Pool is weird. Back in the day I used to go to Hollywood Billiards, managing to play at a table right next to Will Smith, and often scratching as young actresses bent over to retrieve their balls. Amsterdam Avenue is a far cry from Hollywood Boulevard, and Mr. Smith and my hot actress friends couldn’t be further from this joint if it was a gallon of full fat milk. This place looks more like a Dungeons and Dragons convention than a Baywatch audition–complete with ponytails and collapsible staffs. The difference here, besides the lack of females, glut of pleated khakis, and the many Rush CDs hidden away in Jansport backpacks, is that these guys take the “sport” seriously, while the folks in L.A. just play to have something to do before going out drinking, carousing or generally doing something ultimately more satisfying. Carrying a pool stick in a little leather case says to girls the same thing a box of tissues and giant pump bottle of Jergens by the bed do: I haven’t been on a date with a woman ever. There’s just something sad and desperate about this place, and the little nooks with their couches and televisions don’t exactly cry out to the ladies. The odd thing is the attractive, but slow, barmaid who must get entirely sick of the dudes in their “I Love Trinity” Matrix t-shirts staring at her like she was a mint condition Boba Fett in its original packaging. [MF]
344 Amsterdam Ave.
