Josh Richman (LEFT) and Hartwell are a little tied up at the moment.
Our not-so-fair City of Angels circa early 2009: foreclosure signs, TMZ stalkers, and retrograded Mercuries. Does a feeling of foreboding seem as pervasive to everyone else as it does to us? And yet, we just started two new promotions— Deluxe on Thursdays and My House on Fridays—opened the first bar we actually own, Darkroom, and continue to throw three additional nights weekly.
We have to ask ourselves: Is this really the time to be doing all this? Are we capitalist vultures preying on the climate of doom, hoping every “reenactress” still has the stamina to shoplift on Robertson, then truck her scuffed wedges onto La Cienega in the hopes that the nightclub Nobu has already become won’t flail as quickly as we all knew the Titanic, er, Kress would? Where can we procure the Teflon coating that protects Dan Tana’s and the Ivy? Aren’t we as justified as any other entrepreneurs, unapologetic yet grateful for our success, with a clear conscience because we offer a distraction from the gloom looming ominously over the old Robinsons-May and Bullocks Wilshire buildings? Do we belong where we stand, with our loyal friends, patrons, and the ever-evolving newly enlisted?
Of course we do. We’re from here. Grown from the soil. And you want us on that wall. You feel a rush when you get into My House on a Friday. Maybe you go somewhere else because Jean Paul doesn’t buckle in the face of your sausage-heavy ratio, but we care enough to piss you off for what you don’t understand, haven’t been here long enough to realize, or—like so many of the somnambulistic— might never see.
Everyone is looking for their place in LA, but you have to earn it—and not just because your new, straight-to-YouTube performance has been written about on Twitter. Just being here geographically is not enough to merit inclusion. We will simply keep riding the stamina of the
Our not-so-fair City of Angels circa early 2009: foreclosure signs, TMZ stalkers, and retrograded Mercuries. Does a feeling of foreboding seem as pervasive to everyone else as it does to us? And yet, we just started two new promotions— Deluxe on Thursdays and My House on Fridays—opened the first bar we actually own, Darkroom, and continue to throw three additional nights weekly.
We have to ask ourselves: Is this really the time to be doing all this? Are we capitalist vultures preying on the climate of doom, hoping every “reenactress” still has the stamina to shoplift on Robertson, then truck her scuffed wedges onto La Cienega in the hopes that the nightclub Nobu has already become won’t flail as quickly as we all knew the Titanic, er, Kress would? Where can we procure the Teflon coating that protects Dan Tana’s and the Ivy? Aren’t we as justified as any other entrepreneurs, unapologetic yet grateful for our success, with a clear conscience because we offer a distraction from the gloom looming ominously over the old Robinsons-May and Bullocks Wilshire buildings? Do we belong where we stand, with our loyal friends, patrons, and the ever-evolving newly enlisted?
Of course we do. We’re from here. Grown from the soil. And you want us on that wall. You feel a rush when you get into My House on a Friday. Maybe you go somewhere else because Jean Paul doesn’t buckle in the face of your sausage-heavy ratio, but we care enough to piss you off for what you don’t understand, haven’t been here long enough to realize, or—like so many of the somnambulistic— might never see.
Everyone is looking for their place in LA, but you have to earn it—and not just because your new, straight-to-YouTube performance has been written about on Twitter. Just being here geographically is not enough to merit inclusion. We will simply keep riding the stamina of the greatest city on earth.
