Lifestyle
No turf wars, no sexism: Meet the queer Gen Z women giving billiards a rebrand in L.A.
In the summer of 2023, Alix Max, new to town with a cigarette in their mouth, was shooting pool on the patio of 4100 Bar in Silver Lake. They were pretty good, too — good enough to catch the eye of two regulars, Andrea Lorell and Julianne Fox, who recruited them to join their practice group. Their proposal was simple: “We have this group chat, and we play together and get better. The goal is to beat men at pool.”
It’s a plotline that could be lifted from the classic billiards film “The Hustler”: an up-and-coming pool prodigy, James Dean-cool, comes to town and gets seduced by the green-felted world of dive bar pool — an aspiring pool shark meet-cute over an ashtray. A cherished motto Max introduced to the group: “Pool is blue-collar golf.”
The pool night was born after Andrea Lorell, pictured, and other players kept experiencing hostility around the sport at other bars.
(Robert Gauthier / Los Angeles Times)
The pool-playing group, which started as a group chat titled “Women in STEM,” was composed of pool amateurs, usually young women Julianne “drunkenly met” at 4100 Bar who had a burgeoning interest in pool. Soon, the group chat mutated into a tournament series and community titled “Please Be Nice.” If billiards has the reputation of being a pastime for gamblers, hustlers and hanger-oners, the female-centric biweekly pool tournament at 4100 Bar offers a friendly, supportive alternative. “I don’t know if the goal necessarily was to build community, but it was a natural byproduct,” says Fox. The tournament is both a party and competition where women practice pool, trade tips and compete in an encouraging environment. It was created as an antidote to the prickly, male-dominated world of dive bar pool — all the exhilaration without the bickering turf wars with bar regulars.
Julianne Fox tallies the score.
(Robert Gauthier / Los Angeles Times)
The founders, Lorell and Fox, began shooting pool at 4100 Bar in April 2023 and were bonded by their mutual hunger for the game. Growing up as an only child, Lorell spent hours playing on her aunt’s pool table. As an adult, she traveled across the country for work, always seeking out pool halls to “find a good hang.” She’s since joined a league and even played in a tournament in Las Vegas, where her team won the Sportsmanship Award. The team that knocked her out was disqualified in the next round. On the patio, she details the melodrama so amusingly that her love for the game is infectious — almost romantic.
“It’s a community cheering for each other and seeing each other get good,” says co-founder Andrea Lorell.
(Robert Gauthier / Los Angeles Times)
Until recently, Lorell lived in a cluttered studio apartment with a pool table beside her bed. She jokes being a pool shark is her dream job. “I give myself a little pep talk before important matches: ‘You’re the greatest pool player in the world,’” she says, laughing with a cigarette in hand. For her, the intention of “Please Be Nice” is to make pool accessible to young women: “It’s a community cheering for each other and seeing each other get good. It expedites people’s learning.”
Julianne Fox, a co-founder, says the tournament also operates as a workshop: “If you’ve never shot a pool ball before, come through. We’ll metaphorically or literally hold your hand.” It’s not about showing up the boys, even if that still happens. “I think it’s even more fun to learn the game to play with your girls,” says Fox. “I want to win, but I also want my opponent to have fun,” she adds, emphasizing the competition’s good-natured energy.
Pool tables in Los Angeles can be hostile places. “I’ll walk into a random bar in Koreatown, and there’s a pool table, and a bunch of older men are playing. You walk in, and they assume you’ll be bad at it,” says Max.
Adds Lorell, “They’re either giving you tips or checking you out, so it’s uncomfortable.”
Players say there’s a good-natured energy at “Please Be Nice” tournaments.
