  But the longer I work at a bar, the more I’m beginning to realize that I might be wrong.

            I’m starting to think that the bars are just a grown up version of recess.  The bartenders are just the teachers looking after the kids, and the police are the principals who send you to detention after school.

When I was a child (and that wasn’t too long ago), we played games during recess—tag, tetherball, chicken.  We’d play on the play structures, we’d swing, or in my case, I’d sit with the girls and hope I didn’t get asked to play basketball because I never understood how the game worked and the ball was about as big as me, so there was no way I was ever going to make a shot.  Sometimes I’d hunt for four-leaf clovers in the forest area behind my playground, and in retrospect that probably wasn’t the best place to let children go unsupervised.  Can we say stranger danger? 

But I digress.

Now that we wear big boy pants (ok, let’s be honest, I own some girl jeans, but they’re the only ones that I can find that fit, don’t judge me asshole) and have hair on our balls, we play grown-up games.  Instead of tag, we tag each other on Facebook.  Instead of stalking your crush across the playground, we stalk each other via Foursquare and Twitter. And playing chicken is what we call flirting.  Our play structures have been replaced with bars that have pool tables and dart boards, and the horribly wonderful high you get from too much candy and swinging until you’re sick has been replaced with shots of Patron. 

I don’t know about anyone else, but I had a horrible time in school.  I don’t understand the desire to go back to that time.  Everyone was so cruel, and thoughtless, and everything we worried about was really quite innocuous.  So why is it, that whenever we drink, we revert back to the less evolved version of ourselves?  We say some pretty awful things, and we do even worse.  And after we pass out, our not-so-restful slumber is quickly followed by regret and awkward apologies.

Maybe I don’t know what I’m talking about.  I mean, it’s one thing for me to stand behind the bar, relatively sober (in comparison to all you other bitches), and judge your immaturity, but it’s an entirely different animal when I’m not working.  After all, I’ve been there—we’ve all done some stupid shit. 

And while I might have learned the basics of basketball, as soon as I get asked to play a game with the cool kids, I still get shy and uncomfortable and go sit with my girls.  I always have an excellent excuse ready, just so that I don’t have to get naked in the locker room.  And I still hang out with people much older than me, because I get uncomfortable by people my own age—heaven forbid I try to relate to one of my peers. 

Maybe my desire to overcome my youth is so strong, that I overcompensate, and act like the one who has his shit together, when really all I’m doing is stumbling along through life, barely holding on to my sanity, just like everyone else.  And maybe most everyone else is so afraid of losing their youth, that they forget how wonderful it is to be an adult. 

And maybe we all need to remember that age and maturity don’t run parallel with each other.

And seriously, put your dicks away at the bar.  It’s weird.  Save that for the bathroom, or the car, or the bathhouse.

Or, even better, your bedroom.

Lord, I need a drink.

Jesse.

I ain't beyonce, you don't need to put a ring on it.

          So sometimes, we drink. And when we drink, we get drunk. And when we get drunk, we do some stupid shit. Or rather, we do stupid people. Now I'm not saying that after I have a few beers and shots in me, I turn into a total whore--but I know quite a few of you idiots who do. I mean really, you guys are fucking sluts! Kudos, I suppose, for being so comfortable with your body that you'll let pretty much anyone see your naked body, and then stick it in. Me, I'm one of those guys with body dysmorphic disorder--I think I'm hideous naked, even though I'm fucking skinny as shit. Luckily, I'm too lazy to do anything about it, like stop eating, or throw up, or even worse, exercise.
         
           But enough about my little ass. Let's talk about the horrible mistakes that we've all woken up next to.

           Sometimes, you just want a one night stand. No strings attached, no weirdness afterwards, and certainly no cuddling. I'd prefer it if I didn't even know your last name. If I save you in my phone, your last name will be how big your dick was, and what bar I met you at. I have a girlfriend who is exceptionally talented at finding these guys, and I often wish I could be her when I grow up. But alas, I, on the other hand, attract the freaks. It's like my special power (fuck that shit, I want to be able to move things with my mind).

