The Peak Of Going Out.

As Kenny Rogers once said

“You've gotta know when to hold em’ know when to fold em’ know when to walk away, know when to run”

Welcome to the vortex

This past weekend, like every other rat on the westside of LA, I found myself visiting the same five watering holes. I’m usually against spending a full weekend ubering around and regretting ordering another $10 beer at the bar, but sometimes that’s just the way it goes. This is not me complaining; this is more of a vent for future me. As both nights went on, I found myself taking a step back and doing a self-check. I felt out of it, and as the music changed, I glanced around at the backwards shellback tavern hats, like a hall of mirrors and not the fun kind. I looked at all the frat boys continuing their mating, calling it “the frat flick" which got me thinking.

“Does the night get better?”

This question is sometimes hard to answer. Am I ready to call it a night and pray that the Uber home isn’t at the price that I have to check my checking account at? Honestly, at that point, I would walk home. (2 miles or less)

What does that even mean? Does the night get better? Am I waiting for something magical to happen that I can later tell in my stories of outings in L.A.? Probably not. I just want to add to my Dad Lore.

Honestly, the best part of some nights are the walks. The calm in between, the reflective times. I’ve had some of my deepest conversations walking the streets of LA between bars. Romanticizing LA—maybe that’s the peak of going out.

(Story Time)

One of my favorite nights out and about came from a walk without a destination.

Late last summer, Will and I were out with a group of friends in Hollywood. Oh great, another bar with some gimic that entices people that it’s better than the next. As we funneled in, something was missing. Will had been wearing a Baltimore Orioles baseball jersey, and the bouncer refused him entry through the not-so-secret “secret bank vault” opening. I panicked; I had left my friend behind; I was stuck with the others. A frantic text was sent, but no response was given. Will had gone MIA. My inner Sherlock Holmes remembered I had his location; thank you, modern technology. His circle was down the street, and my Irish goodbye was executed perfectly. As I began my walk to what I thought could be my north star of the night, Will responded with the best words I could have heard. “I found a way cooler place." He was right; it was new, it was fresh, the drinks were cheap, and the music was being shazamed. What more could you ask for? Will and I are bar hoppers. Like a carribou (look it up), we are born migrators. Will purposed going to a place we had only heard about through the grapevine. The only problem was that it was 4 miles away. Walking was suggested, but shot down quickly. An Uber would have ruined the night, there was really only one option. The bird app open, we became the beagles, or any other good hunting dog, of Hollywood (two animal references). Our charriot awaited down the block. Talk about romanticizing LA. Will and I ended up birding 4 miles down Sunset, so beautiful and dangerous all at once. We had arrived in one piece and this time with the jersey around the waste, the bouncer just assumed it was another weird LA fashion trend. The rest was history.

Back to the present; I wake up in the morning regretting the money I spent to supply these habits and waddle over to the kitchen, swearing I will never go out again. This was not one of the memorable nights and will sadly just fall into another weekend spent living and dying in LA. I feel as slow as a dog in the rain, and I swear to myself that I will never go out every night of the weekend. Until the next weekend.

As always till next time.