(Robert Gauthier / Los Angeles Times)
Molly Sievert, another “Please Be Nice” player, has also experienced sexism while playing pool. She explains that people assume her interest in pool stems from wanting to impress a father or boyfriend. She began shooting pool at 21 in bars across cities and is still baffled by men’s casual condescension toward female pool players. ”Men have never complimented me on my defensive shots because they think it’s an accident,” she says. When they inevitably lose to Sievert, they toss it up to a bad beat rather than their opponent’s skillset. She won her first tournament at “Please Be Nice” and has been a frequent competitor ever since. She’s a proud critic of 4100 Bar regulars — she says people keep walking into her cue stick, throwing off her shots, and not apologizing. “I always have that little part of me that is like, would you do that to a man?”
Sievert explains a personal theory that women take naturally to pool. Above all, it’s a game of brokering one’s circumstances, calling one’s shot, and making one’s own luck. It’s the type of hazards and presentiment that feel inherent to womanhood. Bravado, Molly argues, doesn’t serve the game. “Men will say, ‘I can make shots. I’m a shot maker.’ Many women are like, ‘I like the side pockets and weird angles. I don’t like the long table shots. I don’t like hitting it real. I like to think about the interaction of all the balls.”
April Clark, a comedian and pool player, chalks up antagonism at pool tables in L.A. to a scarcity issue. “When I first got sucked into playing pool, I was living in New York City; there were so many bars with pool tables.” For Clark, the game’s appeal is the spontaneous encounters with strangers that pool invites. The fewer the tables, the worse the ecosystem, the worse the vibe, Clark argues.
Jaden Levinson, left, and Taylor Garcia watch the action.
(Robert Gauthier / Los Angeles Times)
It is often remarked that pool halls look like morgues; the dimly lit blue-felted table inside 4100 Bar is no exception. The competitors are in a trancelike state, building a stratagem. The pool tournaments often run till the bar closes at 2 a.m. The players take breaks to socialize, buy drinks and watch each other play.
Part of the success of “Please Be Nice” is tied to the recent renaissance of 4100 Bar, which transformed from a neighborhood dive into a Silver Lake nightlife institution thanks to TikTok. Mouse, a bartender at 4100 Bar for eight years, explains the bar’s rise began in 2020 when it became a popular spot for outdoor drinking during COVID restrictions.
Participants of all levels are welcome — even those who’ve never shot a pool ball before.
(Robert Gauthier / Los Angeles Times)
Now, it’s not unusual to have a run-in with a celebrity at 4100 Bar on a weekend with its new reputation as a charmingly sleazy playground for the internet-famous. Due to TikTok, the bar gained a cult following in Europe and Japan, with tourists flocking to the bar to be photographed in front of the avocado-green wall, Mouse explains. “Foreigners come here just to take photos with the 4100 sign and won’t even order,” he says. “People come and spend 100 bucks on the photo booth and not even get a drink.” The wall, he notes, closely resembled the now-infamous shade of neon green from Charli XCX’s “Brat” album.
For Lorell, the dive bar exists as a third space. “If you spend four out of seven days seeing the same people, you’re not just bar friends on that point; you’re chosen family.”
Diana Brennan sizes up the playing field.
(Robert Gauthier / Los Angeles Times)
Rumors swirl that 4100 Bar might close in the coming year with the expansion of Erewhon. “Over my dead body,” Fox exclaims.
For the future of “Please Be Nice,” Lorell and Fox hope the pool-loving community develops even further. “We would love to solidify a beginner-centric event since that’s where this all started, learning pool with women and nonbinary people who were too scared to try it at a normal bar,” says Fox. “We hope to continue to train up the troops and run every single table in L.A.,” she adds with a smirk.
There’s a beloved pool adage from “The Hustler,” spoken by the protagonist, Fast Eddie Felson: “Even if you beat me, I’m still the best.” Fox thinks the quote doesn’t align with her attitude toward pool. “There’s something Andrea says all the time when someone beats her, she says: ‘I don’t lose to losers. So you better win the whole thing.’”
He always texted when he was outside. No call, no knock. It was just a message and then the soft sound of my door opening. He moved like someone practiced in disappearing.
His name meant “complete” in Arabic, which is what I felt when we were together.
