Oct 13 2009

The LA Party Scene, Part 1: Hipster

Hey Kids!

Lemme tell you something.  After living in Los Angeles for over 8 years I STILL don’t feel comfortable at your typical LA soiree.  When most people think of a social scene in the City of Angels, they conjure images of Lindsey Lohan making out with a girl in a DJ booth or the cast of “The Hills” clasping champagne flutes in a VIP lounge. While these are very real images, they only represent a small faction of partying that is distinctively Los Angeles.  I have decided to spend the next few entries telling you about my experiences with all of them…and giving you the blow by blow burrito style, naturally.

Party Type #1: Hipster

This weekend I had the pleasure and horror of experiencing one of the most trendy types of partying currently sweeping Los Angles right now: the hipster party. This invite came via my boy Spam.

Spam is a bit of a hipster.  He makes no effort to hide it, and frankly I find his shameless pride charming. I’ve commented on the plunging depths of his v-neck t- shirts more than once and instead of squirming with humility, he looks me dead in the eye and proclaims my mockery is rooted in “jealousy of his large chest.”   I’m a 34A, so touché.    Whenever I hang out with Spam and his crowd I expect a certain vibe.  Everyone will be a bit gangly, a bit poetic, a bit eccentrically self-indulgent, a bit high, and a bit young.  Most times I can just throw on my skinny jeans and blend right in.  But this particular Friday was a little more hard core than the burrito had anticipated….

Look, it’s my fault really.  The party was being held at a warehouse in Silver Lake.  If that wasn’t a big enough red flag then I should have been tipped off by the couple of American Spirit smokers just outside the entrance: The girl was wearing a tutu and chucks and the guy was wearing sear sucker pants, suspenders, and a fedora.  His shirt plundged to new depths even Spam hadn’t dared to go.

When I passed the threshold it quickly became clear to me that there was definite illegal activity taking place in this warehouse.  For the first time in years I felt genuine danger that the cops were gonna bust the joint and I was going to have to call my parents in shame.  And not for the pot I had been smoking.  Nope.  I was fearful that the cops would come because everyone in the room looked 15.  They acted like it to.  Coyly stealing glances at the keg like it was a b-list celebrity, congregating in cliques, gender divided on the dance floor.  It was like middle school, but with more homosexuals.

As soon as I walked into the joint, all of their beady eyes and heavy lids stared at my old ass in awe, like they were seeing a mythical creature.  I watched a few of them try to make sense of me.  For a second I considered faking Benjamin Button Syndrome.  Instead, I sucked it up and decided to give them the benefit of the doubt.  Needed time to step back and consider that my age paranoia may be do to the canibus haze.

But, after 20 minutes of trying to fit in and 2 dixie cups of foamy booze, it all seemed futile. My skinny jeans just weren’t going to cut it in this crowd.  I tried to stop freaking out about everyone’s age but it just kept scaring the shit out of me.  A) because I realized how old I was getting, and B) because I was seriously concerned that the cops might show up and charge me with providing to a minor just for asking some girl in a bikini to hold my Busch Light.

Spam took me outside for some fresh air and the weed began dissipate…slowly.  In a new state of lesser paranoia, I made my way to the dance floor to shake it off.

Jesus Christ.

I entered the threshold to an industrial space banging with Emo music and gyrating with head to toe hipsters.  It looked like Americn Aparrel was having an earth quake.  I stared at them in disbelief.   “How did I get here?”

Spam and his clan seemed to be enjoying themselves thoroughly and they were my ride so I knew there was no chance of bouncing in the near future.  My motto at awkward parties is always nut up or shut up.  If you’re having a shitty time, do something to make it fun or shut the fuck up and wait for it to be over.  DON’T be naggy and ruin everyone else’s good time.

So, I decided to have a dance off with the most outrageous looking of these babies.  I stripped down to my oh so boring strapless dress and zoned in on a girl in spandex pants, neon pink suspenders, and a zebra printed sports bra.  She was swinging from an indoor swing…. You heard me.

We fought and after 2 consecutive songs of flash dance moves, I won.  Shocked?  Look, I NEVER enter a dance-off I don’t feel 99% sure I can win.  I learned that during the Britney Spears/ NSYNC craze of 2000.    I’d prove it to you by posting a video of me doing “Bye, Bye, Bye” but this blog is anonomys for a reason.  I wasn’t born yesterday.

Spam and crew rallied soon after that.  I think it was more out of embarrasement for me than a genuine desire to bounce, but who cares.  They waved the white flag, not me.

I was almost home free (save for the improptu jam session to the car radio with Spam’s random back seat percussion instruments), when the crew decided to stop for taco bell.  HOW DO THEY DO IT?  All of these hipsters are size -0.  EVEN THE BOYS!   And all they do is eat junk food and drink coffee!

“Burrito!”  The driver yelled out.  “What can we get you as a prize for winning the dance off.”
“Ummmmm, whatever you’re having”
“Beef taco it is then.”

Spam interjected like I’d just given the go ahead for nuclear war.

“NONONO.  She’ll just have a cheese quesadilla.”

I tried to raise one eyebrow in question but then realized I didn’t posses this skill and probably just screwed my face into a look of constipation.

“You don’t want to eat their meat….believe me.”

He shot me a smooth wink and smile.  I melted.  It was like he’d just ordered for me at La Tour d’Argent in perfect French.

I passed out in a greasy coma knowing I’d have to wake up early and work out for 2 hours the next day if I wanted to break even for that dang quesadilla, but I didn’t care.  For the first time all night I was surrounded by something familiar, something that didn’t judge me, and made me feel safe: food.