I got wasted my first night out in LA and ended up on TheCobraSnake.com.

  • By: Amanda Coscarelli

This story has been submitted by a LOOP reader…

Let me set the scene: it’s December 2023, my very first time going out in Los Angeles. Fresh from the Midwest, and owning very minimal “going out tops,” I showed up in platform Doc Martens and a corset top a little too tight for proper lung function, and jeans that were more practical than fashionable.

Somehow, I had convinced my very new job that they didn’t need me for New Year’s Eve. (They absolutely did. My wit and charm just out-delusioned their logic.)

I’d moved here not knowing a single soul, and my roommate was out of town, but she’d hosted a housewarming a couple weeks earlier where I’d met this girl who looked and behaved exactly like Jess from New Girl. She invited me to “YOI TOKI: A Future Funk New Years Eve” at a bar somewhere in East Hollywood — a bar I still couldn’t identify today.

We had reasons to celebrate and even more to forget. I was dealing with roommate drama and the creeping realization that I hated my job — and that my boss only spoke to hear the sound of his own voice, which was especially bold considering he had a lisp. My friend was freshly single and heartbroken. And we were meeting up with my childhood best friend, who moved to LA when we were kids. I hadn’t seen her in years. So there were a lot of nerves.

I tried to ground myself by picking up In-N-Out, but I didn’t know you were supposed to order it animal style, so the burger was… not great. Halfway through eating it, I gave up and declared it “horrific,” because that’s the kind of dramatic self-care I practice.

My childhood friend arrived with her high school bestie, and we caught up on the differences between going to high school in the Valley vs. Tennessee vs. Michigan. 30 minutes in, we ran out of things to talk about, so we did what girls do best: take shots of tequila. Then after the nerves disappeared we decided to go with some mixed drinks someone had bought for the night.

We had reasons to celebrate and even more to forget.

You might think there’s a villain in this story. You would be correct. Its name is Cutwater.

 

We cracked open those deceptively cute canned mixed drinks, not knowing they were essentially a one-way ticket to black out town. I remember crying over a single pimple my drugstore concealer refused to cover, and then about halfway through the drink… becoming the most beautiful woman to ever walk the Earth. Funny how that happens.

 

We were two Cutwaters deep, taking pictures for our moms, hyping each other up, and ripping 3 or 4 tequila shots in my Bratz themed shot glasses my mom got me for Christmas until the Uber arrived. I’m fairly certain that’s when I blacked out.

 

We made it to the bar. Music booming. We handed our IDs to the door guy who told us he wanted to buy us drinks and gave us drink tickets. We felt so special. (The first round was literally included in the event.) But delusion was the theme of the night, so we annoyed the door guy, took pictures with him, and dove into the dancing.

 

Then “Rock With You” by Michael Jackson played and because we were 22, our only move was to jump up and down until our organs begged for mercy. The vibe was immaculate… for about five minutes, until my childhood friend fell to the floor. We laughed, picked her up, she fell again, and that’s when we decided we were so over that bar (Not because we got kicked out or anything).

 

Related | I Put Shot Bottles In My Bra So I Dont Have To Pay For Drinks

Next stop: Hollywood. I’d heard Avalon was having a party and assumed we’d somehow get in for free because ~LA magic~. The tickets were $100 each. We screamed at Capitol Records, danced on random stars along the Walk of Fame, and then the Jess-lookalike suggested her favorite bar in Silverlake.

When we arrived, I somehow convinced the door guy to let us into their private event. Was it because he liked us? Maybe. Was it because we had a favorable girl ratio? Probably. But I believed in my power that night, so that’s the version I’m sticking with.

It was 11:47 p.m. and we all had to pee urgently. We waited in line, and when the clock struck midnight, we rang in the new year… blacked out in the bathroom at Tenants of the Trees. So we had technically already hit rock bottom in the first minute of the year. Beautiful.

We made it to the dance floor, and I spotted a group of girls dancing on an elevated ledge. My calling. My destiny. I climbed up there like a woman possessed. Everyone had eventually  climbed down because of the broken glass all over the ledge, but it was me and my Doc Martens against the world.

Cameras were flashing, every song felt like it was created for my moment, and a fellow redheaded baddie was hyping me up. I convinced her to join me. A little while later, somebody bought me a drink, I made out with him, then I ran away because that felt like the right move.

When I found my friends again, they informed me that I had just been dancing with Olivia O’Brien. I was gagged.

The photographer for the night came up to me, handed me a card, and I shoved it in my pocket because I had the attention span of a squirrel by that point.

I spotted a group of girls dancing on an elevated ledge. My calling. My destiny. I climbed up there like a woman possessed.

We finally headed home. For reasons unknown, I decided I was going to cook for everyone. Pesto pasta. No protein. But halfway through boiling the noodles, I realized I was too drunk to continue and it suddenly felt like life or death, so the most sober friend stepped in while I dug the card out of my pocket.

It said, “You’re a star on TheCobraSnake.com.”

I went feral. Not just a photographer THE photographer.

The next morning, I was mortified at the photos. I couldn’t keep my eyes open while dancing on an elevated surface… but I also couldn’t stop smiling. Say what you want, but although I’m in my “grandma era,” I yearn for another night like that.

Totally chaotic.
 Totally unhinged.
 Totally, undeniably LA.

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