Fruit platter :)
A Story About K8.
Every week, when Friday rolls around, there begins the tireless mission amongst my friends and I to find something fun to do that will justify the many hours of labor we’ve expended in our various professions. In Los Angeles, despite the abundance of lively social scenes, there appears to be a dearth of places actually worth going to. The clubs considered “hot spots” have high cover charges, enormous lines, and are packed with people who don’t want to see you there anyway. Other places tend to fall below average, as everyone is in line to get into the hot spots. Sometimes you’ll find a diamond in the ruff, but typically it’s a special occasion—a musical affair, a birthday party, the launch event for some celebrity’s new hair product—and it won’t be around the next time you go out. To find one venue with consistently good music, good dancing, and good people is rare, if even possible.
In my core group of friends, I have one companion, whom I will refer to as Pat, who always decides where we will go when we hit the city for the night. Pat seems to be privy to secret party information, which the rest of us can’t find on Google or Citysearch, nor are her sources ever really made clear. She’s also got the magical capabilities of getting us “on the list” at such events—a must if you’re going out in Hollywood. Hollywood likes to rank everyone’s level of importance in society, therefore the “list” system was created so that certain ordinary people could get into clubs and bars before other ordinary people. The only real difference between the people on the list and those who aren’t is that the latter didn’t have a Pat around to tell them to do so. Pat decides where we will go and what we will do, and, in the event the night is deemed unsuccessful, Pat is the scapegoat for our displeasure. If the club fails to live up to expectation, we blame Pat, though, inevitably, we’d have all been at home on our couches without her.
Pat likes to bring us to a wide variety of locales in the Greater Los Angeles area. She’s not exclusive, nor does she necessarily consider the details of the event before making her decision; Pat just goes on instinct. She sometimes brings us to A-list parties where we’ll mingle amongst celebrities; in fact, I once smacked Shia LeBeouf on the rear thanks to Pat’s drunken antics. Mostly though, she likes to go to house parties or undercover dive bars where a good DJ has set up shop. I always have fun in Pat’s company, though I’m never quite sure what to expect. One night, for instance, Pat took us to a house party in South L.A. where we were threatened by a potential gang-banger while loitering outsides a donut shop across the street. The man, who was Latino, accused my African-American counterpart of “looking at him,” and then, in so many words, indicated he was not a fan of black people. My attempt at making peace with the man provoked the remark, “I hate white bitches too.”
Though it took us over thirty minutes to get there, we left after about five.
Another weekend, Pat took us to a dance club in the center of Hollywood where we evaded a shooting by a mere five minutes. Apparently, two men were gunned down while waiting for the valet just moments after we’d gotten into our car and driven off. Luckily, Pat also knows when to leave. She’s additionally a patron of after-hours dance halls in undisclosed locations downtown. These, like all of L.A., are hit or miss. Sometimes they are lively and the crowd is good, other times it’s a warehouse full of hipsters who need a central place to be around each other and feel cool. The last after-hours spot we went to, we arrived to find a six-foot tall blind man taking a leak in the middle of the sidewalk beside the entranceway. We were left with no choice but to escort him in and around the club, which we were ill-prepared to do given our state of inebriation. The man had nothing to do with Pat, of course, but somehow I still equate him with her in my mind. Sorry Pat.
Despite these indisputable busts, Pat’s main goal is to get everyone together in good company, and in that she continually succeeds. Every Friday afternoon, I get the same text from Pat: “U going out 2nite?”
“Sure,” I reply.
“K, I know of a few spots. My place at 9?”
And so we go.
A city like L.A. offers a myriad of opportunities for those willing to take their best shot, and Pat is one of the resilient. She will never cease on her quest to find a place where we can all enjoy our lives a little more, and for that I offer my sincere admiration. L.A. makes no promises, only grants an endless amount of chances, and Pat does not let them go to waste. Additionally, Pat introduces us to the great gamut of folk who inhabit this city: the rich and beautiful, the powerful, the mediocre, the nerds, the wanna-bes, the beggars and the givers. With Pat, I’ve had the chance to meet one of my favorite musicians, and I’ve also shared the dance floor with a prostitute and her pimp. It’s always a surprise, and my life would be that much less entertaining without Pat.
Pat’s currently out of town for work, and consequently, I find myself pining away for my vivacious friend. For no how many times she errs, we, the sheep, continue to follow our shepherd, and are befuddled without her. In fact, if Pat were here right now, I probably wouldn’t even be writing this. I would be out somewhere, maybe backstage at a concert; maybe dancing on top of a bar stool; or perhaps getting robbed. L.A. sometimes leaves you with no other choice.
the Clubhouse is at it again with their latest interpretation of Frank Ocean’s “Super Rich Kids”….