Adam Devine (“Workaholics,” “Pitch Perfect”), who reprises his role as youth pastor Kelvin Gemstone on the HBO televangelist comedy “The Righteous Gemstones” for a fourth and final season that begins airing (and streaming on Max) Sunday, won’t share many details about how the Danny McBride–created series ends, besides that it goes out big. “It ends with a bang,” Devine said in a recent interview with The Times. “And I think people are really going to love it.”

In Sunday Funday, L.A. people give us a play-by-play of their ideal Sunday around town. Find ideas and inspiration on where to go, what to eat and how to enjoy life on the weekends.

He’s far less reticent when it comes to talking about things like the basketball-themed birthday party in the works for his son (he and wife Chloe Bridges welcomed their first child in February 2024), which “Gemstones” co-star would make the best weekend wingman in the City of Angels (“Obviously it’s going to have to be Danny,” he said. “Danny knows how to have a good time”) and his ideal Sunday itinerary in L.A., which starts with table pancakes and ends with a scroll through whatever garbage his Instagram algorithm is serving up.

This interview has been lightly edited and condensed for length and clarity.

9 a.m.: Snap into some table pancakes at Blu Jam Cafe
I would take a leisurely morning, get up, do my stretches — really limber myself up for the big day that I’m about to have — and then we’re hitting the town. I think I’d probably go to the Blu Jam Cafe on Melrose [Avenue]. It’s this cute little spot, and there’s usually a line, especially on Sundays. But you can walk up and down Melrose and do some shopping while you wait for your table. I try to eat a little healthy, so I always get the protein scramble. But then I’m a naughty boy and I’ll order blueberry pancakes for the table as well so everyone can have a pancake. But most of the time it’s just me and my wife, so it’s basically a stack of pancakes for the two of us, which is a perfect scenario. Maybe I’ll have a mimosa or two.

10:30 a.m.: Grab some hot nuts at the Original Farmers Market
Then I love going to the Original Farmers Market and just walking around. When I first got to L.A. [from Iowa at 18], I didn’t know what to do or where to go, and people said just go to the Grove and walk around. And that’s how I found the Farmers Market. I thought I’d discovered this hidden jewel and was like, “Does anyone know about this place?” Then I walked in, and yeah, people know about this place. I love all the little old little stands. I like getting habanero pistachios [from the Magic Nut & Candy Co.] so I’ll do that and then walk around with my hot nuts.

I had my first-ever celebrity spotting here. He was the limo driver in the movie “Blank Check,” and he was at that tiny little bar in the middle [Bar 326] drinking a beer. I don’t even know the guy’s name, but it floored me to see someone that I’d seen in the movies. I wanted to sit next to him and order a beer, but I was only 18 years old, so I couldn’t do that. So I was just eating hot nuts from afar staring at the limo driver from “Blank Check,” and he could have been George Clooney to me.

Noon: Make for a matinee at the Grove
I’d [hang at the Farmers Market] for maybe an hour or so and then catch a matinee at [AMC the Grove 14]. Even though it’s a big theater chain. I love the Grove, and I love that theater. It’s one of those places where my wife and I have been going for years, and it was one of the first movie theaters I went to when I first came to L.A. — that and the ArcLight, RIP. The last movie I saw [at the Grove] was “Gladiator II.”

3 p.m.: Enjoy a date with Ms. Pac-Man
Then I might go to Barcade in Highland Park. It’s sort of for my generation — the older millennials — who actually did go to arcades in the malls. Now we get to play all these old arcade games we remember from our childhood and have a couple beers while we do it. Embarrassingly, [the game I’m really good at] is “Ms. Pac-Man.” It’s the nerdiest game to play, but I’ll go and spend 50 cents and play for an hour. And all my friends are like, “Do you want to do something else or go anywhere else?” And I’m like, “I’m good right here.” In fact, I’m such a dork about “Ms. Pac-Man” that I have a tabletop version at my house, but when I go to Barcade I’ll still play. Don’t tell my wife, but Ms. Pac-Man is my mistress.

5 p.m.: Dip into a French dip
Then I probably would go to Philippe the Original downtown. The straight [classic beef] French dip and the potato salad are my one-two punch. I get such a kick out of seeing the guys who have worked there for 40 years. It just goes to show how good they are to their people [and] what a good work environment it must be. They’ve worked at the same place for 40 years and they can still find happiness doing the same job they’ve done forever. It always just puts a smile on my face.