          I hate to admit it, but I'm one of many who have woken up next to a guy, and thought "man, he looked a lot better when the lights were off, and I was hammered." You know, when you pretend to be too hungover to fool around, when you're actually hungover just enough to fool around. This is the guy that probably put something in your drink when you went to the bathroom--ok, you know he put something in your drink because you saw him do it, but figured it might be something fun, so you just went with it.

          Then you have the teases. The ones who give you blue balls over and over again, but give you just enough to keep you coming back for more. The ones who might give you a hand job in the bathroom at the bar, but just for a second, and then dissappear 10 minutes later, only to text you the next day going "where'd you go, I looked for you everywhere but couldn't find you!" These people are usually bartenders, like myself. I'd suggest going to Trunks, or Mickeys, if you'd like to find really good teases. I even have a few numbers for you, and if you'd like to go home alone and rub one out to Xtube, then I definetly suggest calling them.

          Oh, and what about the guys who you have an awesome connection with, and the sex is amazing, and you could really see it turning into something more than a "wham bam thank you ma'am." Then, after a week of really great blowjobs, you find out he's got a boyfriend. But don't worry, it's an "open relationship." Fuck that shit, I don't like to share. Maybe that's why I never had friends growing up. Whatever. But seriously, don't fucking be nice to me and flirt with me if you have a boyfriend. I aint no one's mistress.

          Or the guy who flirts with you all night long, and you might have even bought him a drink or two, you know, to impress him and make yourself feel like a big man. And then, when it gets time to get in the cab and do the nasty, he tells you how much he charges. Yea, that's classy. And, knock on wood, this has never happened to me, but I can't tell you how many times a customer has left with a cute boy, only to come back 5 minutes later, red in the face and horrified about the potential STD he almost had.

          Oh, oh, oh! And then there's the crackhead! They are awesome. You think they're just really excited about everything, but once you get them home they spend an hour in the bathroom doing crystal meth and cleaning your toilet. And somehow, even though you only left him alone for 2 minutes when you went to go get a glass of water, lube and a condom, he still manages to steal your wallet, passport, cell phone, social security number, and cat.

          My personal favorite, however, is the long term relationship guy. This is the guy who, after one night of drunken, sloppy sex, has already picked out his wedding dress. The one who, even though he's only had a handful of conversations with you, has decided that you are "different," or "special." Listen dude, you don't need to flatter me with compliments like that, just buy me a shot and I'm as good as yours. I'm a cheap hoe like that. This is the guy that really confuses me, because I like to think that we've all seen enough Real World, or The Hills, or Jersey Shore, to know that it's never a great idea to confuse one drunken hook up with a first "date." Yes, I know it can work out, I've even seen long term relationships come out of it (and by long term, I mean 3 months, and by relationship, I mean a 3 month drunken bender, followed by a DUI and court ordered AA meetings). But it's a rare and miraculous thing, like Asians with big dicks, or a unicorn.
          
          If I had a nickle for all the guys who've practically proposed to me within one week of meeting me, I'd have a quarter. That's like 5 guys. Y'all need to slow your roll. Don't plan your next trip to Cabo with me in mind. Don't even mention your family to me, and certainly don't mention me to your family. I pay for my own health insurance, please don't offer a domestic partnership so that I can get free dental (side note, if anyone actually ever offered that to me, I'd totally do it). And please, please, PLEASE, don't get all butt hurt when things just don't work out, and you realize the only connection we actually had was an afinity for Jager. I know I'm a great kisser (no seriously, I'm awesome), but put your grandma's wedding ring away, for the love of all things holy. Accept that I used you for my own pleasure, and take comfort in the fact that, undoubtedly, someone will do the exact same thing to me, very soon.

Lord, I need a drink.

Jesse

Step away from the homo, girl.

