Williamsburg West

I live a block away from a bar, the Backstage Bar to be more specific.

This never used to bother me as the bar was always just a quiet hangout populated by barflies and tired movie executives who could walk there from the old MGM studios. It's been rumored that Humphrey Bogart and Clark Gable used to frequent the Backstage, though not necessarily at the same time. On the bar's website it is noted that the Munchkins from the Wizard of Oz were regular customers.

Now however the bar is a hipster hangout.

Meaning the men and the midgets who used to stop by for a whiskey and a Heineken have been replaced by douchebags, fond of wearing head socks, sporting barbed-wire tattoos and drinking luke warm Pabst Blue Ribbon. I don't know what bothers me more, the occasional late night noise from up the street or the tidal wave of pretension that can't be contained by the four walls of the "best little dive bar in Los Angeles."

Yesterday I was walking my dog past the Backstage --I try to encourage her to pee in their vicinity-- and noticed this new sign by the front door.

Maybe it's just me getting older but when I was 16 and sneaking into bars it never occurred to us to bring alcohol in. They had plenty behind the counter. That's why we were there. To buy it. To drink it. To vomit in the parking lot. And to go back in and buy some more.

Or maybe it's the economy. When I was going to bars, a buck would buy you a decent beer. A buck fifty would get you a decent import, and by import I mean something trucked in from Canada like a Molson or a Moosehead. And five bucks would get you a full pitcher.

Today, you'll need that 5 dollar bill to tip the old dude who sells gum and hands out paper towels in the men's room.

Here's the thing, if you've got to sneak alcohol in to the Backstage Bar because you can't afford a cocktail at the best little dive bar in Los Angeles, maybe you should spend less time drinking and more time scanning the Help Wanted ads.