Once upon a time, when it was mandated by the Criminal Court of California that I repent for my wicked ways, I encountered a drug and alcohol abuse counselor who anticipated the question on all my classmate’s miscreant lips, “If we don’t get drunk, how will we ever end up having sex with anyone again?”

He went on to explain how “In sobriety, we-” (snooze) “…wisdom” blah blah blah “and suddenly you realize-“ How many months of this do I have to endure?…

At the time, I was engaged to be married, and was thus unconcerned about having to breach a sexual first ever again. Alas and alack, said engagement got broke and I found myself returned to the semi-conscious world of, well, I’d be lying if I called it dating… let’s just say, my drinking days in L.A. had just begun.

Problem was, since I didn’t plan on drinking and driving ever again and was without the means allowing for a personal chauffeur, what was I to do?

Move to Koreatown.

Koreatown is packed with places you’ve never been to and few you know will ever find. A large amount of the food is awful, the drinks a notch above and you can’t understand a word anyone says. One can walk the streets and hit a bar like a pair of Uggs in Westwood and everything is open ‘til four AM. And you can smoke! Inside!

Karaoke at the Brass Monkey. Korean barmaids snapping at your food with chopsticks at The Prince. The H.M.S. Bounty boasts a country jukebox and a building full of historical barflies. The Wiltern and Rbar are hipster heaven on weekends. Rooftop golf, stinky kimchee, curiously translated signs and hidden coffee shoppes live harmoniously together in this ramshackle neighborhood where strange alleyways appear overnight, and lead to dead-end streets shown on no known map.

Koreatown I sing of your strangely mellifluous language and grocery stores teeming with live fish that swim packed together in frightful conditions!

Even as the sun shines lending Los Angeles that pitch-perfect So-Cal glow, a noir-ish gleam envelopes K-Town as if Haskell Wexler held a Hard Light over Wilshire Blvd and never yelled “cut.”