I met him the way you meet most things that matter in Los Angeles — without intending to. In our senior year at a college in eastern L.A. County, we were introduced through mutual friends, then thrown together by the particular gravity of people who recognized something in each other. He was a Muslim medical student, conservative and careful and funny in the dry, precise way of someone who has always had to choose his words. I was loud where he was quiet, messy where he was disciplined. I was out. He was not.
I understood, or thought I did. I thought that I couldn’t get hurt if I was completely conscious throughout the endeavor. Los Angeles has a way of making you feel like the whole world shares your freedoms — until you realize the city is enormous, and not all of it belongs to you in the same way.
For months, our world was confined to my apartment. He would slip in after dark, and we’d stay up late talking about his family in Iran, classical music and the particular pressure of being the son someone sacrificed everything to bring here. He told me things he said he’d never told anyone, and I believed him.
The orange glow from my Nesso lamp lit his face while the indigo sky pressed against the window behind him. In our small little world, we were safe. Outside was another matter.
On our first real date, I took him to the L.A. Phil’s “An Evening of Film & Music: From Mexico to Hollywood” program. I told him they were cheap seats even though they were the first row on the terrace. He was thrilled in the way only someone who doesn’t expect to be delighted actually gets delighted — fully, without guarding it. I put my arm around his shoulders. At some point, I shifted and moved it, and he nudged it back. He was OK with PDA here.
I remember thinking that wealth is a great barrier to harm and then feeling silly for extrapolating my own experience once again. Inside Walt Disney Concert Hall, we were just two people in love with the same music.
Outside was still another matter.
In February, on Valentine’s Day, he took me to a Yemeni restaurant in Anaheim. We hovered over saffron tea surrounded by other young Southern Californians, and we looked like friends. Before we went in, we sat in the parking lot of the strip mall — signs in Arabic advertising bread, coffee, halal meats, the Little Arabia District — hand in hand. I leaned over to kiss him.
“Not here,” he said. His eyes shifted furtively. “Someone might see.”
I understood, or told myself I did, but I was saddened. Later, after the kind of reflection that only arrives in the wreckage, I would understand something harder: I had been unconsciously asking him to choose, over and over, between the people he loved and the person he loved. I had a long pattern of choosing unavailable men, telling myself it was because I could handle the complexity. The truth was more embarrassing. I thought that if someone like him chose me anyway — chose me over the weight of societal expectations — it would mean I was worth choosing. It took me a long time to see how unfair that was to him and to me.
We went to the Norton Simon Museum together in November, on the kind of gray Pasadena day when the 210 Freeway roars in the background like white noise. He studied for the MCAT while I wrote a paper on Persian rugs. In between practice problems, he translated ancient Arabic scripts for me. I thought, “We make a good team.” Afterward, we walked through the galleries and he didn’t let go of my arm.
That was the version of us I kept returning to — when the ending came during Ramadan. It arrived as a spiritual reflection of my own. I texted: “Does this end at graduation — whatever we are doing?”
He thought I meant Ramadan. I did not mean Ramadan.
“I care about you,” he wrote, “but I don’t want you to think this could work out to anything more than just dating. I mean, of course, I’ve fantasized about marrying you. If I could live my life the way I wanted, of course I would continue. I’m just sad it’s not in this lifetime.”
I was in Mexico City when these texts were exchanged. That night I flew to Oaxaca to clear my head and then, after less than 24 hours, flew back to L.A. No amount of vacation would allow me to process what had just happened, so I threw myself back into work.
My therapist told me to use the conjunction “and” instead of “but.” It happened, and I am changed. The harm I caused and the love I felt. The beauty of what we made and the impossibility of where it could go. She gave me a knowing smile when I asked if it would stay with me forever. She didn’t answer, which was the answer.
I think about the freeways now, the way Joan Didion called them our only secular communion. When you’re on the ground in Los Angeles, the world narrows to the few blocks around you. Get on the freeway and you understand the whole body of the city at once: the arteries, the pulse, the scale of the thing.
You understand that you are a single cell in something enormous and moving. It is all out of your control. I am in a lane. The lane shaped how I drive. He was simply in a different lane, and his lane shaped him, and those two facts can coexist without either of us being the villain of the sad story.
