Fantasy Island, the former Polynesian-themed restaurant Kelbo’s — with its Shipwreck Room, lighthouse décor, Hawaiian spare ribs and regular appearances by ur-organist Korla Pandit — is now a burlesque club cum sports bar. Here, the tattoos soundly outnumber the Tattoos, and the private dancers are pasties-only since alcohol is served. Some fantasy! At this sports-bar-crossed-with-naughty-strip-club, the lighthouse currently blares a Budweiser beacon, and blue-movie stars celebrating their latest adult opus make occasional appearances. There are plenty of lap dances, beer, buffalo wings, beer, basketball on the plasma, beer, billiards, beer and valet parking. Yes, I believe I’ll have another. Ironically for a gentlemen’s club, Fantasy Island lacks actual distinguished-looking men with top hats, tuxedos, cravats, monocles, pince-nez or walking sticks. “FIRST THE RULES,” says the club’s MySpace page. “THIS IS A BIKINI SPORTS BAR * NO NUDITY * 21 AND OVER * NO THIS IS NOT AN ESCORT SERVICE * ALL IMMATURE, VILE, IGNORANT, AND DISGUSTING EMAILS WILL BE UNANSWERED, DELETED, AND BLOCKED * I AM ONLY A SEXY VIXEN AT WORK WHERE IT IS IN A SAFE ENVIRONMENT * IF I MET EVERYONE IN PERSON I MEET ON MYSPACE I WOULD NOT HAVE A LIFE! * IF I HAD SEXUAL RELATIONS WITH EVERYONE I MET ON MYSPACE I WOULD WALK AROUND BULL LEGGED [sic] AND NEED VAGINAL REJUVENATION SURGERY * ENOUGH SAID! THESE RULES ARE NOT UP FOR DEBATE * THESE RULES WILL NOT BE BROKEN.” Why does this club rate so highly? Because it is refreshingly frank and blunt. There are some things that money can’t buy. For everything else, there’s Fantasy Island.
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Fantasy Island 11434 Pico Blvd., West L.A., (310) 473-5678 or www.fantasyislandclub.com