Happy Sunday, everyone. You can’t tell just by reading this but I rolled my eyes incredibly dramatically as I typed that first sentence. Sundays are high up on the list of Worst Days of the Week (oh – keep your eyes peeled for that review!). The good news is that this particular Sunday means a return to non-Steven Universe reviews, which most of the people who have ever had any interesting in reading this blog will probably appreciate. In classic 365 Days of Reviews fashion, I’m too lazy to review anything real today, so instead I’ll review the worst people present at the bar during my date last night. That’s right – Stevie went on a date (though several people in my life disapprove of that idea for one reason or another).
It was far from a success – I mean, it was pleasant enough, but things probably won’t go further than the one evening. I don’t know why; maybe it was the fact that our interests just don’t necessarily line up quite right or maybe there wasn’t that raw chemistry you hope to find with another human being or maybe it was the fact that I made a joke about the Boston Marathon bombing. It could be any of those things, really.
One aspect of the evening in which we may want to lay a little blame, however, could be the choice of venue. The Woods is a little bar on La Brea Avenue north of Sunset (I’m so Hollywood). I had been there once before in 2012 or 2013 and remembered it as a quiet place that didn’t get too crowded. Finding such an establishment in Los Angeles has given me a hell of a time. Odysseus and Ponce de León view my struggle and shudder. Most bars in Hollywood are loud and full of dilweeds – why won’t people just let me drink my gin and tonic in peace with the one or two friends that have the patience to spend time with me? The Woods seemed like a contender for the title, though. And when I met the young lady there at 8 pm, that’s exactly what The Woods was: quiet and spacious. Sure, the bar had literally just opened (we were actually the first two people inside), but my hopes for the rest of the evening were high. Surely I had finally conquered my white whale.
Well, I was wrong. Maybe 30 minutes later we were joined by a second group of patrons. Barging in, loudly demanding tequila shots, this crew was… obnoxious. And look, the curmudgeon who operates my brain most of the time Inside Out-style is in control now when I say, these people were in their late-20’s – at what point do we start to mature and realize that it’s probably not okay for an entire group of people to be blackout drunk when a bar opens at 8 o’clock?
I’m being judgmental, I know, but it’s kind of my nature (hence the blog). And this group of six idiots really started to affect my enjoyment of the evening: playing annoyingly persistent Top 40 on the jukebox, screaming at each other over music that wasn’t even that loud, and blowing a whistle. Yeah. A whistle. Like this one, but less official:
Why? Why would you bring a whistle to a dive bar? It makes no sense. And then the dancing starts. These people are twerking. They’re getting low. They’re dropping things as though those things were hot. Mind you it’s 8:45 at the latest by now and there are a total of maybe 10 people in this entire operation. But these jackholes are acting like they’re in a club at midnight on New Year’s Eve. I mean seriously – a whistle?
Eventually more people arrived and our band of misfits was no longer able to command the drinking concern the way they had been up to that point. But by this time though, the damage had been done as far as my own concerns were… concerned. In the end we had an insurmountable schism in the way we reacted to these terrible human beings. My disdain did not necessarily complement my date’s amusement. So perhaps that is the real reason why things won’t work out; more than a difference in interests, more than a lack of chemistry, more than a disagreement over how soon is too soon to make a joke about a national tragedy.
If that’s the case, I guess it’s for the best that a group of children masquerading as adults came into The Woods. At least it got our differences on the table, rather than keeping them hidden in our respective jackets until a third or fourth date. Despite the good that may be hidden within the bad, I cannot in good conscience give The Worst People in the Bar anything higher than one out of five whistles: