Respect the Men in Wheelchairs: NO DANCING!

Last week, I went to the ig-Bay ish-Fay* Bar & Grill to see my roommate perform standup comedy and it was hilarious. Not so much the show, but the bar. It's a trashy place in the middle of nowhere in Glendale and there is no "Grill" aspect to it. They just call it that because... well, I dare you to question their methods.

The patrons were almost exclusively crazy old men. They were kind of like veterans, but I doubt any of them had served in a war. Their PTSD probably stemmed from life in bum-fuck Glendale and perhaps meth addiction. Aside from stopping to occasionally heckle, none of them paid attention to the comedy as they were too busy throwing darts, shooting pool, and swearing loudly at each other to care about the funny twenty-somethings on stage, making it a miserably uncomfortable show to sit through.

The bartender - who it seems unfair to call toothless considering he still had some - wore an orange construction vest as a top and did his best to ignore everyone but his regular customers. When he finally agreed to serve us, he basically told Jessica that she was stupid for almost ordering a more expensive drink, and we were left wondering whether we should even bother tipping after the rudeness and given that he seemed so concerned about us saving money. Later in the night, he screamed "Fuck this, I'm getting a cigarette!" and disappeared outside, leaving the bar unmanned for twenty minutes.

The bar was decorated with fishing trophies and musty paperback novels that no one there would ever want to read even if they could. My eyes were drawn to two signs in particular. One simply said, "NO DANCING," which I think pretty accurately summed up the bar's atmosphere. I love that that's a rule; part of me wanted to break it to see what would happen, but part of me agreed that dancing is for youngin's and sissies and should not be tolerated in a serious drinking establishment.

The other sign was this on the door of the women's restroom.

I don't know why the need for such clarification: any man who can't stand up isn't really a man anyway. Also, I want this sign for my own bathroom.

So I know this has seemed like an extended complaint about the bar, but make no mistake, this is now my favorite bar in LA. I told Jessica that this was my new dyke bar. She didn't understand why, pointing out that there were no lesbians. But you see, the appeal of the dyke bar has never been about the dykes, it's about going to a unfamiliar locale populated by people with alternative lifestyles that I am kind of scared of. Both bars are in deserted locations, both have sketchy patrons that you'd have a hard time meeting anywhere else, and both are guaranteed to leave you with stories you'll never forget.

But the best part? It has karaoke two nights a week! Needless to say, we are going back because we need to experience the disaster that will be karaoke with volitale old drunks in a place that forbids dancing.

*Pig Latined the name, because I wouldn't want them to find this post one day and kill me should they ever learn what a computer is.