You’re a night owl, a tiny dancer, a Monarch among social butterflies - and you’re group chatting with your BFFS Neil Degrasse Tyson and Tara Reid RN, i.e. you’re the least standard person in the world. Ironic, considering where you are: The Standard in Downtown L.A.
You open your eyes and observe your clothes (Rick Owens or thereabouts) all over the floor. Oops! Vague memories of conversations about the medicinal properties of cucumbers with Devendra Banhart—or was it Father John Misty?—on a waterbed cabana by the heated rooftop pool last night. Maybe you’ll remember later. Maybe you won’t. Doesn’t matter. As your soul sister Tara Reid once wondered, “Why is partying and having a good time bad?”
By the way your room is "WOW!" That’s its actual name, in reference to the supersized everything, from the Shaquille O’Neal-length beds to the Andre the Giant-friendly bath tubs and showers. No shirking on humorous touches in this beeyotch - you notice that the phone has a button that reads "fluffer." You’ve never needed fluffing, but you push the button nonetheless, causing the room to fill with seductive groans of enjoyment played on loudspeaker. This sets the tone for the rest of the day, so you dress accordingly, and wander down into the world, that happens to be your oyster.
The lobby’s hot pink sofas are bright enough to snap you out of your caffeine-hungry daze. The Standard was once, believe it or not, the HQ of Superior Oil until 2002, when some beautiful genius decided to turn it into the haven of good times it remains today.
Speaking of good times: you can’t believe there’s an exhibit of your fave photographers Nan Goldin, Diane Arbus and Brassaï just a ten minute stroll away at the Museum of Contemporary Art (MOCA). You notice Vincent Gallo strolling around the gallery, and that makes you feel…thirsty.
A juice is in order, and luckily this being L.A., there’s more juice bars per capita than any other city on earth. You pick up something lemony with activated charcoal in it (great for hangovers) from Pressed Juicery, and discuss the medicinal properties of cucumbers with the server—which reminds you of the conversation you had last night with the hot bearded musician on the rooftop of The Standard. Perhaps you should go back there, immediately?
You do, just in time for sunset, and the doorman remembers you as per usual. You ease yourself onto a red waterbed-chair, order a Tickle My Pear cocktail and find yourself being chatted up by a good-looking stranger who informs you that Terrence Malick shot scenes from Knight of Cups here. “Whatever,” you say. Days of Heaven is your favorite Malick, casually adding that the Netflix works great in your room - as does the fluffer button. Wanna see?
550 S Flower St, Los Angeles 90071