The Gay Bar

I often tell my friends about all the crazy nonsense that happens at the gay bar across the street. Its called The Gold Coast. That name brings to mind images of bright light, fun, and good times. Sadly I’ll never experience the joys inside this place. There was a story in an LA Times blog about this place in which they talked about dive bars and they included The Gold Coast. This place is past a dive bar. If you’re here you’ve already fallen.


My friends have come over and been like “Lets go over there!” and I’ve responded with “Hell no!” Whenever I walk past this place it smells like Clorox, heat, failure, and puke. I try to hold my breath but it never works. Its like the smell hangs on to you like a filthy child refusing to be ignored. There are always people hanging in front of it. Some people try to make it down the street and end up vomiting in front of the thrift store instead. And would it kill them to hose off the sidewalk?!

That’s just the front of the bar. The back is where the action is. “You always say its crazy. Nothing’s happened!” Five minutes later: fight. The police go there a few times a month along with fire trucks and ambulances. When the thrift store closes people migrate into their parking lot and the craziness ensues. More fights, drug use, theft, drunks backing up into the telephone pole. Good times.

I wish I could go here. I don’t even care about the fact that it’s a gay bar. I would love to have a bar nearby that I could get hammered at. The other one if Barney’s and the people there are assholes and everything is overpriced. Don’t know how much stuff costs at The Gold Coast but I’m not willing to chance it. My sweet virgin ass may be in great danger.