Out and About
The Ultimate Hangover Cure
The bar is dark but lively. Wilco’s “Thanks I Get” plays in the background. Starting from the left of the rectangular room there’s a row of semi-circle leather booths, then some open ground, a single pool table, and the bar. Territorial drunks guard the hunks of wood like prime real estate. But there’s one booth off-to-the-side that’s only half-occupied. Two uncomfortable-looking twenty-somethings are practically hugging, and a third they’re connected to by a leg.
I can tell these three aren’t actual friends — or, at least, not close ones. The closer girls are, the more they go out looking like Destiny’s Child.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“You’re coworkers?”
“Yeah!”
The two scrunched together remind me of deer. The other is more like a bear — both in attitude and because of the apparent pelt draped around her shoulders.
“Vegan fur,” she explains.
Welcome to LA.
The Scene
LA nightlife features all the classics — models, yuppies, drugs, money, sex, power, booze, recklessness, all that. Nothing new there. What is is the novel strain of social naïveté born out of the digital-COVID age. Many are taking their first steps into the physical world. Imagine freshly polished ice.
Now I’m in the booth with the three girls plus one of their male coworkers. Initially, he walked over like a tough guy. Typical misguided sap trying to nail one of these chicks by means of friendship. If only he knew. Anyway, I throw him into conversation and he quickly settles down. Everyone, even the deer, are chatting and laughing.
Looking around I notice a couple of guys in the midst of a heated conversation. Both are hammered, swaying. The one with his back toward me steadies himself on his friend’s shoulder. No doubt “I love you man” will soon be uttered. I watch until the scene ends with a back-smacking hug.
At the door, an attractive group files in. I’m getting antsy. I always get bored just as the one next to me is warming up. Shiny-object syndrome.
My friend floats over and invites me to ski.
“I’m good.”
“Come on, come on.”
I stand and tell the table I shall return…Naturally, we never meet again.
The City of Angels
It’s odd, but nightlife is one of the last bastions of the physical world — a solitary cliff that breaks the digital wave. This, if nothing else, is reason to rejoice.
Of course, though, many still hide behind their screens. 99% are insecure and 100% are anxious. These are the modern conditions. Thankfully, as the night goes on, things improve. Phones disappear. Less acting, more interacting.
My friend and I exit the stall, mojo renewed, and enter the greater co-ed bathroom. I spy a thirsty group of girls snapping pictures in the mirror. I shake my head. “Live in the present,” I tell them. They like it and follow us back to the bar.
“You’re not from LA?”
“How’d you know?”
I can tell the bartender thinks I’m a douche. It is what it is. This rounds on me. I vacantly ask questions while waiting for our drinks. The music is loud by the bar. I’m talking to the blonde. I lean in close, pretending to listen while I watch her lips.
My attention is frayed.
Someone crashes into me and falls to the ground. I turn and see a burly Samoan standing over him. Nocturnal demons — both of them, dancing in the moonlight.
But why must nightlife be a slouch to Sodom? Why not a skip to Shangri-La? Is it because instant gratification? Does going out at necessarily equal compromising tomorrow’s success for tonight’s pleasure? Is there another way? Does every night have to end in regret? Maybe we’re all just Icarus with wax wings. The key then is not to fly so high…Easier said than done.
Drinks in-hand, we navigate to a quiet corner. The blonde starts up on twenty-one questions: How do my friend and I know each other? Where do we work? How long have I been in LA? She can’t wrap her head around meeting someone in the wild. She’d be more comfortable with my digital history. But the truth is you can know someone better after ten minutes in-person than a lifetime online.
I rebel against the metaverse. I refuse to live in the matrix.
Going Out In LA: Post-Credits
The next morning, my head is foggy but not dull. I find myself thinking that every night out is an opportunity and a challenge: An opportunity to be righteous and a challenge to be authentic.
Why can’t a night out be righteous? No, it’s not a charge into battle. But who can wait for such heroics? They may never come. For my part, I’ll do what I can with what I have. I’ll conquer the modern world as it is — not as I wish it to be.
A righteous night or, rather, a night lived righteously doesn’t mean keeping your head, nor keeping even the contents of your stomach. It’s about spirit — keep that, protect it, and I promise you, thou shalt suffer no hangover.
