Last night, I wanted to go to a bar so I could get some Long Island lovin'. I ended up gloriously inebriated at Michael's Pub on Flamingo and Rainbow, mere inches from my house. But first, the lead-in:
I've been screwed over by 'beer bars' before. A beer bar is just like a normal bar, except there's no liquor. I don't even know how these places can be legally called bars. You can go into a freakin' Chipotle's and get a Corona or a Dos Equis. I used to work across the street from a bar called Money Plays, which sold nothing but beer, and I only went there on lunches because they had a shuffleboard table. There were like six liquor bars within walking distance. When lunch breaks were over, you could literally build a cabin out of all the drunk working-class gents lying all over the sidewalk.
I never go to bars alone, because that would make me an alcoholic, probably; so I invited my female poor, Nelly, to go with me. I told her I was looking for a bar that actually served sweet, life-preserving booze. She instructed me to go to Michael's.
Now, let me tell you something: Nelly apparently knows the man who INVENTED bars. As soon as we got inside, she was dropping names like locust shit in a plague. The bartender, who apparently knew how to make exactly one drink (it was the Long Island; his whiskey sour was crap) just sat there, stunned, as Nelly rattled off pretty much the entire administrative and supply team for the bar. Hell, I was impressed.
Meanwhile, a biker from Seattle let a hilariously drunken woman use his cell phone to call a man who had apparently snubbed her and bitch him out for the better part of fifteen minutes. Some gay dude at the other end of the bar proudly confessed that he'd escaped Tuscaloosa or something (I don't know, some place in the south where they hate queers) to come to tolerant Vegas, where men are judged solely by their alcoholic fortitude and bankroll. In essence, it was just like any other dive bar, except nobody knew how to make a fucking electric lemonade.