7 p.m.: Catch a Clippers game
I’d either stick around downtown — maybe there would be a Dodger game going on — or make the long drive over to the Intuit Dome and catch a Los Angeles Clippers game. Their stadium is really impressive; I’ve been four or five times already this season, and you just walk in and [the cameras] scan your face. Then you can go to the little store and you just grab a popcorn and a soda and walk right out. And it scans your face [and charges your credit card]. At first I was like, “Oh, my God! I am so famous that they recognized me!” And then I realized my face was up on the screen. And [the biometric ticketing and concessions] allows you to spend more time in your seat watching the game.

This is a Lakers town, and I know that. But I bet on the Clippers maybe 15 years ago now, and I’m still riding with them. And I’ll ride with them forever. I had season tickets for about eight years, and I loved it. But then I just was out of town so much working that I couldn’t end up going to so many games. My [favorite] Clipper of all time would have to be Blake Griffin. When he joined, it turned the Clippers from a garbage basketball team into the Lob City days, which were the most fun. It was Chris Paul, Blake Griffin and DeAndre Jordan, and it was suddenly a show. And it was a better show than what the Lakers were doing at that time, so it was exciting to be a Clippers fan. Now we have Kawhi [Leonard] and James Harden, and it’s a different type of show. And, honestly, it might be better basketball. But I miss those lobs.

9:30 p.m.: End the night where the career began
I think I would probably try to end my night at the Hollywood Improv comedy club. That was my first job when I moved to L.A. when I was just a kid. I would answer phones during the day, and at night, I would be the door guy. When I left — because my comedy and acting career was taking off — they told me I had been the worst door guy in what was then their 35-year history. I was 20, but I looked like I was 15. And my voice hadn’t dropped yet. Anytime there were hecklers or someone was drunk and rowdy, instead of telling them to leave, I would have to go get someone else to tell them to leave.

But working there really was my big break because I got to see the best comedians in the world every night. And then the manager, Reeta Piazza, told me I should start carrying a change of outfits in case a comic didn’t show. I did, and when a comic was running late, they’d ask me if I could kill five or 10 minutes. Eventually I started to kind of garner attention, and I got [invited to become one of the New Faces of Comedy at] the Montreal Comedy Festival because they’d seen me there. And then I got the attention of Comedy Central, which led to me getting my show “Workaholics.”

[Before that,] we might try to squeeze in some sushi at Yamashiro. As kitschy as it is, it’s got great views of the city, and the sushi is pretty good as well.

11 p.m.: Surf the Instagram algorithm
I wish I would say that I just crack open the L.A. Times and get my news in or do anything useful [before bedtime], but I probably would just stare at Instagram and watch my algorithm feed me more garbage. [It’s] a little embarrassing [because] it’s all either babies giving their dads a little side eye or teenagers trying to fight their teachers, because my algorithm is all over the place.

For the past few years, opening up social media has felt like standing in front of a fire hose of fashion and internet fads and cranking open the nozzle, full blast.

New “it” water bottles are anointed almost quarterly. Influencers urge their viewers to style themselves as coastal grandmothers, ballet dancers, indie sleazers and coquettes — looks that have little in common besides the consumption they require. Specious fads like the “mob wife aesthetic,” recognized by publications including this one, prompted The New Yorker’s humor column to predict what might come next: How about “Supreme Court casual” or “spotted-lanternfly goth”?

To keep up would leave most people broke, not to mention disoriented. And while a majority of these crazes are labeled “Gen Z trends,” members of that generation may be the ones most fatigued by the churn.

It’s not that they don’t get what’s going on: Today’s young adults can comfortably discuss the way that social media and fast fashion keep many members of their generation buying, sharing and discarding items. They are aware, sometimes painfully, that their insecurities are being harnessed for someone else’s bottom line. But awareness does not equal liberation. Understanding the mechanisms at play does not always mean they can escape them — although many are trying.

Neena Atkins, 16, a high school junior in Dobbs Ferry, N.Y., said she felt “constantly bombarded” by product recommendations. Cheetah print was hot less than two months ago, she said, “and now when I go on TikTok, I see people saying, like, cheetah print is getting so old.”

