By Kyle Cefalu

So you want to go downtown? Fair enough. As with most nights spent pouring whisky over my naked body, they begin and end–with a bar. Being of the ripe age of 21, going to the bar is the pinnacle of my night life enjoyment. Or at least it would be, had I been a shut in for the better part of my life. No, the bar scene is not the end all, be all, encompassing mecca of fun the pre-drinking age partier expects it to be. It’s even better. Remember that party you went to in high school? The one where everyone stayed super late and got super wasted and it was amazing? Yup, you guessed it. It’s twice as pathetic with twice the amount of self-deprecating acts.

The greater part of both my viewers and my drunken escapades tend to stay locked into the downtown scene of Redlands, CA. Consisting of 7 or so bars, Downtown Redlands or “DTR” as most people refer to it–will, in my eyes, go down as a great case study on the new social science for “Largest Population Density of Narcissistic Children Over 21.” Or “Highest Possible Retention Rate for Twenty Something’s and Their Departure From The Womb.” Either or, it stands to be noted I’m still here. For research purposes, of course.

Now, for the newcomers and the commuters, the first stop on the epic pub crawl of DTR starts at The Dirty Bird. Also known as the less famous Flamingo of the West Coast, The Dirty Bird offers drink connoisseur’s a typical sports bar. Equipped to the walls with everything from pool tables, karaoke machines, and your favorite substitute teachers talking about that chick from your graduating class with the “sweet tits.” The Dirty Bird, despite its’ moniker, isn’t even the worse of the 7. It stands to reason, the Bird can be fun in the same mold as a cash only hooker on a turn-around to Vegas stands to be fun–no regrets.

Next on the stop stands the only commercial bar on the crawl, Romano’s Restaurant. Now if you’ve ever been to a Buffalo Wild Wings or a BJ’s on gameday and tried to get an overpriced drink at the bar, you aren’t missing much. Romano’s, despite it’s flair on the walls, is not a sports bar. This is the friend you have who thinks they know sports because they know Babe Ruth struck out more times than he hit home runs. The guy who remembers Brett Favre more for sending out dick pics than for throwing pick sixes. You go here for the atmosphere. The same atmosphere you get in a Natty Ice drenched dorm room with a Lebron James Fat Head hanging on the wall.

Just around the corner and conveniently placed next to a piss soaked alley way stands the bottom of the barrel. The best incarnation of stupidity wrapped up into a building proudly emblazoned with the words Boiler Room on its’ front gates. The Boiler Room gets a lot of flack for being the worst possible place in the Inland Empire. Which, if any of you reading this are old enough, should be wise to remember the Hudson. Despite the multiple stabbings and shutdowns from the fire marshall, the Boiler Room still found a way to be a worse place to take a date then the Hudson. Regardless of the respectable outside area and the well-kept bar, going to the Boiler Room is like putting lipstick on a pig and expecting to pass it off as a viable date.

After your much-needed shower after the Dirty Bird, you cross the street to the local pub, The Royal Falconer. To date, I still cannot understand whether they’re Irish or British. Partly due to my ignorance but wholly due to me not giving a shit. I get it. Soccer’s huge over seas, so huge entire teams have been murdered before over the outcome of the game. What I don’t get, is why they decided to bring it over with them? I once asked to watch the Knicks game one Sunday afternoon only to be treated to “Oi, the Knicks? Who in the bloody hell are the Knicks?” Not really but it’s not like I understood anything beside Guinness, fish and chips and Manchester United thus far.

It’s a good thing we have a European transplant pub in the vicinity of Redlands. Culture is a needed commodity in a suburban community. Also, the translation barrier helps when you venture on in to Charlie’s Jewels. Known to locals as Chuck’s Nuts, the nickname speaks to the crowd. You remember how Romano’s is kind of like a sports bar in that they try to care? Chuck’s Nuts is the retarded little brother of Romano’s. Don’t get me wrong, they have sports on the television. The waitresses are hot and you can even wear a jersey into the bar. You can also get shot outside for wearing the wrong jersey. If the rape culture could create a club along the lines of the Legion’s and Moose Lodges of the world, Chuck’s Nuts would be their home base.

In the 1920’s America had Speakeasy’s to help alcoholics get their liquor. Usually the patron would be given a password to gain entry to an underground bar to partake in their favorite whisky. In 2013 we have the Underground. It’s got the bouncer, the staircase leading to the booze and the pre-boomer era brick layered walls to give off a cool vibe. It’s also filled to the brim with every single questionable twenty something sweating their asses off till two in the morning. The bar could use extra workers and the place itself could take note in the recent invention of air conditioning but hey, at least I won’t be shot.

As for the last stop, the Vault, I have no real problems. The atmosphere is fine, the service is quick, and I don’t need to overpay for drinks. I do however, need to go outside to use the bathroom. Mostly in part to my inebriation or lack of patience. Now, as for the people, I will say this–have you ever watched a Wes Anderson movie and thought the quirkiness was kind of cool and semi-interesting? So does everyone in the bar. If your wet dreams consist of a doped up Lana Del Rey or avant-garde barista spouting nonsense on the nuances of film vs. digital, the Vault is for you.

As for me, I am a writer. I have respect. I cannot bother with the overpriced luxury of putting up with people from my high school as I wait in a sweat drenched bar. So if I may excuse myself, I’m going to go slam some Steel Reserve’s in the CVS parking lot until happy hour starts.