LPs and Matzah Balls

A little background:
I'm with two girls and one guy.
One girl has bangs and chain smokes. The other doesn't.
The guy is average height and three letters long.

It's Thursday night, downtown art walk. Parking's a bitch and I'm not one to relent so easily, but I'm not the one driving, so we surrender early and cough up $2.50 each, which, in consideration, really isn't that bad, but still...
And we join the zombie crowd of night-time stalkers and art connoisseurs, sort of, or just Downtown hipsters. Dia de los Muertos relics and lots of graffiti on canvas. And isn't the whole point of graffiti, the very fact that it's on a wall and not a canvas?
Anyways, a whole bunch of vendors and art work with price tags. That's about it. And people, lots of people. And some patrol officers, pretty friendly too, so long as you don't jay walk or start a riot. So, you just go inside and out, from one vendor to the other.

The two girls are rummaging through one vendor's LP collection. He has black-frame glasses and lots of tattoos. Fantastic collection. Rare Misfits b-sides and Japanese-electro-jazz. Just plain, old eclectic. I'm being a little snotty and ask him, "Where do you get your records? From thrift stores?" The prices are a bit steep and I'm trying to expose him. Nope, they're all his. He's a collector. And he preserves these records in ebay-status "Like New" condition. "What's your favorite album of all time?" And that's when he tells me. And for the life of me, I can't remember the band. And it's not even a record because the record was never made; it's just the album cover. And it's $6,000 dollars. And he doesn't own it yet. And that's why he's here, selling his records, speaking to me. And if all goes as planned, after he's sold his whole collection, he'll earn enough to buy that cover. And once he does, he says, his life will be complete.
But, wait...
Yeah?
What happens after you get that record cover? What then?
My life will be complete.
Yeah, but what happens? Once you get it... won't that be a bit anticlimactic?
No.
Are you going to frame it?
It's already in a frame.
Where are you going to hang it?
In my living room

Okay. But, what happens when he finally sells everything and he buys that cover in a frame and he nails it to his living room wall? And it just hangs there, droops there, collects dust, and nothing changes and he realizes that inside that frame is an empty jacket, something intangible and nonexistent like the American dream. And then what? I guess it doesn't really matter.

The girl with bangs invests in a record and brings him one step closer to that picture frame. We're thirsty and we sit on a picnic-style bench of a restaurant reputed for the first thing on their menu: a matzah ball wrapped in bacon. It's a big "F' You" on a platter. The irony is forced. And as "far-fetched" and "out-there" is commendable, it's just plain old unappealing--- and a bit irreverent. Although the waitress swears by them, we opt to wine and dine the night away elsewhere. Koreatown to be exact, and I can't say enough good about this place.

To you: Just go. Get lost. Eat frog legs and gizzards and corn cheese (or is it cheese corn) in a dark-lit room with soju being slammed and hite being slurped. And California-state law being blatantly defied with lots of Koreans huffing and puffing on American Spirits- inside! It's a smoke box with ambiance. And you get smashed. And the trips to the bathroom, which is dirty as heck and the walls are lined with Jonas Brothers posters - and they watch you pee.
And everything's spinning and everyone's laughing. The girl with bangs is telling a story about how just last week, she had coffee with her long-lost, childhood best friend. And everything was seemingly perfect, just like old times. Except, something was off. Her voice. The friend's voice has permanently reverted to, as Bangs explains, "this baby voice." They had coffee a few years back and she noticed it then as well, but it wasn't as pronounced. And besides that, everything was normal as can be. She has no idea why and it's bothering her because it makes no sense.

How bazaar. A night of bazaar anecdotes that I can't figure out. It's all too bazaar and the room's still spinning.

Rebuttle to first post

And I'm not some elite "L.A." snob who puts her nose in the air and says, "Nobody's from L.A. anymore," because it gives me some sort of legitimacy. And nobody's really from L.A. We're all fake handbags, bad knock-offs. And it's just a bunch of swampland anyhow. The true natives have been raided out and lost and buried elsewhere- and if the true locals did come back, they'd be confused. Where did all our swamps go?
It's been replaced with Coffee Beans and parking lots.
And these new people, who call themselves natives, who twitch with caffeine and scratch at their elbows? Who were born on this land, first generation- maybe second, in a hospital. And not even born on this land! Elevated on the sixth or seventh floor, far away from the land, in a building made out of dry wall and fluorescent light fixtures.
That's my response to my first post. You pretentious fuck, you.

Where did all the locals go?

I've looked. I've googled "things to do in L.A." and nothing good comes up. Nothing that exemplifies the city like it should. So... it begins. And I'm a native, born and raised in Los Angeles.

Last night, on Melrose, in a skanky bar with a bunch of sweating, drunk, young professionals... shmoozing. A bunch of shmoozing and some networking. Business cards being exchanged. And can you imagine!? Business Cards! In this day and age. How barbaric.

So, last night in this skanky bar, I shmoozed with these two young professionals from Michigan. And I tell them I'm from L.A. "Nobody's from L.A.!" And it's true. Where did all the locals go?
I've diverged. So, this is pretty much the beginning. I'm going to create a city guide. And if any one happens to read this... great.