R.I.P: Sharkeez

In my continuing efforts to rid my life of all things asinine, I present to you the next installment of R.I.P:

Behold, Sharkeez-- a Tijuana knock-off bar that has actually become so popular for perennial frat boys and party tramps that they actually keep making more of them.

I'm not the only one who's tried to lay Sharkeez to rest for the critical survival of the human race. You know who else gave it a shot? God. God actually tried to smite Sharkeez.

One of these Whorehouse Training Camps spontaneously combusted in the middle of the night a couple of years back, which seemed to me a divine foreshadowing. And God said, "it is good."

Unfortunately, God didn't factor in that Sharkeez must've fucked a Gremlin sometime in the late 80s-- nowadays, you pour water on one and *poof!* another dreadful little nightmare pops up. And the fate of mankind rests once again in the hands of neanderthals who like to drink shots from a plastic syringe and head-butt each other.

I was lured into one of these for the LAST TIME yesterday, you hear me? Last. Time. I walked in there for Happy Hour and walked out with a missing dignity and a full 17 minutes closer to my expiration date.

To illustrate my outrage, here's a quick hit list of reasons I'd like to give the owners a swift slap in the mouth after my horrendous trip to Sharkeez:

1. It's called Sharkeez.

I mean, really? Something about that "eez" really punching up the profit marginz? Waz "Sharkey's" or even "Sharkees'" just too classy for you? Nothing sayz passing fad like a bar with a lame name and an even lamer intentional misspelling. But you post-undergrad Peter Panz just keep showing up in drovez, proving me wrong. And it makez me just want to euthanize you all.

2. They sell a drink called a Donkey Punch.

Do you people even know what a Donkey Punch is? I mean, really visualize a Donkey Punch for a couple of seconds (that is, what you think a DP is, since you all know Goddamned well no one you know has ever done it) and then look down at your drink. Do you want to drink a whole bucket of liquid named after a brain contusion and a contracted sphincter? Whatever, have fun.

3. They hold shouting contests for free booze.

4. There are more flat screens per capita than a Circuit City Best Buy.

5. They host regular Flip Cup Tournaments. Seriously.

6. Their Shark Attack requires a minimum of three drinkers and very closely resembles Jungle Juice (refer to inaugural R.I.P post)

7. The place is crammed with the best our gene pool has to offer (see above and below) relentlessly and shamelessly propositioning each other:

7. They have breathalyzers in the bathroom.

8. The bartenders and wait staff wear sports jerseys.

9. Every item on the food menu was fried in the same vat.

10. Perfect strangers play grab-ass to and from the coed bathrooms and proceed to text each other about this very meaningful experience on their iPhones for the next 30 minutes.

(11. Because ours go to eleven.)

G'bye, Sharkeez. I'd like to say I'll miss you, but clearly I won't. Call me when you decide to host a Donkey Punch tournament, and you just might see me around.

R.I.P: Jungle Juice

Jungle Juice? Hey, it's me.

How are you? Good, that's good. Huh? Oh, yeah, I'm cool. No, I was just-- no, were you gonna say something? Uh, no. *** sigh ***

*** awkward silence ***

I was just going to say it was really good to see you on Friday. It's-- yeah, it's been a while. What, God, my 21st birthday? Whoo! Yeah, I know, right? Man, we had some good times that night. And that one St. Patrick's Day party a couple years back, when we ran out of Bailey's for the Car Bombs? I know, God. Neither one of us were expecting what happened after that.

It's just, uhm. Like, Halloween on Friday was really awesome, but I don't want you to think that it's back on or anything. No! I'm sure you didn't think it was, it's just-- it's really painful to run into you like that, Jungle Juice. I mean, it's really painful. I've been in pain all weekend, and I just-- I don't think I can see you anymore.

Clearly I can't control myself when I'm around you, and you completely take advantage of me. At first I think I can play it cool with you, you know? Stay in control? Well you and I both know I'm never strong enough. By the time I realize you've crept back into my life, it's too late. The next thing I know I'm trying to find Dignity, who totally takes off with Morals and Moderation every time you're around, and then WHAM! I wake up five hours later on the freezing bathroom floor tile, curled up in the fetal position in my Blade Runner costume, shivering in my own sweat, wondering how I could have let you leave me cold and alone, like you always do.

Well, I'm calling to tell you I can't do it anymore, JJ. Listen, you're really sweet. You make me feel so good sometimes but I just can't trust myself to resist you. When you leave me, it hits me hard, and I just can't handle the pain anymore. I need you out of my life for good. So this is goodbye. Goodbye forever, JJ.

Real Life: I Was Seduced By KCRW's Tom Schnabel

Like many LA music nerds, I'm a whore for KCRW's music programming. Not a single day goes by that I don't tune in and burn with envy (at least I hope it's envy. Otherwise, I probably should see a doctor) at the latest musical discovery.

Normally, I'm a hussy for Nic Harcourt, Jason Bentley, Raul Campos, Garth Trinidad-- hell, I'd even let Chris Douridas roofie me. But last Sunday afternoon, I was lured into the babe lair of one silver fox by the name of Thomas Daniel Schnabel. Observe:


Now, admittedly, Cafe LA is a little too World Music for my taste. I am one of those shameful creatures whose musical interests aren't sophisticated enough to endure more than a song or two of Brazilian lounge music or some obscure European import without shaking it up with a little something I can sing to-- like the entire discography of Hall & Oates, for example.

Let's cut now to my Sunday afternoon. I'm finishing up my LA Times Sunday crossword puzzle, quietly praising the good Lord above to be listening to anything but Le Show, which I openly despise (sorry, Harry, but this one does NOT go to eleven), and I hear it: a little bit of magic that made me tickle in my funny parts:



I know, you guys! I know. It kind of just crept up on me. It's like one of those guys that's been friends with you for like 10 years, and he's giving you what appears to be a harmless platonic massage on the shoulders, let's say-- which you willfully accept just to ease the ol' girl's tension from the day, and who wouldn't?-- when suddenly you feel a stiff poke on the lower back, and then it gets awkward because it's like, do I ask this guy if it's something in his pocket? I mean, besides his erect penis? And now do I have to have this weird conversation with my old friend, that I never thought I'd have to have, because I always kind of thought we were on the same page? You know, that page about being totally out of his league and him never having a snowball's chance in hell?

I mean, I'm not saying that happened. But if it did, my creepy friend's boner would be like my realization about one minute into this sweet little ditty that maybe, just maybe, I kinda like it.

I gotta go call my friend. My neck is stiff and I don't wanna watch Project Runway on DVR alone.

Sincerely,

Babs

Update: I just watched Diner for the first time (Good thing I'm not a movie critic. I know this is supposed to be some timeless classic, but Jesus. What a snoozefest.) and was pleasantly surprised to hear this panty-dropper featured in the soundtrack! What can I say, I'm an old soul.