TITLE: Elbowed at the Elbo Room
DATE: 11:18:00 AM
The name describes it perfectly -- at the Elbo Room, you get elbowed. I'm squeezing through the crowd of 20-something hipsters, posturing rudely in packs around the dimly-lit bar, unable to hide their buy-in to the pervasive thrift-store chic, nor the fact that everyone's pretending to be locals. It smells like weed. Tweed hats, lacy tops, corduroy jackets, puma shoes and plaid skirts everywhere. Two hombres walk in front of me carrying Pabst talls. Now I know I'm slumming it with the rest of the yuppies, Mission-style. My jeans, pink ribbed tank and short black jacket makes me stand out. An eager Italian guy bravely approaches me at the bar with an immediate fumble of his pick-up line, to which I smile, he apologies and leaves. Another guy who's "with the band" tries to invite me to dance, not noticing the full beer from which I'm sipping nor that his playful retort beginning with "you people on the West Coast..." tunes me out. A dark, wild-haired gal swings her hips and stomps her boots violently to some mediocre turn-tabling of familiar 80's tracks. Then the drum-and-bass jam session returns to stage. The weed and elbowing gets worse; time to go.