LA valley bar, local watering hole. built over an indian burial ground during a rip in the time/space continuum.
(B2S: just because the parking lot is full and there is a lit neon sign outside of a tipped martini glass does not mean the bar is going to be hip and have good music.) now, i am not a music or scene snob. my favorite bars are dark, small, nowhere/no one places. but The Port was a mix of separate elements that just didn't go together: the garage band of old dudes fronted by an elijah wood lookalike on keyboards, the "sweet saxophone" player in said band, the ankle weight girl on her *knees* on the dance floor like she was waiting for elijah to walk off the stage at her and drop trou, the black vinyl booth that sunshine jen, elanamatic, her man, and i occupied, the swinging bare light bulb over our table like we were at a macabre prom, the punk bartender who sported a mohawk but loved the band (shame on you!), family members (?) [read: late 40s/early 50s, sedentary, expressionless, hardly drinking] watching the band, a cover charge?, our daisy duke waitron, and my favorite moment of the night (well, one of them):