He came like a secret in the night, and he left the same way. What we made in between was real and complicated and mine to hold forever, hoping we find each other in the next life.
The author lives in Los Angeles.
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
The art industry is increasingly shaped by artists’ and art businesses’ shared realization that they are locked in a fierce struggle for sustained attention — against each other, and against the rest of the overstimulated, always-online world. A major New York art fair aims to win this competition next month by knocking down the increasingly shaky walls between contemporary art and fashion.
When visitors enter the Independent art fair on May 14, they will almost immediately encounter its open-plan centerpiece: an installation of recent couture looks from Comme des Garçons. It will be the first New York solo presentation of works by Rei Kawakubo, the brand’s founder and mastermind, since a lauded 2017 survey exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Costume Institute.
Art fairs have often been front and center in the industry’s 21st-century quest to capture mindshare. But too many displays have pierced the zeitgeist with six-figure spectacles, like Maurizio Cattelan’s duct-taped banana and Beeple’s robot dogs. Curating Independent around Comme des Garçons comes from the conviction that a different kind of iconoclasm can rise to the top of New York’s spring art scrum.
Elizabeth Dee, the founder and creative director of Independent, said that making Kawakubo’s work the “nerve center” of this year’s edition was a “statement of purpose” for the fair’s evolution. After several years at the compact Spring Studios in TriBeCa, Independent will more than double its square footage by moving to Pier 36 at South Street, on the East River. Dee has narrowed the fair’s exhibitor list, to 76, from 83 dealers in 2025, and reduced booth fees to encourage a focus on single artists making bold propositions.
“Rei’s work has been pivotal to thinking about how my work as a curator, gallerist and art fair can push boundaries, especially during this extraordinary move toward corporatization and monoculture in the art world in the last 20 years,” Dee said.
Kawakubo’s designs have been challenging norms since her brand’s first Paris runway show in 1981, but her work over the last 13 years on what she calls “objects for the body” has blurred borders between high fashion and wearable sculpture.
The Comme des Garçons presentation at Independent will feature 20 looks from autumn-winter 2020 to spring-summer 2025. Forgoing the runway, Kawakubo is installing her non-clothing inside structures made from rebar and colored plastic joinery.
Adrian Joffe, the president of both Comme des Garçons International and the curated retailer Dover Street Market International (and who is also Kawakubo’s husband), said in an interview that Kawakubo’s intention was to create a sculptural installation divorced from chronology and fashion — “a thing made new again.”
Every look at Independent was made in an edition of three or fewer, but only one of each will be for sale on-site. Prices will be about $9,000 to $30,000. Comme des Garçons will retain 100 percent of the sales.
Asked why she was interested in exhibiting at Independent, the famously elusive Kawakubo said via email, “The body of work has never been shown together, and this is the first presentation in New York in almost 10 years.” Joffe added a broader philosophical motivation. “We’ve never done it before; it was new,” he said. Also essential was the fair’s willingness to embrace Kawakubo’s vision for the installation rather than a standard fair booth.
Kawakubo began consistently engaging with fine art decades before such crossovers became commonplace. Since 1989, she has invited a steady stream of contemporary artists to create installations in Comme des Garçons’s Tokyo flagship store. The ’90s brought collaborations with the artist Cindy Sherman and performance pioneer Merce Cunningham, among others.
More cross-disciplinary projects followed, including limited-release direct mailers for Comme des Garçons. Kawakubo designs each from documentation of works provided by an artist or art collective.
The display at Independent reopens the debate about Kawakubo’s proper place on the continuum between artist and designer. But the issue is already settled for celebrated artists who have collaborated with her.
“I totally think of Rei as an artist in the truest sense,” Sherman said by email. “Her work questions what everyone else takes for granted as being flattering to a body, questions what female bodies are expected to look like and who they’re catering to.”
