Drift Reality

The Reef is located at 2446 18th St. NW in Adams Morgan. Not to say that anything is wrong with the Tiki lounge on the ground floor because nothing is. It’s foresty and green and you might feel a little bit tropical when you are sitting there drinking whatever it is that you are drinking. But I wanted to go to the fish tank room. So I told the bouncer, “Listen, I write for an E-Zine called ‘Drift Reality,’ and I have to review a number of other places tonight. When can you get me upstairs?’” He responded by placing me in a “better than normal” line and I was upstairs within ten minutes. Automatically, I think to myself, “This place rocks and I’m going to write a positive review about the place.” I didn’t have to even lie because the place charges no cover and when you go upstairs, you’re surrounded by fish tanks. As I was leaving, the bouncer asked if I had been bullshitting him, and I responded that I hadn’t, which I hadn’t.

The place rocked and I’m writing a good review about it.

Georgetown Billiards brings back fond memories of when I was a lame-ass preppie Hoya back in the day. On a Wednesday night, I would put on my favorite khakis and striped button down shirt, dig my favorite white three-bar hat out of the closet, and head over to Billiards for a few games of pool.

I would be greeted at the door by some huge bouncer who was actually a friendly guy, then buy an affordably priced pitcher of beer from either the Asian manager with long hair or the voluptuous, scantily-clad blond bartender who would slap someone on the ass and then yell something in an unintelligibly raspy voice.

I would play a few games of pool, realize that I sucked and was becoming drunk, and then go play Ms. Pacman for the next thirty or so minutes. When I got over my irritation at my gimpy pool playing, I would return to the table where I would find a freshly microwaved plate of Mozzarella sticks waiting for me, delicately flavored with the scent of second-hand smoke that pervaded the place.

As I munched on the mozzarella sticks, I would contentedy scan the room full of dorks and Asians (of which I am both).

I went back to Billiards a few nights ago and found that it was exactly the same as I remember it, with the one exception that the voluptuous scantily-clad bartender had now died her hair brown.

Bottom line is that if you are bored with sitting in a bar, drinking beer, why not go sit in a pool hall and drink beer. Even better, why not drink beer a pool hall that also has Ms. Pacman.

Georgetown Billiards is located at 3521 Prospect St. in the courtyard behind Cafe Milano.

At Crush, I remember going into the bar, having a drink, and thinking to myself, “Boy, this place is a little trashy, but in a good way.”

What I realized last night was that the reason I like places like Crush and Tom Tom is because they do not deny the fact that they are trashy bars. They are literally dirty, the patrons are generally drunk kids looking for someone to hook up with, and it smells bad inside. That being said, the service is friendly and they seem to have a humility about them that belies the trashiness of the venue in which they work.

If you want to go and have some cheap drinks and not care how you look and then hook up with someone who you probably will think is attractive mostly on account of your drunkenness, then please go to Crush.

 I want to discuss a little club in Pacific Beach called Thrusters. When I first arrived in San Diego, I remember the trepidation that I felt upon hearing my friend say the name “Thrusters,” when describing where I would be meeting him in Pacific Beach. Living in Hillcrest, my mind immediately began to conjure frightening images of men wearing cowboy outfits and dancing to the Village People. I was pleasantly surprised when I walked into Thrusters and found it to be every guy’s dream: A dive bar with hot chicks and cheap booze. Anyone who has ever been to Pacific Beach knows it to contain an assortment of bars/clubs that are packed to the brim with meatheads, surfers, and blonde bimbos with tattoos on their lower back (for some reason, every girl in Pacific Beach has this - I’ve begun to think that it may be an initiation rite before you sign your apartment contract in PB or something). Thrusters manages to defy the PB logic and is a venue where you can relax and enjoy a drink in a sedate atmosphere.

I had nothing but good things to say about Thrusters - that is, until both Karl and me got kicked out on different occasions. The first time happened back in February or March. Karl and I were calmly enjoying a drink when a couple of cute girls walked into the bar. I began talking with one of the girls when all of a sudden, her friend pulled her away and rudely told me, “She has a boyfriend.” We were standing nearby and I kept glancing at the girl who I had initially been talking with, because, well - because she was cute I guess.

The two girls were soon joined by a guy, presumably the “boyfriend” of the first girl. Out of nowhere, the guy approached me and told me to stop “Oggling his friends.” I calmly told him that I wasn’t “oggling” anybody and if there was a problem, I would rather discuss it outside. He said, “Okay,” so I walked outside the bar. Once outside, I realized that he had chicKarled out because I was standing there by myself. So I headed back inside and approached the guy, asking, “Hey! I thought you were going to go outside.” Before I knew it, the manager of the bar - a short stout fellow - had picked me up and carried me outside. End of story.

The second time occurred last weekend when Karl and I were back at Thrusters, once again calmly enjoying a drink. I headed to the bathroom and when I came back, I saw the manager - the same guy who had carried me out - taking my stool away. I then saw Karl yell something in his face, and then watched as the guy marched Karl out of the bar. I approached the manager and asked him what was going on, to which he responded, “Your friend just called me a douche-bag.”

