Gay bar santa goleta california

Saturday night was date night, but Friday it was out with the boys. It was funny how it all evolved, actually. Our idea of a fun evening was much more exotic and had more to do with proscribed alkaloids, conversation, Zap Comix, or Hieronymus Bosch art books. Or we listened to albums from Abbey Road to Led Zeppelin II, and sometimes friends who played guitar strummed and maybe we sang along.

We hardly ever watched TV. After all, this was supposed to be the New World. And not the ironic one that X sang about later, but a real, tangible break from the dumb-ass booze and sports-watching culture that led our parents into Vietnam. If anything, the genesis of nightclub-hopping reminded me strangely of the onset of group puberty.

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And it was the same way with clubbing. We sneered at the brand-new fern bars likeand then one night, circawe ran into a friend en route to a new nightclub who was decked out in flared jeans, a plaid shirt unbuttoned extraand a wide, wide belt. A sudden blurring ensued. Then we were all dressed to the nines regularly, prowling and drinking Mediterranean Stingers until two, followed by breakfast at Casa Blanca, Carrows, or Frimples.

I went out even though most nightclubs seemed either too fancy or too funky. As of yet, goleta, they were commingled indistinguishably with the more successful drug dealers, waterbed store owners, and rock promoters. It was the first place I saw a Pong machine. The california one nobody remembers was called the Red Barrel, and it gay above State Street in a space nobody could find today.

The proto-club, the Noctambulist, was long gone, a story unto itself. Later came the Bluebird, hosted by the winsome Peter Feldmann, but that was a santa kind of place. Who can forget the daffy Pizza Luau? Funky, brash, and mostly rock and roll, it lasted from the onslaught of S.

Out in the alley, people smoked fat Columbian doobs. Inside, I remember ranting at closing time, asking a sultry beatnik gal whether this was an Artificial Paradise or the very Flower of Evil. She smirked wisely. I stumbled out. That was Claire Rabe, of course, whom I never really knew until I wrote for this paper.

When I first moved to Santa Barbara with my parents in the late s, my uncle, who was no bohemian, made fun of the place. Everything began to change as my tip of the baby boom began to have bar little spending dough. Suddenly the whole town seemed like a party.