Ai Weiwei, the subject of a 2010 Comme des Garçons direct mailer, agreed that Kawakubo “is, in essence, an artist.” Unlike designers who “pursue a sense of form,” he added, “her design and creation are oriented toward attitude” — specifically, an attitude of “rebellion.”
Also taking this position is “Costume Art,” the spring exhibition at the Costume Institute. Opening May 10, the show pairs individual works from multiple designers — including Comme des Garçons — with artworks from the Met’s holdings to advance the argument made by the dress code for this year’s Met gala: “Fashion is art.”
True to form, Kawakubo sometimes opts for a third way.
“Rei has often said she’s not a designer, she’s not an artist,” Joffe said. “She is a storyteller.”
Now to find out whether an art fair sparks the drama, dialogue and attention its authors want.
Lifestyle
They set out to elevate karaoke in L.A. — and opened a glamorous lounge that pulls out all the stops
Brothers Leo and Oliver Kremer visited karaoke spots around the globe and almost always had the same impression.
“The drinks weren’t always great, the aesthetics weren’t always so glamorous, the sound wasn’t always awesome and the lights were often generic,” says Leo, a former bassist of the band Third Eye Blind.
As devout karaoke fans, they wanted to level up the experience. So they dreamed up Mic Drop, an upscale karaoke lounge in West Hollywood that opens Thursday. It’s located inside the original Larrabee Studios, a historic 1920s building formerly owned by Carole King and her ex-husband, Gerry Goffin — and the spot where King recorded some of her biggest hits. Third Eye Blind band members Stephan Jenkins and Brad Hargreaves are investors of the new venue.
Inside the two-story, 6,300-square-foot venue with 13 private karaoke rooms and an electrifying main stage, you can feel like a rock star in front of a cheering audience. Want to check it out? Here are six things to know.
The Kremer brothers hired sculptor Shawn HibmaCronan to create an 8-foot-tall disco-themed microphone for their karaoke lounge.
1. Take your pick between a private karaoke experience or the main stage
A unique element of Mic Drop is that it offers both private karaoke rooms and a main stage experience for those who wish to sing in front of a crowd. The 13 private rooms range from six- to 45-person capacity. Each of the karaoke rooms are named after a famous recording studio such as Electric Lady, Abbey Road, Shangri La and of course, Larrabee Studios. There is a two-hour minimum on all rentals and hourly rates depend on the room size and day of the week.
But if you’re ready to take the center stage, it’s free to sing — at least technically. All you have to do is pay a $10 fee at the door, which is essentially a token that goes toward your first drink. Then you can put your name on the list with the KJ (karaoke jockey) who keeps the crowd energized throughout the night and even hits the stage at times.
Harrison Baum, left, of Santa Monica, and Amanda Stagner, 27, of Los Angeles, sing in one of the 13 private karaoke rooms.
2. Thumping, high sound quality was a top priority
As someone who toured the world playing bass for Third Eye Blind, top-tier sound was a nonnegotiable for Leo. “Typically with karaoke, the sound is kind of teeny, there’s not a lot of bass and the vocal is super hot and sitting on top too much,” he says. To combat this, he and his brother teamed up with Pineapple Audio, an audio visual company based in Chicago, to design their crisp sound system. They also installed concert-grade speakers and custom subwoofers from a European audio equipment manufacturer called Celto, and bought gold-plated Sennheiser wireless microphones, which they loved so much that they had an 8-foot-tall replica made for their main room. Designed by artist Shawn HibmaCronan, the “macrophone,” as they call it, has roughly 30,000 mirror tiles. “It spins and throws incredible disco light everywhere,” says Leo.
Karaoke jockeys Sophie St. John, 27, second from left, and Cameron Armstrong, 30, right, get the crowd involved with their song picks at Mic Drop.
3. A concert-level performance isn’t complete without good stage lighting and a haze machine
Each karaoke room features a disco ball and dynamic lighting that syncs up with whatever song you’re singing, which makes you feel like you are a professional performer. There’s also a haze machine hidden under the leather seats. Meanwhile, the main stage is concert-ready with additional dancing lasers and spotlights.
