The Spotlight. It sounded familiar but I couldn’t place it. I Googled it. I love Googling. I do. I love their hybrid maps. I spent a good hour on the phone with my dad once showing him how to use the hybrid function to find his childhood apartment located on the wrong side of the tracks in Portland. We found it. It’s still on the wrong side of the tracks.

I found the address for The Spotlight and Google directed me the corner of Selma and Cahuenga. Wait. I think this is the corner in Hollywood that I love and fear at the same time. The corner where no matter what time of day, what kind of extreme weather Los Angeles can dish out, there will always be at least three men in shorts hugging the corner near the bar’s entrance, smokes between the thumb and finger, watching traffic and kibitzing.

Fingers crossed, I jumped in the car and raced to meet Ryan and Jeannette. I was late. Not a rare thing for me but the reason is slightly embarrassing. I was trying to decide on the perfect outfit to wear to a bar like The Spotlight. The bar I’ve been fascinated by for five years. A bar described to me as a dive/gay/sports/pickup/bar. I chose my outfit wisely and went simple.

As I stepped over the threshold of The Spotlight and gently pushed the blue velveteen drape aside, which appeared to be coated with some sort of icky film that no amount of soap could dissolve, I was surprised to see laid before my eyes a dive/gay/sports/pickup bar. Exactly how it was described.

Party America On Vine hit this place so hard, I saw slight swelling and a bit of bruising. Not just soccer and baseball, but God Bless America chochkies hung from the ceiling and adorned the walls shoved neatly between every rainbow pride neon available on the market.

We walked straight, literally (lame joke) to the back and found the only empty table. It had a perfect view of the bar to the front of us, and access to the poolroom and bathrooms behind. Mr. Clean (not his real name) pounced upon us as soon as our fannies hit the cushioned vinyl church function chairs and took our drink orders. Four minutes later, beers in hand, Mr. Clean walked away with our generous tips spilling over the edge of his drink tray. That last part was to make us look like big tippers. Spilling is, admittedly, an exaggeration.

»continue reading The Truth About The Spotlight

I like my bars like I like my men. Well lit, friendly and cheap.

That’s a lie.

I like my bars like I like my men. Well lit, friendly, cheap, trying too hard and proud of their personalized MySpace page.

That’s also a lie.

Shit. I like bars that are well lit and friendly. There. That’s it. The man-bar analogy really isn’t working like I thought it would.

I met Ryan downtown at Bar 107, 4th and Main, for a night of crap beer, free (pop)corn and to gather fodder for a review. For reasons of full disclosure, I will admit this isn’t the first time I’ve been to Bar 107. Jeannette and I recently stopped off here after a nine hour eating, drinking and videogame spree that landed us in downtown Los Angeles at midnight with a few dollars left in our pockets and a thirst for adventure. I’m not allowed to go any further into that story at this time.

Ryan and I agreed to meet at the very reasonable time 10:48 PM on a Friday night. After paying a $5 cover charge (not expecting) and having my license scanned (because I had some how been transported into the future) I scampered inside and saw Ryan at the very, very, very long bar [photo], straddling the last two remaining empty bar stools. They happened to be the same bar stools Jeannette and I sat at just two weeks earlier. Kismit.

The place is well lit, so as we know, I liked it at first blush. Unfortunately, the spectacular lighting gave way to the hipster kitsch that adorned the walls and made me search for the mandatory 37 pieces of flair that all bar keep are required to wear by company policy. Fortunately, this turned out not to be a new feather in the TGI Fridays franchise cap, but the following items were seen adorning the interior of Bar 107:

• a “nude beach” sign above the bar
• at least one velvet painting
• a monkey on a surf board
• Rock Em Sock Em bits and pieces
• the leg lamp from A Christmas Story
• mounted buck heads with clever logo trucker hats
• the head of a jackalope, which we all know is an endangered species.

You don’t have to try that hard, 1(07). Really. I liked you the moment I knew you served ice-cold cans of Schlitz, Olympia and the hipster Silverlake favorite, PBR. Your only beer on tap is Miller Hi-Life? Brilliant.

I wasn’t really paying that much attention to what the drinks cost. Maybe $4 a beer? I was too busy chatting it up with Ryan and trying to ignore the rapidly growing crush of people that had appeared by 11:30 PM. I was also a mite distracted by the guy on the bar stool next to me who surprised me every 20 minutes or so when he would gnaw on my shoulder for a spell. I think he might have had a vitamin deficiency. I didn’t ask. Friendly enough fella, so I let him be.

Jeannette might disagree with my summation in recounting her previous visit to Bar 107, which I’m still not at liberty to divulge details of. But aside from the cover charge, kitsch overload, unknown price of beer, and slobbering gnawing guy, I like this bar. It is well lit, friendly and unless you’re comparing it to the price of a 16 oz. Pabst from a bar in Flint, Michigan, it’s relatively cheap.

I didn’t even mind the wet shoulder and slight bruising.

Bar 107
107 4th Street
Downtown