I'm always a fan of the surreal when it comes to drinking establishments. I like the kind of joints that inspire reactions like, "Whoa, where the fuck am I?" or "What year is this?" I hunt such bars the way other men hunt rare scotch. And Sloan's Tavern, with its telltale 18-wheeler cab jutting from an outside wall, is a personal favorite. Equal parts queer femme hangout, punk bar (it doubles as a venue, hosting regular Saturday shows) and inner NoPo neighborhood joint, Sloan's has the displacement potential of a spectacularly weird dream. The muted brown interior is complemented by faux-gold '80s accents and bar seating reminiscent of cushioned adult highchairs. The true gem of the place is the jukebox—an ancient machine, it's capped with a glass dome containing a miniature plastic band that moves in time to the music (mostly oldies). Save for music nights, Sloan's is supposed to close at 10 pm. So drop a tab of something fun, and make it an early night.
Perfect Patron: Trippers, chemical and otherwise. (MB)