Brett Adams, left, of Sherman Oaks, and Patrick Riley of Studio City sing karaoke together inside a private lounge at Mic Drop.
4. The song selection is vast, offering classics and new hits
One of the worst things that can happen when you go to karaoke is not being able to find the song you want to sing. At Mic Drop, the odds of this happening are slim to none. The venue uses a popular karaoke service called KaraFun, which has a catalog of more than 600,000 songs (and adds 400 new tracks every month), according to its website. Take your pick from country, R&B, jazz, rap, pop, love duets and more. (Two newish selections I spotted were Raye’s “Where Is my Husband” and Olivia Dean’s “Man I Need,” which both released late last year.) In the private karaoke rooms, there’s also a fun feature on Karafun called “battle mode,” which allows you and your crew of up to 20 people to compete in real time. KaraFun also has an entertaining music trivia game, which I tested out with the founders and came in second place.
The design inspiration for Mic Drop was 1920s music lounges and 1970s disco culture, says designer Amy Morris.
5. The interiors are inspired by 1920s music lounges mixed with ‘70s disco vibes
A disco ball hangs from the ceiling.
If you took the sophisticated aesthetic of 1920s music lounges and mixed it with the vibrant and playful era of 1970s disco culture, you’d find Mic Drop.
When you walk into the lounge, the first thing you’ll see is a bright red check-in desk that resembles a performer’s dressing room with vanity lights, several mirrors and a range of wigs. “So much of karaoke is about getting into character and letting go of the day, so we had the idea to sell the wigs,” says Oliver. As you continue into the lounge, the focal point is the stage, which is adorned with zebra-printed carpet and dramatic, red velvet curtains. For seating, slide into the red velvet banquettes or plop onto a gold tiger velvet stool. Upstairs, you’ll find the intimate karaoke studios, which are decorated with red velvet walls and brass, curved doorways that echo the building’s deco arches, says Mic Drop’s interior designer, Amy Morris of the Morris Project.
Sarah Rothman, center, of Oakland, and friend Rachel Bernstein, left, of Los Angeles, wait at the bar.
6. You can order nontraditional karaoke bites as you wait for your turn to sing
While Mic Drop offers some of the food you’d typically find at a karaoke lounge such as tater tots, truffle popcorn and pizza, the venue has some surprising options as well. For example, a 57 gram caviar service (served with chips, crème fraîche and chives) and shrimp cocktail from Santa Monica Seafood. For their pizza program, the Kremer brothers teamed up with Avalou’s Italian Pizza Company, which is run by Louis Lombardi who starred in “The Sopranos.” He’s the brainchild behind my favorite dish, the Fuhgeddaboudit pizza, which is made with pastrami, pickles and mustard. It might sound repulsive, but trust me.
As for the cheeky cocktails, they are all named after famous musicians and songs such as the Pink Pony Club (a tart cherry pomegranate drink with vodka named after Chappell Roan), Green Eyes (a sake sour with kiwi and melon named after Green Day) and Megroni Thee Stallion (an elevated negroni named after Megan Thee Stallion).
-
Entertainment3 minutes agoStagecoach 2026: How to watch Friday’s livestream with Cody Johnson, Ella Langley, Bailey Zimmerman
-
Lifestyle9 minutes ago
L.A. Affairs: I loved someone who felt he couldn’t be fully seen with me
-
Politics15 minutes agoContributor: Carlson’s cautious apology does little to repair Trumpism’s damage
-
Sports27 minutes agoCancer left him blind. When his son was diagnosed, ex-USC long snapper found Trojans had his back again
-
World39 minutes agoOrbán-style vetoes undermine EU democracy, Kallas tells Euronews
-
News1 hour agoAfter 2 failed votes, Mike Johnson unveils new plan to extend key U.S. spy powers
-
New York3 hours agoShould a Straight Person Represent Stonewall’s City Council District?
-
Detroit, MI3 hours agoBlake Miller has high floor, big upside, says Lions GM Brad Holmes