I'm 50-50 on writing at bars. Sometimes it helps you because you can people watch until you get a decent insight to push and find a great human truth to write off of. Yet, usually it's too distracting to get anything great.
But when all the coffee shops close, there isn't anywhere else to go. This was my story of last night. I wandered around the Mission (my neighborhood in San Francisco) and couldn't find a single cafe to work at. After a half hour of walking around, I settled with the Lexington Bar at Valencia & 19th.
It was a decent dive bar. Maybe forty feet long and thirty feet wide. A dank pool table lit by an upside down green cone swinging back and forth set the mood for the aged wooden bar. I saddled up to the bar to get to work.
After an hour of writing I realized this place was loaded with women. The dude count came to me plus one bald headed biker. Weird. Maybe I'll get a nibble of interest from one of these California girls? Who knows.
Three hours later, the bar closes up and I haven't gotten a word, a nudge, or even a tap. I headed home with a stack of new material, and a slightly bruised ego. When I told Emmett (my Swedish roommate) about the experience, her boyfriend cracked up.
"Dude, that's a lesbian bar."