Lifestyle The Rise and Fall of Abbot Kinney, or, How Venice Is Dying

“The rich always have a sort of pilot fish who goes ahead of them... then you have the rich and nothing is ever as it was again.” -- Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast Hemingway's even more prescient than he realized: the relentless white shark of gentrification recently devoured another of its trusty Venice pilot fishes. A Roosterfish, to be precise. If you’re not familiar, Roosterfish is the Abbot Kinney watering hole that’s been catering to the Westside’s gay community since 1979. Us westside straights love the joint, too -- what with its pool table and $4 Rolling Rocks and room full of people who live every night like the world is going to end in flames -- and’ll be damned if they aren’t going to be dressed for it! Not everyone gives a rat’s ass about Roosterfish, its rich history, and its patrons, though -- their landlord just shoved his boot up the bar’s ass, obviously hoping that it gets taken over by a well-off future tenant, which almost surely will be some sustainably customized cutting-edge specialty boutique that sells Euro-chic gluten-free hand harvested whatsafutsas nobody needs, yet can somehow afford to pay $17 a square foot on top of $600K key money (the one in SoHo, for what it’s worth, is quite nice). It’s not just Roosterfish Roosterfish, which will officially shut down in May, is right down the street from where the original Hal’s Bar & Grill used to be. Hal’s closed last year after 30 years of brisk business on Abbot Kinney (though apparently not quite brisk enough). Several shops that were adjacent to Hal’s also went belly up. A store called Vince now occupies one of the spots. I don’t know Vince or where he came from but, man, are his skinny ribbed cardigans and stamped python shoulder bags ever pricey. And just a stone’s throw away from the soon-to-be ruins of Roosterfish you’ll find Joe’s Restaurant. Or, at least you will until February 14th. That’s when the Michelin-star-rated local favorite’s quarter-century run comes to an end. (Just so we’re clear, I’m talking figurative stone throws here. You throw a real rock on Abbot Kinney and you might hit a Snapchat exec coming out of Scotch & Soda. Those dudes are more lawyered-up than Martin Shkreli and twice as smug.)

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Is Silicon Beach to blame? Indeed, I don’t think it can be a coincidence that tech bros are becoming as ubiquitous in Venice as fixed gear bikes and cranky hippies. Start-ups have invaded the area in recent years, lured by exorbitant rents, craft cocktails, and an obsession with Californication. And the people who work for them have taken to referring to the area as “Silicon Beach.” (Note: thanks to a little known loophole in local ordinances it is perfectly legal to punch anyone who uses that stupid term seriously right in their stupid dick. Unfortunately, it’s also well documented that using that phrase causes your penis to evaporate. How do you like that Catch 22? Thanks a lot, physics!) The truth is, in 2016 there’s about as good a chance of getting punched on Abbot Kinney (in the dick or anywhere else) as there is of enjoying a $3 mimosa at Feed (which closed last month) or a pitcher of Sangria at Primitivo (shuttered last August) or an affordable cashmere hoodie at Vince (they start at $395). I first moved here 16 years ago, which makes me a short timer by many people’s standards. But back then you had to watch your ass on Abbot Kinney at all times. If you stumbled out of The Brig at 2am, the street was full of possibilities, many of them treacherous -- which is what made hanging out there so appealing. Which is what brought the tech bros. Which is what destroyed the possibilities, treacherous or no. People who can afford to avoid danger are drawn to it. Until they smother the life out of it, that is. Then they chase it somewhere else to kill it again.

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