Scene LA: Rodents Are Party People, Too
Photos and words by Sierra Skinner.
I wanted to be a psychoanalyst until I realized I didn’t even have the attention span to make it through the application paperwork. I was a dropout in the making before I had even begun, so I sought out somewhat of an alternative education.
This is why I’ve spent my early twenties going out and getting immersed in the local scene in any misguided or misadventurous way I could muster. It’s called field work. Or, at least my own personal brand of it. And, something that I can talk to my parents about when they ask what I’ve been up to as I feign productivity yet again. Odds are it’s done more harm than good to my still developing frontal lobe, but too late now. I’ve made a whole life of this, and I’ve actually managed to learn quite a bit.
On this particular stretch of Sunset Boulevard, I’ve found an overarching theme to what we all seem to be feeling: restlessness. It’s what Los Angeles seems to both breed and feed off of, keeping its residents perpetually in flux. Grappling simultaneously with success and disappointment, ego and insecurity, hyperactivity and stasis. No time to process when there’s always some show or party or miscellaneous dread inducing function to busy yourself with instead. Whether you’re seeking something or running away from everything, who’s to say, really? Odds are we’re all doing the same.
As a kid, I used to watch the dozens of tiny mice in their cramped cage at the pet store. I was fascinated by the way they’d all pile on top of each other to get their chance at running on the wheel, only to get immediately thrown off. Their beady, frantic eyes begging for reprieve even as they climb back on, just to repeat the seemingly defeating cycle. I wondered if they were having fun. If this was their way of playing, or if they were all engaging in some sort of never-ending battle for dominance. As an adult, I’ve found myself understanding the mice more than ever as I elbow my way through an eternally busy Prado sidewalk, white knuckling my glass of natural wine and bracing for an impact of unknown but imminent origins. A dreaded run in, an abysmal conversation, or the crushing realization of all that I could (or should) be doing instead. I am sure to be thrown by something, as sure as I am to stay until close regardless and return another day. I’ve always said I’ll go wherever my friends go. Maybe that’s just what the mice were doing too.
The question remains the same: is this fun for the mice?
This is all I think about whenever I find myself back at some miserably overcrowded party or yet again pulling up to a bar I always talk shit about. Back on the wheel with all the other frantic little rodents, I go. The only thing that really separates us as the bipedal human creatures we claim to be is that we communicate our discomfort if we want to. But we often bury it in casual binge drinking and platitudes instead. The wheel keeps spinning because we keep getting on.
I have a theory that if you ask the right questions, you can break through the idle barstool small talk and come to the far more pertinent truth that none of us really know what we’re doing, no matter how good we’ve gotten at faking it. Industry big-wigs or up-and-comers alike all have their own personal brand of lost. We all must have something in common if we keep finding ourselves at the same haunts. I think there’s a great deal of unity to be found in being just a bit more honest about it.
Avoiding it is exactly what'll have you spinning in front of the bathroom mirror of the nicest house you’ve ever been in while asking, “What have I become?”as you inhale some mystery powder just because everyone else is doing it. Then, asking “Coke or ketamine?” after you’ve already snorted it anyway. At least then you’ll know what particular variety of hell you’re in for. Other common questions include, “Isn’t that guy cancelled?” and “What the fuck is a creative director?” Or, my personal favorite: This sucks. Wanna go get tacos? Because the only afters worth going to is the late-night taco truck.
Speaking of, I’ve learned the hard way that getting drunk on a weekday is only ever fun if you actually like the people you’re with. Otherwise, it really is just sad. Knowing when to say no and who to say no to is vital. Your drinking buddies should be your actual buddies, the kind that you can laugh and cry with in equal measure, depending on where the night takes you. At least you know that there’s somebody who will always make sure you get home safe.
There’s a reason so many of us take to the streets after a hard day. Community brings comfort, and so much of life is just figuring out how to cope as best as we are able, even when it’s not pretty. If getting out of the house and out of your own head some nights gives you the strength to bear whatever unprecedented circumstances beckon you to crash and burn, then so be it. I, too, have felt the healing touch of beers at the bar with trusted friends after a long day. Sometimes the ridiculousness of a bad party or a busy bar can be needed comedic relief or a timely reminder that nothing is ever that serious. Because when you’re on the wheel, that’s all you can focus on. But when you’re tossed off of it? That’s when you realize how silly it all is. At least until your next turn. Life is largely just finding ways to kill time anyway.
I always found those mice and the game they play somewhat endearing, even if I never quite figured out the why. I’d like to imagine they’re enjoying themselves somehow.
