Tar Pit Bar Kind of Drucks

Tar pit. Disturbingly close to arm pit? You be the judge.

At just around a month old, the Tar Pit Bar on La Brea still has that new bar smell. (Seriously. Smells like the backseat of a fresh Lincoln in there.) If you’re not from LA — or even if you are — you might not realize the connection to the nearby La Brea Tar Pits, where the sad statue of a woolly mammoth mama sinking into the oozing black lake of tar never fails to depress me.

Met pal Adra and her swain, Andrew there last night. We watched the bartender painstakingly hand-craft a Dividend; a teeny martini which is accompanied by a teeny carafe, nestled in a bowl filled with teeny pebbles of ice. Since I can attest to the fact that warm martini is almost undrinkable, I see the appeal. But isn’t it a bit… fussy? And fussy, as we all know, is miles away from MANLY, which I vastly prefer.

Plus, they charged me $6 for cran juice and soda. (Vodka and I are taking a break while I recover from my cold.) They charged Andrew the same price for a BEER. The place is swank and the rent is probably high, but puh-leeze. That’s almost twice the price of a Starbucks mocha. I wouldn’t go back.

Luckily, there’s this fabulosity:

Photo credited to Sheldrick Wildlife Trust.

WordPress features a banner o’blogs every day, and today I clicked on http://whatgives365.wordpress.com/. This lady is inspiring! She gives away $100/day to a worthy cause. You can email her to nominate yours! So give to the baby elephants, stay away from tar pits and learn to use disingenuous in a sentence. GO.

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