Drinking Russian

A couple of weekends ago, the great Jelf passed a landmark in his life: he turned 21. Now what's a 21 year old guy in Los Angeles to do to celebrate this historic day? Get drunk, of course. Hit up bars, of course. Jelf planned to do all these things, but on one condition: do it BIG. He got a huge roll out to come, rented a limo, and got us on the list to the kitschy Bar Lubitsch.

The only things this place has going against it are the epic line that permanently adorns the outside entrance (Jelf took care of this problem) and the expensive drinks menu (my flask filled with Black Label Whiskey took care of this problem). With these two weaknesses extricated, Bar Lubitsch turned out to be the sleeper hit of the summer.

This Russian decadent bar drenches you in red light and vodka upon entering the first room. The first thing I thought: "I just walked into a film noir with Russian gangsters. Awesome." L.A. hipsters and Hollywood wannabes drank and lounged and spit game around the bar and velvet booths. The only time I was in this first room was to get to the smoking area near the entrance and to return to the room where I spent most of my time: the back.

The back room is almost like the secret room of a "front" for Russian gangsters. You think you're going to exit after the you pass the bathrooms but then are greeted by a smaller bar to the right, tables on either side, moody dark lighting, a DJ spinning electronica mixed with rap, and a poppin' dance floor. Of course, I had to buy a martini, and yes, it was absolutely delicious. But the kicker: they mix the drink for you but then give you a small, personal shaker to pour it yourself. Either the bartender was lazy or it's some kind of cool novelty, but I thought it was a nice little touch to cap off an excellent Ketel One Vodka Dirty Martini.

After the cocktail, I drank Coke mixed with my whiskey, and I learned something valuable--even if you just order soda, bars are still really fucking expensive. One martini, two cokes, thirty bucks. Fuckin' L.A.

The rest of the night was spent blissfully drunk, trying to pick up girls, and talking enthusiastically at the smoking patio. I learned another valuable lesson--if you start talking to a girl, REMEMBER HER NAME. I found this out the hard way. I had been talking to a really cute girl wearing a bandanna and to be honest, thought it wasn't going anywhere, so I decided to go have a smoke with Bootyhole. Midway through the cig, Teiam runs out saying that he had been talking to the Bandanna Girl's friend and Bandanna Girl was asking for me. I finished the smoke and went back for round two.

Mind you, by this time, I was Flirting Under the Influence.

Kage (trying to act cool): Well, hey there again. Miss me?
Bandanna Girl: I haven't decided yet.
Kage: You've just been sitting here the whole night. Let's go dance.
Bandanna Girl: On two conditions. First, how old are you?

I seriously did consider busting out the line "However old you want me to be," but thankfully whatever sobriety I had left saved me from this embarrassment.

Kage: 21. You?
Bandanna Girl: 27.
Kage: Chance! (she had no idea what that meant) So what was the other condition?
Bandanna Girl: What's my name?

I'm not gonna lie, I was fucking stumped. The bar was loud. Conversation is hard in bars and clubs. I don't know how people hook up at these places, but I'm working on it. I did the only thing I could do: I tried to change the subject by asking her about music. We discovered we both shared huge passions for My Morning Jacket. She saw right through my ploy, though.

Bandanna Girl: Remember my name yet?

I decided to chance it and take a guess.

Kage: Ok, you look like either a Lisa or a Lauren.
Bandanna Girl: It's Chelsea.
Kage: Wow, I was way off. But hey, you gotta give me points, though. You really do look like a Lisa or Lauren.

Somehow, I managed to save myself and finally got her out on the dance floor. I was disappointed, though because A) she was an awkward dancer, and B) her friend came out to dance with us and proceeded to initiate Operation: Cockblock. It was time to move on.

(I fucking love this photo. Found on Google.)

Minutes later, I turned into Rage Kage and took a cab back to the house with Buckner and Kiddo. There, I wreaked havoc upon Flounder in his room (sorry for kicking your bed while you were in it, dude). I woke up the next morning with my face full of leather couch from the downstairs TV room.

The thing I learned most from this experience: the Russians know how to party.