I went outside and asked Karl why he had called the manager of Thrusters a douche-bag and found out that the manager had been taking my stool away to clear space in the bar, as it was starting to get crowded. He ignored Karl when Karl had told him that I was sitting there, and Karl had called him a douche bag. End of story.

Basically, even though I’ve not had the best luck with the place, I still think that Thrusters is pretty cool.
 
 

There is a club in San Diego called 4th and B, and it sucks. This is long overdue, and the only reason that I write this is in the hopes that someone who is trying to figure out a good place to go on a Friday night in San Diego will type in “4th and B” into a Google search and spring upon this blurb. I’ll cut to the chase and make this as concise as possible.

Karl, James, and I went to 4th and B last Fall to watch the Crystal Meth concert. They were putting on a hell of a show and I was having a blast. I looked up and Karl had walked up to the stage in order to get a closer look at the band (or whatever they are called? DJs? I don’t even know anymore). Next thing I know, a bouncer puts his hand on Karl and tells him to get away from the stage. Karl complies, but as he is walking away, he tells the bouncer: “Fine, just don’t touch me.”

I think everything is fine, so I continue dancing. Two minutes later, the bouncer returns and starts yelling in Karl’s face. I sense that something might go wrong, so I start to head over to find out what is going on. Next thing I know, another bouncer has approached me from behind and put my arm behind my back.

This isn’t the first time that I’ve been put into an arm lock by a bounce who is substantially larger than me, so I say, “Listen, I don’t know what you’re doing. I just wanted to talk to my friend.” He tells me to just stop struggling, which I wasn’t doing in the first place, and drags me out. A few moments later, I see Karl get dragged out in a similar fashion. A few minutes later, James calmly strolls out.

I spend the next twenty or so minutes, barking at the doorman, demanding to see a manager. Finally, someone comes out and we discuss the situation. He says that the best thing is to call back the following day.

To make a long story short, I pursue the thing for several weeks, but am never given a satisfactory resolution to the problem. So the next best thing is to complain about it on my website. If you are going to 4th and B, be warned - the bouncers are mentally unstable, roid-rage morons.

Tonight, Karl and I met Rena, a friend of ours who we haven’t seen in a while, her cousin, and Michelle at a sushi bar/club named Cafe Japengo. Cafe Japengo was the type of bar where people in their mid-thirties go to be hip. Karl and I drove up in his Ford Aspire rental and took advantage of the valet parking amidst a torrent of mercedes, lexus, bmw’s, etc. We walked in and I was amused to hear Snoop Dogg’s ” Ain’t No Fun (If The Homies Can’t Have None)” and even more amused to watch people in their mid-thirties wearing v-neck t-shirts bob their head in rhythm to the lyrics. The place was crowded as all hell and I had the distinct feeling that I was drowning and trying to keep my head above water as I was pushed to and fro by a flurry of overweight bachelors seeking their prey. Getting a drink was such as hassle that I felt compelled to down it in one sip after finally getting it, just to relieve the growing sharpness in my head that had resulted from trying to get the bartender’s attention for literally fifteen minutes.

Despite the hassle of being in a “trendy” bar, it was great to see Rena and Michelle and to meet Rena’s cousin. Rena was also fed up with the crowd, so she decided to reserve a table. The hostess handed us a beeper that went off after about thirty minutes, signaling a free table. When we arrived at the front in order to be seated, we were met by a hostess who asked,

“Wait, how many of you are there again?”

We then proceeded to mull around the front area for about twenty minutes as the hostess proceeded to ignore us. Finally, we got fed up and headed into downtown La Jolla in search of a better venue. As we were driving out, it was amusing to see all the testosterone depleted aging bachelors peel out of the valet parking space in their beamers. God, help me and never let me become that bachelor. Have the compassion to give me the decency to be married by 35, and the luxury to sit at home with a movie and a beer.

Anyway, the Piece de Resistance was yet to come. It arrived when we were forced to wait in line to get into another “trendy” bar, while we watched some cellulite heroine walk straight past the line and into the club, leading a group of five men. The moron bouncer looked at us and said, “Don’t worry, everyone is going to get in tonight.” He quickly added, “How many of you are there again?”

I had heard this once before and I wasn’t very surprised when after a few minutes had passed, a stream of chicKarl heads walked straight through. This was the last straw (thankfully), and we headed home.

I saw a glimpse of a different life in La Jolla. It is like a watered down version of “Sex in the City,” which, while being an entertaining show, has probably got to invoke one of the most worthless images of life I’ve ever seen.

I don’t know what it is that compels people to parade their social status around with such a lack of modesty. You have a lexus? Who cares? You have breast implants? Who cares? You have a mansion in La Jolla? WHO CARES?

You know what? It’s boring to me.

I was walking in the door, ready to go to sleep when these words came to me: “God loves the little people.” I’m not some religious freak, but there’s meaning in this. There is more beauty in a bum wearing a burlap sack, reading a yellow book than in all the vacuous entities combined in all “trendy” establishments.

Am I annoyed? God damn right! My final words of the night? DON’T GO TO CAFE JAPENGO AND DON’T GO OUT IN LA JOLLA. Save your money and spend some time with some good friends at some dive bar.

