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| - When you stand naked in front of the mirror and admire the burn marks, knife scars and the tiny head that gently protrudes from your stomach and reminds you of the twin you never got to meet life becomes abundantly clear. There is nothing to hide who you are and where you have been. Napalm fight in Cambodia, sword fight in Japan, wrestling with two hookers in Mexico...the usual things in the usual places. There is comfort there. There are memories there. Slowly things fade into normalcy. When you see a 300lb woman with one leg and a lazy eye you no longer think of Santiago Chile. The memories become like dreams. After a while the comfort brings no joy, just contempt.
In Vegas every bar is exactly the same. The horrible sights and sounds of video poker and the slacked jawed yokels that feed those stupid machines, a few drunks talking about the last time they saw Paris Hilton, a few more drunks talking about the last time they banged Paris Hilton, and a few more drunks talking about selling coke to Paris Hilton. The usual. The food varies from bad to mediocre. The music varies from God awful to bad. The barflies vary from reeking like 5 week old cheese in a boot to malodorous. This is the only place on earth that the chain bars are better than most of the one offs. There is no care. There is no love. There is no respect for the time honored institution of a watering hole. Good music. Good booze. Not too expensive. Good scene. Is there no hope? Is there no chance? Is there no gas to huff to end this pain?
The Griffin is the answer to all those questions...except the gas one...more on that in my book "Leaded or Unleaded". The Griffin is as close to perfection as a bar gets. No food. No local drunks drooling over a quarter poker machine. No Killers music playing every 4th song. This place is the best kind of place...it knows what it is...and it is happy with what it is. What is it? A place for people to meet, drink, listen to great music, and drink some more. It is a place to meet a nice girl with the clap and have protected, if not mechanical, sex at a place that you claim is a "friends" but is really your house. If it goes well you tell her in the morning it is really your place and you were just too drunk last night...or better yet...tell her she is mistaken when she reminds you of telling her that you were renting it from your millionaire friend who only uses the place when he wants to "go slumming for low class trim."
Late at night they open up the back room for dancing, of course this is more like white alternative 30 somethings swaying out of time to a DJ, but it is a good time. The beer selection could use a little work, but the few beers they have on tap are good. They make a hell of a drink.
The Griffin is not for everyone. You must love great music you don't hear on the radio. You must not want to order cheese sticks. If you love PT's, drink bleach, and don't go to The Griffin. If you aren't ready to have sex with a girl who has a full back tattoo, asks you to do terribly humiliating things which result in you walking home through D Street in a negligee and a thong. If you want to watch the big game or the big fight...go to another bar.
If you are tired of the traditional soulless Las Vegas cookie cutter bar The Griffin is waiting for you.
Rex would be waiting for you...but he already found someone else.
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