Diving off the Ivory Tower (Into Pasadena's Filthiest Watering Holes)

Sometimes you wanna go where everybody doesn’t know your name, but they probably have a vague sense that at some point you either made out, or arm wrestled.

For me that place is The Colorado, and I’m seriously there too often for someone who neither plays pool nor smokes. Those fond of billiards, tobacco, and darkness will find a rare spot to meet, drink, and focus on short-term goals. (“Tequila at last call? Being drunk will help my commute go more quickly!”).

Before 9 you might wander in and think them happy to have your business, but it turns out you’re an arrogant alcoholic and there are plenty more where you came from. Said alkies often keep the place reasonably full past 11 on weeknights and packed on weekends, which affords the bartenders the luxury of taking no guff. Do what the Asian bouncer making cat noises says, or he will make you bleed.

I’m really not kidding.

Technically just across city lines in unincorporated Los Angeles County, this is the place to be seen if you’re not allowed to be seen at The Colorado, or by your parole officer when drunk. Whatever brings you this far east will likely take you past more than a few prostitutes, but beware: The attractive ones are actually cops, which I assume makes them much more expensive.

The atmosphere varies wildly between “completely empty”, “casual billiards”, and “90’s hip-hop dance party”, while the bartender’s sobriety seems to hold steady at “almost too drunk to pour”.

Experience has shown me that the R stands for “Really confusing to refer to by name”.

This pre/post-party site for the DooDah Parade used to get cover charge-fearing traffic from the bar around the corner, until the front parking lot became a damn Container Store. The Old Town Pub now thrives by giving bands a cut of the drink profits, thus leading all of their fans and friends to seek out one of the two back alleys that protect god-fearing pedestrians from even glimpsing the only sign and entrance.

Hard alcohol is sadly lacking, and the daunting bottled beer selection is oft eschewed by 24ozPBR-favoring punks who might not have heard of any other beers because they’re stone frickin’ deaf from too many punk nights at the Old Town Pub.

A small courtyard allows for simultaneous smoking and drinking, while the inside’s mostly-bare brick walls and longhouse layout make it an aurally suicidal place to play drums. Most bands seem to approach this problem by making all the other instruments as loud as possible and questioning my manhood when I shut the courtyard door. (Tell ’em “Stubby” sent you!)

Not every night is loud, and the afternoons are a good time to watch the History Channel with a handful of dudes who lived it.

Spoiler alert: The Nazis lose.

This place is basically a large shack on a frigging mountain, and is actually in Altadena. I’m including it because the amazing jukebox, stiff drinks, and loyal regulars define it as a true dive, and because booze + gravity = no way to avoid rolling down a huge goddamn hill into Pasadena on your way out.