Martini Ranch, located in the Gaslamp at 528 F Street, is the best club downtown. It is a complete and utter meat-market, but it makes no pretense to be otherwise and I appreciate that kind of honesty.

Unlike the clubs in La Jolla, and some of the more snooty clubs downtown, it says: “Yes! I’m a meat market! Come indulge!”

If you are sick and tired of beating around the bush and being asked what kind of car you drive, or you are not ethnic and can’t dance very well, go to the Martini Ranch.

After spending about twenty minutes on the prowl for a parking space, my friend and I began our night at Dick’s Last Resort Restaurant (619-231-9100, 345 4th Ave.). We were greeted at the door by a bouncer that looked like a Sasquatch with no hair and whose feet were the size of cinder blocks.

As I walked in the door, I was immediately assaulted by a barrage of sensations, not all of them pleasant. The place holds true to it’s namesake by providing customers with a large interior that looks like a honky-tonk bar that has been simultaneously hit by a tornado and a tidal wave of beer. The floor was decorated with an assortment of flyers, napkins, and ambiguous organic objects and through a crowd of drunKarl customers, I could see a stage with a rowdy band that includes scantily clad female singers that looked more like go-go dancers.

I walked to the bar and waited patiently for the bartender to ask me what I wanted. After a few minutes of trying to beckon to her telepathically, I was startled when a young man stumbled up next to me and shouted “Red Bull.” The waitress immediately handed him several cans of Red Bull. I turned to him and asked, “Does that really work?”

His response: “It does if you work here.”

With that, he turned and walked away. I decided to try this tactic, turning to the bartender and shouting “Red Bull,” and to my surprise, she immediately approached me and I ordered my drinks.

My companion and I soon found a vacated table facing the stage, and we sat down and began to sip our drinks. I noticed that the band was doing an excellent job of covering the theme song to “Moulan Rouge,” and amused myself by watching the drunKarl gyrations on the dance floor for a few minutes.

My reverie was interrupted by a middle-aged gentleman who had a ponytail that looked like a raccoon. He was wearing a faded paisley short-sleeve button down that was tucked into khaki pants and he was leaning over, talking with a young Asian girl.

They stood up and I watched as they began to dance together in a manner in which I imagined giraffes might if they were capable of standing on two legs for a prolonged amount of time. Gradually, his hands descended from her waist to her bottom, where they clamped shut around her cheeks. And here I was thinking that they only did that in the movies.

I feel that this was pretty much indicative of the spirit that resided within Dick’s Last Resort. We finished our drinks and it was time to go. The bartender sent me off with an amiable “you want to settle your tab and go? Well, get the hell out of here!”

Even after the fact, he could not seem to remove her eyes from inside of his mind. He remembered arriving at the club with Laura and immediately heading for the bar. He removed his heavy leather jacket and passed it across the bar to a girl with a chubby face on the other side.

He wanted to start dancing immediately and grabbing Laura’s hand, he weaved his way into the crowd of dancers. The pulsating rhythm was absorbed by his stomach, which sent the vibrations upwards - towards his head causing it to bob up and down in rhythm with the beat. All of the dancers in the room were facing the DJ but he turned his back on them so that he could face Laura as he danced with her.

He began to bob his hips the way that his old girlfriend had taught him. “You dance with your shoulders too much, you have to dance with your hips more,” she would say. He couldn’t argue because she looked pretty sexy when she danced whereas he looked like a guy who doesn’t feel comfortable dancing.

He closed his eyes and counted “one-two one-two,” trying to establish a feeling of rhythm in his body. His eyes fluttered and he caught a glimpse of a trio of what seemed like very attractive girls in the corner. They were dressed in that more fashionable, Apkujon-esque style which consisted of apparel that resembled business attire. He felt that they were talking about him because one of them leaned her head over to the other and pointed in his direction. He turned his eyes away quickly and looked at Laura. She was smiling at him and he smiled back at her.

Her face was quite appealing in this club but he knew that sometimes, when he examined her in the light, he could make out a forest of imperfections in the regions directly under and above her eyes. Her eyes themselves were cute when she smiled, but when her face was emotionless they seemed awfully small and beady. He smiled again and closed his eyes and tried to feel the rhythm: “one-two one-two.”

Soon, the trio was out of his mind and he was indulging in the music. Gradually, his body began to feel tired and he told Laura that he wanted to get a drink. She agreed and they headed towards the bar. One of the girls from the trio entered the periphery of his vision and he could not help but turn to look at her as she walked past. She stared directly into his eyes with a slight smile on her lips. Her eyes flickered with mischief and he found himself turning away quickly, but still thinking about her eyes. There was something peculiar about the way that they were shaped. They were thin at the corners but very large and round in the middle. They filled him with an odd type of excitement.

He looked towards the bartender, who was helping another customer. He strained his head and rotated it up and around, as if he was stretching out his neck, and his eyes alit on the girl once again. She was standing there, looking straight into his eyes. She had straight black hair that fell onto her shoulders and perfectly smooth skin. She had a small nose and above it were those exquisite eyes.

A smile creased onto his face and he turned his head away. He looked up at the bartender and ordered his drink.