Night Watch Visits Coyotes Bar in Hollywood
It was in the low 70s--breezy, but pleasant--as my wingman and I walked up starry Hollywood Boulevard. The air was crisp, and the street was alive with the clicking of high heels, the kind of loud talking that alcohol consumption causes, the crackling of different languages, and Latin guitar wafting up from the nearest club. We passed a gaggle of squealing girls, a couple speaking feverishly in French, and a of couple guys clearly on the prowl. And that was just in the first three minutes.
Hollywood has its fair share of sparkling, beautiful beaches, and when one is in need of a sparkling, beautiful beverage, there's no choice but to hit up Hollywood Boulevard. You'll see everything from steamy salsa-dancing to short skirts; you'll glimpse some of the finest plastic surgery in all of South Florida; you'll find a mix of shenanigan-filled Irish pubs, sultry Latin clubs, meat-market dives, and even a jazzy bohemian beer joint. We popped into Coyotes Bar (1926 Hollywood Blvd., Hollywood, 954-620-7046), where the a Jay-Z/Linkin Park mashup throbbed in our heads as my wingman Beard and I trotted past the dancing, lip-synching bouncer.
The patio area and relatively small indoor space were divided by clear sliding glass doors; the kind that, when shut, dogs and slobbering drunks run directly into. A long mural of happy partiers ran on the wall directly above the wave-shaped bar. A low-lit brick and wood theme dominated the décor; candles spotted the few tables; hookahs sat at the ready. Girls' soccer played on TV, but the collection of pretty partiers paid it no heed. We took a seat at a high, round table and ordered a couple bourbon-and-Cokes from the ponytailed bartender.
"How long has this place been open?" I asked the dark-haired bartender, Amir.
He considered. "A long time."
"Any relation to Coyote Ugly?"
His jovial look turned serious. "No. None. They were around before us, but we're doing our own thing. The only similarity is the name."
Well, patrons of this Coyote's certainly weren't ugly. Nor were they sober. When the new Sean Kingston song blasted from the speakers, a tall woman in a sheer, peacock-colored outfit and high heels shuffled to the empty floor space. She heavy-stepped around in a pattern of drunken, mechanical dance steps.
"There are more shaved heads here than in a Tibetan monastery," said my friend, Beard, stirring his bourbon and looking sarcastically at a group of guys who had just walked in. Many of them wore tight, shiny T-shirts and had closely cropped hair. Since all available women in the bar were preoccupied with other men, the guys just sort of hung out and tried to look cool.
A young woman in a chic red dress leaned on her barstool until she fell directly into a guy who could have passed for Jon Gosselin if Jon Gosselin were better-looking. I overheard a big fellow tell a methodically chain-smoking, dark-haired girl these charming words: "Well, do you want to go home with me or not?"
Meanwhile, a bleach-blonde probably in her early 40s came stumbling in, turned a few heads with her massive rack, and then moseyed up to the bar. When she attempted to high-five the bartender, she missed his hand. Twice. At that point some of the bored Tibetan-monk-guys had taken notice of this buxom potential victim and began to swarm around the patio like sharks. It was time to drink elsewhere. As we exited, we couldn't help but notice that the burly bouncer was still lip-synching.