How a middle-aged man became obsessed with The Show. PART ONE.

It’s Friday night in Hollywood, and for the first time in months, I am drunk. 

It’s not just the IPAs warming my throat; I’m drunk on the scene and everything around it. My fellow cast of characters for this night are unrealistically flawless, and even if they’re not, they’e interesting in a way that makes them seem that way. Caterers carry trays of artisanal pizza from table to table, each with an eye on getting closer to the various television and film stars who dot the room. A DJ in the corner effortlessly mixes The Talking Heads into Lana Del Ray, somehow winding back into The Fleet Foxes. As if the night couldn’t get anymore cliche- the sky is clear and the stars are out. A rarity for this part of LA, but there they sit, flooded by moonlight and the endless string of Edison lights criss-crossing the patio garden.  

This may all sound a bit too pretentious, too on-the-nose… and maybe it is, but that somehow doesn’t take away from the magic of the moment. 

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