LUCK OF THE VALLEYITES

Finding a bar in the San Fernando Valley isn’t difficult. Finding a cool bar, however, can be quite the challenge, particularly on the fly. The night was still young last Friday, after a dinner of decent Mexican food, margaritas, and Negra Modela. We were in Burbank, but the consensus was to move the celebration deeper into the Valley. Fine with me, as the closer I get to my Valley Glen ghetto home, the better.

For reasons not quite clear to me, The Fox and Hounds in Studio City was rejected by the group. I like the place simply for the fact that Bob Cowsill and his acoustic guitar are there every week. I overlook the fact that the English pub vibe has been obliterated by sports-bar overtones. It’s not just a zillion screens of Premier League football (is that what it’s called? It’s all soccer to me). I see NASCAR and golf and other boring frat boy shit. Small price, I suppose, for a pint of Stella.

Anyway, Fox and Hounds was out. We agreed to hit the Chimney Sweep in Sherman Oaks, on Moorpark and Woodman. A fine place, I’ve always thought. Not pretentious, and a normal sort of clientele. When we got there, there was a line of the frigging door. Life’s too short to wait in line to get into a bar when it’s 45 degrees, it’s late, and we’re not even on Ventura Boulevard.

Someone suggested a bar called Ireland’s 32. I’d passed it a million times zooming down Woodman past Burbank, but never had the inclination to step inside. We reconvened there and it was what I’d imagine to be a quintessential Valley scene (I’m probably enough of a snob to try and avoid these types of places). I was hanging with my TV-making friends, so of course we got the long looks walking into the place. We were the zombies from Mars invading the planet Earth.

It was beautiful inside: A blues band composed of sweaty old guys who probably did construction during the week. The singer was perfect: balding mullet, fu Manchu, bit of a paunch. Sang like he meant it. I projected that he’d been a crystal meth addict, about fifteen months sober. The old, thick broads with the too-snug acid washed jeans, tattoos and frizzy perms danced as if Canned Heat were playing a biker rally.

My friends looked on amused and bemused, saying that Ireland’s 32 could be a bar from Anywhere U.S.A. To me, though, this was the heart of the Valley, the regular folks who fly under the radar. Because I live in a different world, I tend to forget the concept of the bar as hangout: you work hard all week, and Friday night you’re gonna have a great time, you’re gonna get ripped, and, if you play you’re cards right, you might even get laid. All that, and you can get the “32” burger – with fries – for only $3.50.