I Don't Date (818)

This past weekend was one of my rare weekends spent in the San Fernando Valley.  My weekends are usually dedicated to time with my brother and friends in the city, since it offers much more excitement than lil' old suburbia.   There's just something special about making that trip over the hill (a.k.a. Laurel Canyon): the Sunset Strip, the crowds, the city lights, honking at S.A.M.F.'s (ask my dad for the definition) who can't comprehend LA driving.  I love it, and soak it up as much as possible.

Last Saturday night, after the decision to remain in my valley home (Aunt Sherry and Uncle Lloyd's), my friend and I grabbed some dinner at Senor Fred, in between Sherman Oaks and Studio City, before heading out for another friend's party at the Copper Bucket.  I had heard bits and pieces about Senor Fred, "It's good but expensive," or "There's a lively bar crowd."   Regardless of having to pay for a pricey dinner on a substitute's salary, I believe it's well worth it to spend hard-earned cash on a damn good meal.  To my dismay, my chicken mole enchiladas were rather nasty.  The chicken was oh-so-dry, the tortillas were corn (ick) - not flour, and the pinto beans were bland.  I should have sent the plate back, although sometimes I am nice and keep to myself and figured I'd save the smack talk for the blog.  My meal (w/tip) was $19, and I would MUCH rather have paid $3 more for the five-course authentic Mexican deliciousness over at the Gardens of Taxco.  Shame on you, Senor Fred.  The bar was pretty crowded, although only fun if you root for Team Cougar.  No amount of alcohol could make me bat for the olds.  I'm about to turn 27, not 72.  I'd like to still maintain my dignity and non-gold-digging image, even if I'm the one paying for my drinks.

After dinner, we hopped on the 101N (well, west, technically), exited at White Oak, and hung a Louie onto beautiful Vanowen, landing us at ye ol' Copper Bucket.  Now I don't consider myself a bar snob...eh, well, not completely?  I tend to bitch if I'm outside of my city bubble on a weekend night and I find it inconvenient to drive 20 minutes to a bar ("Everywhere in LA takes twen-ty minutes!"  Anyone?) when I can hop in a cab or walk down the street to a local WeHo favorite.  

I avoid Hollyweird at all costs, hate lines, and hate the D-bags that move to LA to look cool while standing in these lines.  So even though the bars I frequent aren't necessarily "dive" bars, they're populated with many laid back locals who also avoid the "scene."  I was intrigued to check out this Copper Bucket place, especially because the birthday girl, Marisa, is the only person I let manipulate my hair and by far one of the coolest chicks I know.  The Copper Bucket, in my opinion, is more rust than copper.  Definitely a local crowd, some of which look a bit shady (according to my friend, the elderly gentleman behind her was feeling himself up when she caught a glance of him).  I will hand it to this place, though -- no hassle getting in, personalized mini pitchers of beer, shuffle board, darts, pool, and head-bashing music blaring on the Juke Box.  This is definitely not my scene, although I know many people who would appreciate the Bucket's aura.  There's just something that sets me off from a bar whose lights are brighter than those in my bedroom.  Drinking or not, I don't want to see those bright lights until last call sends me to Astro or Mel's.  

Speaking of Mel's, did I tell you who I saw there?  Mr. Ron Jeremy and his friend Dennis from the Bunny Ranch.  G-d help me if I knew who this Dennis man was, and I recognized RJ from other LA sightings (sorry, friends, I haven't seen his work) and my one-and-only Plus One who pointed him out.  Even though these men are rather scuzzy and RJ looks a lot like the Penguin from Batman Returns, they did give us a good laugh.  People kept going up to their table trying to talk to them and Dennis flashed us (yes, us) his girlfriend's tushie on the walk out.  

...gotta love this city...