Last Sunday saw Sam Humphries and I ascend to the roof the Hotel Standard in beautiful downtown Los Angeles. Because we are young urban warriors of considerable standing, we were on a number of guest lists and quite naturally passed through all seven security checkpoints unmolested.
But the elevator made us suspicious immediately. The walls were covered with workmen’s cloth drops, like the kind used to protect furniture during a move. A quick inspection revealed elegant wood paneling behind the cloths. Why The Standard wished to conceal such perfectly serviceable walls behind a curtain is something I may never know, but I’m certain the reasons are sinister.
Sam and I emerged from the lift and found ourselves at the poolside, a luxurious scene featuring every species of hipster imaginable: Faux-hawked grrls, pretty boyz, frat bros & hoes, punks, indies, trendies, hip-hoppers, globe-trotters, mall goths, freaks, mutants, ‘70s, ‘80s, ‘00s, all copiously tattooed and bikini’d, dancing and drinking $12 cocktails around a heated swimming pool on the roof of an opulent hotel while Peaches of all fucking people spun Bauhaus’ “Bella Legosi’s Dead” of all fucking records. Basically, it’s what I imagined every day living in Hollywood would be like.
Right away, we were joined by molliemg, who wasted no time in betraying her intense desire for me by saying seemingly cruel and unkind things about my outfit, character and complexion. Mollie’s “insults” became more and more pronounced throughout the afternoon, and because I am always embarrassed when someone obviously wants to make love to me so badly, I had to keep excusing myself to get more drinks.
Despite the shameless artifice of the event, I had a good time up there on that roof. Pretty scenery, nice weather, good drinks, good friends, good music, plenty of cute girls to strike out with… but something about it just made you imagine a hydrogen bomb exploding somewhere in the distance.