Off to The Backstage (slogan on the bartender's official T-shirt: Dedicated to Pleasure) nestled alongside Sony Studios on Culver Boulevard in the eponymous city. Another dive bar that was way too clean to be a dive; however, the behavior of the male patrons made it seem very divey.
Bartenders were great and poured well. The ambiance of the room was basic rec room; we could have been in New Jersey or Ohio; the upcoming karaoke promised holiday fun. But such was not to be.
Look, I will chat with just about anybody in a bar, and I like to flirt. But I hate being hit on, full force, no preliminaries. It's just annoying, and can be demoralizing -- although such hijinks rarely get to me like that these days. When the first hitter finally went away (I am not going to repeat the dumbass things he said, although they were epically rude and stupid; at one point I was laughing hysterically at the ridiculousness of the entire situation), I thought I was free and clear. But no, another hitter zoomed up, and then another.
There's a special place in hell for the final hitter, who sat and watched and waited until C and I had had a few drinks and, thinking he'd get lucky if we were plastered, buzzed in for what I can only imagine he thought were his just deserts.
A little trip to the Comparisons are Odious Department: At The Chalet in Eagle Rock, I talked to many many men, and some women, too. All were pleasant, some were flirtatious and some pushed it -- but no one hit on me in a crass and crude way. Backstage is beyond on notice with me; it's banned. No more Biffles for you!