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| - Welcome to Shit Beach. Honestly, my complaints about Sandbar are far too numerous to list without sounding like the one of those people who are never happy. But I AM happy, usually...until I come here. Literally, every time I've been to Sandbar, I've made the kind of promise to myself to never return that I actually intend to keep. I've personally witnessed hyper-aggressive bouncers use criminal levels of violence on non-violent patrons. You won't care about that because you're coming here anyway. You have no choice. Sandbar choke-slammed every other bar in Desert Ridge face-first into a fence and beat them into unconsciousness.
So get ready to rub elbows with assholes, the kind who think that drive WAY out east to Tatum is close enough to be Scottsdale. They have two kinds of music at Sandbar, loud hip-hop and loud "club" hip-hop. I'm talking about that kind of experimentation where the DJ has to prove he can mix two songs on top of one another, with some repeating sirens, whistles and air horns to show you he's serious about his craft. If you're over 16, you'll hate it too. But you're going to Sandbar anyway, right?
Where else can drunk teachers and drunker students scream their incomprehensible drink orders at incomprehensible bartenders together? If this were a beach bar in Amity, I'd rather hit the water and take my chances with a certain great white. You can explain that reference to the other 98% of Sandbar's clientele when you get here. They won't get it even if they could hear you.
You could always rent a cabana. That is, if you don't have actual rent or a mortgage to be concerned about. In those, I've been told the "music" is even louder. I've been here when it's packed and I've been here when it's empty, but the decibel level is like the blind lady of justice: she ruins it for everyone, equally and harshly.
I'd rather hit Omaha Beach on June 6th, 1944 than Sandbar on any given night.
Not that any of this matters. You'll come here anyway and I will to. My only hope is that we make eye contact at some point, sharing our mutual hatred for this bar of broken glass and cigarette-filled sand.
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