Lina, 15, a high school freshman near Fort Wayne, Ind., watched classmates buy $35 Stanley tumblers only to covet another brand of pastel water bottles shortly thereafter. “It’s wasteful,” she said. “You’re just wasting resources, you’re wasting money.”

James Oakley, 19, a college student in Oregon, thinks his age group has reached saturation: “The prevalence and pure amount of microtrends has made it impossible to understand or participate.”

‘This Is Gross’

We tend to think of trends as a means of demonstrating that we know what’s cool and new, or as a way to take part in a bigger collective “moment.” For decades, critics have rightly pointed out that following trends facilitates a consumer capitalist culture — wake up, sheeple! — but it can also be experimental, playful, even fun.

Lately, though, trends feel more overwhelming. I recently set out to make sense of which trends were actually relevant to Gen Z-ers’ lives. But after hearing from dozens of young people, a pattern emerged: Many wanted to talk not about any one trend that they thought mattered, but about their struggles with the relentless onslaught of trends, and the whiplash they felt from trying to process them all so quickly.

Young people I spoke with described an online trend ecosystem that resembles a soupy flood plain of fads — trends that are at once flimsy and a genuine source of stress for young people eager to fit in. The insecurity that young people feel when they don’t have the “it” item is amplified when there’s a new “it” item every week.

To be clear, not every member of Gen Z has gotten sucked into the whirlpool that awaits them on their phones: Many can’t be bothered — or simply can’t afford — to pay attention. “A lot of people don’t buy from Shein, do not have the time or money to invest in every microtrend that just walks by,” James said.

Bemoaning the quickening of trends is itself a tradition. The scholar Quentin Bell observed in a 1978 edition of his book “On Human Finery,” that “the pace of fashion has become noticeable, so noticeable that the fashions of a man’s youth could look dowdy by the time that he was middle-aged.”

Almost a half-century later, the journalist Kyle Chayka wrote in his book “Filterworld” that “microtrends” now rise and fall in a matter of weeks. In its quest to retain our attention, social media seemed to have heightened both the quantity and intensity of what we once called a fad: “Under algorithmic feeds, the popular becomes more popular, and the obscure becomes even less visible,” he writes.

That’s how it feels for Francesca Oliva, an 18-year-old college freshman in Hopewell Junction, N.Y. As a middle schooler, she said, she felt pressure to own the signifiers of the “VSCO girl” look that was then dominant: pastel scrunchies, a Hydro Flask water bottle. When she got them, it felt a little bit like she was putting on a costume.

“When you have 18,000 different ‘core’ identities being thrown at you — like eclectic grandpa, or coastal grandmother, or office siren — you’re like, What am I supposed to be?” she said.

As she watched even more trends come and go, each one seemingly requiring a new wardrobe, she took a step back. She wants to spend her money on clothing that will last, she said, and she has neither the budget nor the mental energy to keep pace with a trend environment that resembles a game of Whac-a-Mole.

“People that continuously are buying these clothes just trying to fit in, it has to feel exhausting,” she said. “As someone who’s just observing that, it’s exhausting.”

Keeping up is a full-time job for Casey Lewis, author of the Gen Z trend newsletter “After School.” As an adolescent in rural Missouri in the late 1990s, Ms. Lewis, 37, learned about the popular styles of the moment — low-rise slip skirts, embellished baby tees — in teen magazines that arrived monthly. Fashion trends, in the macro sense, spun in 20-year cycles: Today’s tier of more slight digital ephemera did not yet exist.

Her newsletter, a daily cheat sheet for millennials and their elders who want to know what young people are up to, is stuffed with a survey of everything that social media users and fashion publications are simultaneously declaring to be of the moment. Some of its tongue-in-cheek subject lines barely scan as English: “Quietcations and Tweecore”; “Rococo Revival and Cinnamon Softcore.”

A sense of consumption fatigue has set in, she said. “Eventually, you’re just kind of like, ‘This is gross. Why am I even participating in this culture?’” she said. “I think creators and brands are increasingly having to answer to that understanding from young people.”

Status, Anxiety, FOMO

Accelerants for the trend cycle abound. TikTok requires novelty to hold our attention, and has an algorithm potent enough to elevate the unknown to ubiquity in a matter of days. Fast-fashion marketplaces are able to churn out polyester to meet whatever bottomless demand is generated online. And platforms are rolling out click-to-buy functions like TikTok Shop to all but eliminate the friction between seeing something online and having it dropped on one’s doorstep.

