No Sleep and the LA Art Scene

I am the least hip person you will never meet. I wear graphic tees, Star Wars shoes, and occasionally a nice plaid collared button-up shirt. I never use abbreviations when I text, I don’t know what most of today’s slang means, and I have no idea what a “Post Malone” is.  When I go out I cycle through the same four shirts because I am too cheap to buy anything decent. You are probably wondering why someone lacking so much in the “hip” department (the personality trait not the body part) would move to one of the hippest cities in America, and I do not have an answer for you.

Now I want you to use your imagination for this next part because I am going to describe to you a situation that I was. I wish that you could have seen it for yourself but I was too entranced by the world around me to take pictures. Are you ready? Let me set the scene.

We are in Downtown Los Angeles, we have just driven past the bulk of the city to a quieter area to what is better known as the “Fashion District”. We park on the side of the street and make our way over to a small brick building with a single body guard standing outside of it. He asks for our names and makes sure that we are on “the list”, my heart beat has increased. The bouncer waves us on and we enter through the open front door. Straight ahead is a stage made of astro turf, one more time for emphasis, astro turf. On the walls are some of the most beautiful and intense oil painting I have ever seen. In the corner of the room is a table. On that table sits a stuffed red raccoon with a fake apple in it’s mouth an a collection of poems focusing mostly about grocery PLU codes. In the next room there is an open bar that is serving mostly tequila, not sober Ryan would have loved this part. Scattered throughout the two rooms is the largest variety of people that have ever been in one place. Someone of them are dressed to impressed, one guy is wearing Beetlejuice tights.

Enter Ryan, a generic looking white wearing the khaki pants that he wore to work that day and the same collared shirt that he out wore the week before. There is a Pokemon tattoo on his ankle, but nobody can see it. He is wearing the look of perplexity, how did he get here?

I hope your imagination did you justice. The next fours of the night went well and I found myself enjoying this moment of hip life. For the first time in recent memory I went out with friends and was the only one who didn’t drink, and I felt great (that’s something that I’d never thought I say). There was also this mini-concert in the middle of the art show, which contained a lot of flashing lights, a smoke machine, and bubbles. One song begged everyone to yell “Fuck Golf” during the chorus as a notion towards the depletion of fresh water sources due to golf courses. My family loves golf but it was a beautiful moment.

Remember how I said that I wear the same outfit that I did the week before? People noticed.

Although it’s not something I could see myself at every Friday it was definitely an experience worth having, and I don’t think I’ll ever look at golf the same way again. The people were amazing and the art was mesmerizing, and it was by far the most “LA” I have ever been. I left feeling satisfied and with a weird new attraction to PLU codes.



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