east side

upon occasion, i have the chance to leave the raucous halls of hollywood's establishments and head to the east, east side of los angeles for a night with the true hipsters of the la scene. if you think that bearded boys and mulleted young lasses in the dingy clubs of echo park epitomize the ultra-indie scenester look, then try crossing the 5 in an attempt to see gals swigging pbr because they don't know any better, not because their penniless pockets were emptied in thrift store finds and mp3 downloads.

in the well-kept flatlands of la's highland park, near the varoius late-nite taco trucks parked along figueroa, i—along with naomi and family—ventured to see some friends of friends of friends' band play in an inconspicuous ultra-divey bar called mr. t's bowl. the bar/venue is a now-defunct bowling alley, and behind the small haphazard stage was a curtain shielding the crowd from the view of old bowling lane rubbish, piled high with wooden pins and metal railings.

when i went to order a beer at the bar, i asked for a grolsch. the bearded bartender had no idea what i was talking about, so i pointed to his "list of beers," printed on inkjet paper, hanging behind him. he rummaged through his cooler and finally found a grolsch. "i didn't even know i had that" he told me.

it was fantastic.