Bartenders

I’ve lived in Los Angeles long enough to know that the city runs on proximity and confidence. If you stand close enough to the fire long enough, eventually you stop feeling the heat—and sometimes the fire starts talking to you like you belong there.

Clubbing has always been about connection. The way I see it, there are three main reasons we go out to the club: To connect with the music, to connect with the energy of everyone around us, and to reconnect with our friends, soaking in the present moment. But phones kill connection. They take us out of the moment, they separate us and they’re just plain rude.

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.

I swear I wasn’t planning on becoming that person—the one who lets some older guy at the bar bankroll their night. I always thought I had too much pride, too much feminist backbone, too much… I don’t know, self-respect? But pride melts fast when the cocktails are $18 and the night is young.

It was supposed to be a casual night out. Early 2000s Night in Hollywood. The plan was to have a few drinks, dance to songs my middle school self could only imagine hearing at the club, and make some unforgettable memories. Two truths and a lie.

Let me get something straight: I bartend, I smile, I make your overpriced Instagram cocktails look cute, but deep down? I hate it when people order anything other than a shot. Seriously. Hate it.