Bars In Review: Little Bar Lounge
by Rick Paulas
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In the 3rd entry in our monthly Bar Review series, (still accepting submissions!), one of the DT&R editors finds a place for sports fans , racists, obscure celebrities, and a place to ease his intestinal pain.
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Whenever friends of mine visit me from across the country, it gives me an extra dose of stress. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy their company. It’s just instead of having the glorious selfish luxury of living alone, I have to spend a full weekend acting as a host. And as an official member of the Hermit Society of Greater Los Angeles, having to spend an entire weekend outside trying to entertain a guest to the fullest is not my idea of fun.
I was so worried about making sure my friend had a good visit that I spent the weeks before his arrival wracking my brain, trying to think of ways to fill every waking hour to fulfill his quota of visiting touristy places (he had never been to L.A. before), while not spending too much time in the Universal Studios and Hollywood Boulevards, since wallowing through the fat, sweaty sludge of eight-person families makes me homicidal, giving my friend a 73% chance he’d make it back to his flight alive.
While going down the schedule of blocks of time, there was a large chunk on Sunday that was completely open and already reserved for one thing: Bears football. The only problem was that we needed someplace to watch it, since it wasn’t supposed to be a nationally televised game. And that’s what led us to the Little Bar Lounge and their banner ad promise of “Watch NFL Football Games Live!”
We went there Saturday night to “scope out the scene”, as Zack Morris would probably say, to make sure that they not only had adequate televisions to view our beloved Monsters of the Midway, but also to check out the atmosphere. Driving by, we knew it wasn’t going to be a typical sports-bar because it of two factors: the small, hole-in-the-wall size of the place and the lack of enormous hairy men outside smoking. Oddly enough, these are the same things to look for if you’re trying to find a gay bar.
Walking in, we met a sparse crowd of well-dressed late-20s, early-30s sophisticates, chatting with each other on the bar’s couches, milling around the pool table and dart area, and sitting at the bar. Since all of the couches were full, we took our rightful places at the bar and got ourselves a few drinks. At the corner of the bar was a television playing an old black-and-white movie with subtitles, allowing the sophisticates to pretend to listen to their friends whining about their recent break up while still being able to pay attention to the more intriguing story.
After conferring with the bartender that yes, they did indeed show football games, and yes, they would gladly put on the Bears game for us, we scanned the bar for the other TVs. They had one on the other side of the bar and what looked like a projection screen towards the end. It would do, we figured. But while we were looking around we noticed something else. There wasn’t a black, Hispanic, or Asian in sight. Nothing but Caucasians.
Where I’m from it wouldn’t be a big deal – my high school graduation class had, oh, three or four black kids – but here in L.A., the ideal of America’s melting pot, going to a bar where there are only white folks is strange. I guess what I’m saying is, that if you’re a member of the KKK, a neo-nazi, or just a skinny white guy who is sick of having to compete with the legendary size of the black cock, then this is the place for you!
Can I get another beer?” the guy next to us asked the bartender. He was with a few friends hunched over a touch-screen games. It was one of those What’s different in these extremely similar pictures? games. Since the two photos compared were nearly-naked women, I noticed the machine right away.
"What’s wrong with it?” the bartender asked.
"It just doesn’t taste right,” the man said. And that’s when I realized that, by noticing the man, I was having my lamest celebrity sighting ever. Not because of the celebrity himself, he seemed like a nice enough fella, but because I even knew who he was.
The man was Ryan Devlin. And he hosts ET on MTV, a show broadcast early Saturday morning on MTV that give the kids a break from the three music videos airing that week in order to give them another helping of Bennifer, Brangelina or Meldolph. The best moment of the night, however, was still to come.
Into my third beer, I started to get the painful cramp in my lower intestine that many-a-man is familiar with after a night of drinking. I tilted my ass onto one cheek and, without even attempting to cloak the sound, relieved the gaseous backup. The fury hit my nose almost instantly, and I knew it was going to be trouble.
"Was that you?” a girl behind me asked, her face contorted like she was sucking on a sour ball.
“Me, what?” My idea here was that I wouldn't admit I smelt it until a minute later. That way, after a few calculations, she would have to assume that the person who dealt it was on the other side of her. It was simply the law of physics.
“Ooooh,” I said and pulled my T-shirt up to my nose. “That’s horrible.” My friend and I consulted the girl and her date and, after a minute of discussion, concluded it must have been a member of the nudie-touch-screen-game crowd. I nodded towards one specifically, since his ass was closest to us.
“It was probably him.” The couple nodded, gave the obscure Mr. Devlin the once over, and were satisfied. With the stench still hovering near our noses, the girl whispered into her date’s ear that it was time to go. The couple finished their beers, gave the accused farter a look of disgust, wished us goodnight, and headed out of the Little Bar Lounge for the night.
A sense of pride swept over me. It’s not every day you fart someone completely out of a bar.
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Little Bar Lounge
757 S La Brea Ave (Cross Street: Wilshire Boulevard)
Los Angeles, CA 90036
http://www.littlebarlounge.com/
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