We've all seen them. We've all heard them. And yes, most of us have had one or two. No, I'm not talking about an average to large-sized asian dick (we know those don't exist). I'm talking about the fag hag. Sometimes they are called a fruit fly, or fairy god mother, or Dorothy, but mostly I just call them annoying.

Now don't get me wrong, I love the ladies (in a strictly, lets go get our faces painted on us at the Mac counter kind of way, not the lets go bump uglies kind of way). But all my lady friends have a life outside of the gay community--like, oh I don't know, straight men. And that's something I can get behind, because I like all my friends to be extremely sexual active (if not down right promiscuous), and you can't do that if you're hanging out with a bunch of queens who are terrified of your bleeding vag.

The fag hags come in many shapes and sizes (ok, usually they come in one size--severely overweight.), but after years of training, I have been able to pin point a couple different categories that they fall in.

First, you have the annoying girls who think they can turn their gay best friend straight. Which, on a very basic level, is extremely rude, suggesting that if I try hard enough, I'll actually want to stick my pecker in your hole. Not going to happen, sister from another mister. And trust me, I had a fag hag who loved to make out with me, to "teach me how to kiss better." Bitch, I know how to kiss like a fucking god--you just get wet everytime I do it, and want a little taste of my man nectar. I got your game figured out, girl. I like dick as much as you do, so go find your own and leave mine alone. You will never, ever turn a gay man straight. Just like you can't turn a straight man gay (unless they're really drunk, and then a hole's just a hole, right?) Stick to finding a man that isn't convinced that the vagina actually has teeth.

Next, we have the family member. Now bless your precious little hearts for supporting your gay son, or nephew, or brother. Really, it's awesome that you accept and embrace his sexuality, but here's the problem with going out to get drunk with your family--people act like fucking idiots when they get drunk. And no one wants to do that with their mom. Or worse, no one wants to babysit their mom, when they get drunk and end up throwing up all over the Ramada hotel room that they are staying at (not that that's ever happened to me). Or, you could have a crazy ass family like mine, who will kill a bitch if he so much as glances at me in the wrong way. I spend my night making sure no one dies in the line of fire. It's exhausting. Family, it's awesome to hang out with you, but let's leave the crazy black-out drunk saturday nights to the professionals, ok?

Finally, we have the fat chick. Now before any of you try to eat me, let me explain--most fag hags are fat chicks. Ok, maybe that didn't help my case. But it's true. Seriously, the reason being is that they have such low self-confidence that they think a straight guy will never find them attractive because they're so fat, so they hang around all the homosexuals because they are fulfilling two missing emotional puzzle pieces. One, they are around people who will still call you fabulous, even if you're a fatass. We'll still love you, because we think big boobies and curves are fantastic--plus we don't have to screw you, so we don't care what you look like naked. And secondly, you're still getting your fill of testosterone that I know y'all are craving. You might not be getting a dick up your baby maker like you really want, but you're surrounding yourself with them, which is really the next best thing.

Girl, put down the rainbow flag. Find yourself a nice sports bar, and locate a man who likes a fluffy chick. Try the black guys, they seem to love large women.

There might be more types, but I've used up my daily time I've alloted to thinking about ladies.  And I'm going to a birthday party tonight for, you guessed it, a lady.  So that'll have to do for now. 

Back to thinking about penis. 

Lord, I need a drink.

West Hollywood Bar Review. For real, yo. Grand Finale.

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 second part of my gay bar review. I hope you enjoy it.  If not, get drunk and read it again.

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No good EVER comes from going to Fubar.  But hey, who’s honestly out in West Hollywood to do good?  This place is dirty, it’s raunchy, and it’s usually so dark and packed that I can’t see a fucking thing.  It takes me approximately 7 days to make my way from the front door to the bathroom in the back.  And another week or so to get a drink.  And, by the time I pee and get a beer, I’m so stressed out by the battle I just waged, that I need a cigarette, which means I have to make my way through that fucking crowd all over again.  So basically, I chug my beer while I’m crowd surfing to the entrance, smoke my cigarette, and say fuck it all and stumble home. 

