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.

******************************************************

 

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!!”