Creepy Crawlers: Gulf Gate

My notes tell the whole story.

Out for an evening of binge drinking in Gulf Gate, Sarasota's capital of overindulgence, I scribble away on a small pad. My writing begins clearly, precisely, at the Sarasota Brewing Co. (6607 Gateway Ave., 925-2337), where I slurp down six shots of various beers brewed right here on the premises for a mere $3.95. Above us hang hundreds of hefty numbered steins, personal glasses regulars have claimed. Frequent boozers come in, call out their digits and take a seat.

Maybe it's the drinking or the, you know, drinking, but we somehow completely miss Monk's across the way and instead end up at The Wine Shop (6616 Superior Ave., 921-4573), where red and pink fluorescent lights bathe everything. Over a glass of spiced wheat beer, the Loaf's editor wipes the floor with me at darts, a game whose scoring system remains a mystery. My jots on the page remain clear, copying down cryptic pronouncements etched onto a bathroom sign: "(what about Poki?)" and "EVERY ONE SHOULD STAND."

Back over on Gateway, we take in all eight flat-screens at The Paddy Wagon (6586 Gateway Ave., 925-2344), polishing off Irish lager as a Loaf staffer battles his wife at old-school slide hockey, a definite upgrade from your standard foosball, before the bartender warns them against spinning the handles.

Next door, G Spot (6582 Gateway Ave., 922-7768) is nearly empty. One wall is adorned with a framed photo of Al Pacino as Scarface, brandishing his famous M-16. Beneath the picture, a very miniature toy assault rifle and fake bullets are mounted behind the glass. A similar frame down the wall celebrates Tony Soprano with a toy pistol and cigar. My boss suggests the place is like a strip club without the strippers.

At this point, my notepad takes on a life of its own. A Loaf sales rep borrows it to jot down how to say "Cheers" in Hungarian, a tip from a regular a few stools down.

Over at Irish Rover (6514 Gateway Ave., 926-1060), I order my first can of Schlitz, though I've drunk plenty before. The bar purchased a case of the beer for a snowbird who skipped town before finishing his specially ordered case of the sub-consumable beer. Irish fiddles fill in the mostly empty room. Are we the only ones out drinking tonight?

Across the street, we discover the answer to that question is a resounding no. Partygoers crowd Boar's Head Lounge (6523 Gateway Ave., 922-4066), shooting pool, conversing at boisterous volumes and downing Jäger -- wait, that last one was me.

A scantily clad young lady grabs a mic and calls over parties interested in competing in the bar's sex trivia contest. The winner gets a $100 bar tab. Caught up in the frenzy of the crowd and the prospect of free booze, I gather with other contestants, although there's no order to the game. Basically, the chick on the mic asks a question and random people shoot their hands up. The guy standing next to me has the right idea: He just leaves his arm extended the entire time.

Ignored on the first couple questions, I finally get called on to answer which sexual position makes it easiest for both man and woman to achieve orgasm. But the question requires a lot more explanation: How much do the involved parties weigh? How limber are they? Lube?

I take a blind stab at it, shouting, "Cleveland steamer!" The girl running the contest shoots me a blank look. Turns out the question was multiple-choice. I probably should have gone with a letter. I am publicly shamed, denied a free T-shirt and the chance for a generous tab.

We take off, way before the "hottest shower dance" competition, which takes place in a creepy, brightly lit white room in a corner of the bar enclosed by frosted glass, letting peepers get a silhouette of the dance action going down.

The scene is less raucous but still hopping over at Hurricane Mikes (2639 Mall Drive, 923-9827), where we drink something called a Dirty Fish Tank that, well, tastes like a dirty fish tank, and marks the first and last time I assume a drink's name is ironic. Props to the bar for an X-Files pinball machine.

As we head over to our last stop, the Thirsty Turtle (2615 Mall Drive, 927-3426), my writings slide into total incoherence. I'm not even forming words as I scrawl wildly across the page. And what I can make out the next day -- "good bartender" -- doesn't help much.

Attrition takes hold of our crew. Less committed and industrious friends depart. I fail at another game, this time barely able to strike the cue during a four-person pool contest. I also lose badly to a Loaf salesman who has a terrifying talent for knocking the stuffing out of the electronic punching bag in the back.

After an hour or so at the Turt, those of us can't drive team up with those angelic souls who can and take off. Wish I could tell you more, but the last page of my notebook resembles Abstract Expressionism more than actual language.

Egészségedre! That's "cheers" in Hungarian. Naturally.

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