That can make being online an unsatisfying experience: Social media was sold as a playground, but ended up feeling more like a mall. “Every time I go on Instagram, it’s like something is being sold to me,” said Sequoya, a 22-year-old living in Salt Lake City.

Ensuring that the wheel continues to spin is the status-seeking element of human nature itself, W. David Marx argues in his book “Status and Culture.” We want what other people have in order to fit in, but eventually abandon those same things once we see them as too accessible to the masses. Or, as Ms. Lewis put it, “Once a 12-year-old is crying over getting a Stanley, a 17-year-old isn’t going to want one.”

In fashion, the result is a glut of low-quality clothing items that are not wearable for long. The average number of times a single garment is worn has decreased 36 percent compared with rates 15 years earlier, according to a 2019 report by the Ellen MacArthur Foundation and McKinsey & Company. For every five garments produced, the report added, three end up in a landfill or incinerated.

But it’s not just clothes. David Peraza, 21, a college student in Yucatán, Mexico, watches new titles surge to the top of the online game marketplace Steam more quickly than he can afford to buy them. At the beginning of last year, it seemed as if everyone was playing “Helldivers 2,” he said, only to pivot a few months later to an updated release of “The Legend of Zelda.”

“It is overwhelming,” he said. Games trend so quickly that his FOMO — fear of missing out — has grown “exponential.”

Some so-called trends feel more like mirages. Things like “mermaidcore” and “barefoot-boy summer” function less as reigning aesthetics in real life and more as mash-ups of words memorable enough to achieve social media virality for a week or two. But trend pieces reliably follow: “Lately I wonder if we’re living through a mass psychosis expressing itself through trend reporting,” the fashion critic Rachel Tashjian wrote for Harper’s Bazaar in 2022.

Those fleeting trends can still cause real anxiety for young people who feel pressure to measure up to what they see online.

Neena, the 16-year-old, recalled a conversation with a panicked friend during study hall. “She told me: ‘I’m really stressed out. I don’t know whether I want to be an Aussie girl or a vanilla girl,” Neena recalled, naming two looks that had briefly overtaken her TikTok feed. “That was kind of my realization: This is not normal.”

Enter ‘Underconsumption Core’

Is it possible that the fire hydrant of trends is starting to run dry? Business of Fashion predicted in January that viral microtrends were on their way out, in part because of the uncertain fate of TikTok, which was set to face a federal ban in January. The app flickered dark, and then back to life, after President Trump signed an executive order that delayed enforcement of the ban for 75 days.

Hana Tilksew, 19, a college student near Fresno, Calif., got rid of the app anyway. It’s been a relief, she said: “I think a permanent TikTok ban would definitely help mitigate the relentless pressure we feel to keep up.”

Other TikTok users have been making their fatigue known for a while now. In a flurry of videos last year, some expressed frustration at the buy-buy-buy ethos on the app. Others pushed “underconsumption core,” which encourages users to show off their off-trend, but still thoroughly wearable, clothes. Still more have documented their attempts at a “low-buy year” in which they vowed to cut back on shopping.

Such neatly packaged repudiations of trendiness strike Abner Gordan, a 21-year-old college student in New York City, as ironic. “In a weird way, I think being anti-trend is very trendy,” he said.

While many of his friends still buy secondhand clothing or furniture, he has watched the “underconsumption core” label lose steam online, just like all of the “cores” before it. It was dispiriting, he said, to witness what at first seemed like a move away from the trend cycle be subsumed by it instead.

“It’s like you can’t escape,” he said.

Perhaps Gen Z is just aging out of the period of their lives ruled by trends, Ms. Lewis said, noting that its eldest members are in their late 20s. But she does not think the online trend madness will slow down anytime soon. Enter Gen Alpha, whose eyes are already racing across screens. “I think they’re going to be trend freaks,” Ms. Lewis said.

Hana stopped buying ultra-trendy items when she realized that a closet full of bags and Brandy Melville miniskirts wasn’t making her any happier. She said she gave her hand-me-downs to her 13-year-old sister, a middle schooler who is “still obsessed with trends.”

“She’ll grow out of it eventually,” she said.