That being said, the crazies tend to inhabit this bar—the gender fucks, the drag queens, the boys who look really sexy in black eyeliner and boots (you know who you are mister Mo-Hawk, you’re damn sexy, call me sometime, I promise I’m not stalking you, ok?).  And I love crazies.   On Mondays they always seem to have this trashy, coke-whore party that doesn’t get started until really late, and the freaks start stumbling in, looking horrible and fabulous at the same time.  It’s fantastic.  And of course, we can’t forget about Thursdays at Fubar—Big Fat Dick is what the night’s called, and it’s, well…actually, it’s kind of lame now.  The dicks are getting smaller, and the trash is getting less trashy, and no one really wants that. 

Eleven is one of those clubs that I secretly like, but pretend not to because I can’t afford to go there more often.  It’s so beautiful inside; it’s my favorite space out of any bar I go to.  I just imagine circus acts flying through the giant building—but they never do it, which is going to get them an angry email very soon, if they don’t listen to my suggestions.  Not that I’ve ever talked to anyone who works there, but that’s not the point.  They have an upstairs area that is fun and you can dance, and they have a gigantic staircase that you can strut up and down—and everyone knows how much I love stairs.  That wasn’t sarcasm by the way, I really like stairs.  I like elevators more, but that’s not the point.  They also have a pool table upstairs, but I’ve only ever seen people have sex on it, never actually play it.  That’s cool though, whatever floats your boat. 

I have two complaints.  First would be the bartenders, who tend to be incredibly rude to me.  I mean for crying all night, don’t be a dick to the person who’s paying your rent.  Just because you’re really pretty and spend a shit ton of time and money at the gym (aka getting pounded in the steam room), doesn’t mean you can’t treat a fellow ‘mo with a little respect.  Ok?

And secondly, the bathroom.  Am I the only one who gets so fucked up in there?  They have mirrors all over the walls or some crazy shit, and I can’t tell how to get out once I get in, and sometimes I get trapped in the stalls because the doors are really heavy.   It’s terribly confusing—like vaginas.  And it’s terrifying—like vaginas.  And you get sucked in and can’t find your way out—like vaginas.

Trunks has a long history in West Hollywood.  I don’t really know what it is, and I don’t really care, but they have some really cute bartenders.  And they are very flirty.  And most of them are “straight,” meaning they’d probably let me touch their junk if I got them drunk.  Which is probably why none of them drink much on the job.  Pussys. 

They really like pool at this bar—so much so, they have 2 pool tables.  One table is just for the massive amount of Asians that are always at this bar, and the other is for all the old men who like to fondle the hairless Asian boys.  Seriously, why don’t Asians have hair on their bodies?   It’s weird.  And why do they always seem to have a 6-pack?  It’s not fair. 

This place has carpet, and a vending machine, and a fucking miniature train running around the ceiling, and like 300 TV’s all around the tiny little bar.  I don’t get any of that, but hey, I don’t like it when people judge my fetish for popping balloons, so I won’t judge their choice in decorations.

Anyways, they make their drinks so strong, it’s kind of obscene.  I actually won’t drink a mixed drink there unless I specifically watch them pour it and tell them to stop before I get alcohol poisoning.  But hey, a lot of people like to black out and make a cab driver stop 5 times while you puke on your way home (in my defense, I think I was drugged), and if this is your thing, Trunks is the place to do it without spending too much money. 

PS, did anyone know that people ACTUALLY get off on popping balloons?  Fucking crazy, right?

To every other bar I didn’t talk about, please be better.  You’re boring, and don’t deserve an entry in my prestigious, high profile blog.  You’re like those kids in high school who everyone knows but no one’s really friends with—your yearbooks are probably filled with generic “Have a Great Summer!!”