My Drinking Class has a Painting Problem

I'm not one to drink a lot unless I'm in Vegas, it's a holiday, I'm on an awkward date, I'm at a family reunion, I'm wearing a taco costume, or someone else is buying. But when I see or hear of an activity that involves boozing when typically not allowed, I'm a huge supporter. Just as a hypothetical (and amazing business idea), Binge Drinking Church Confessions. Now this sinner hasn't been dragged to confession since I was maybe 10, and I certainly don't intend to ever again in my life, but if I heard of a church that was offering Jaegerbombs to it's clients standing in line for confession, I'd be there in seconds, if not just for the sake of experiencing the hot mess of a party sure to be happening up in the congregation. So when I received a special offer to attend a BYOB Intro to Painting class from this lady, I did a double-take to make sure I read that correctly, and then promptly signed my artistically-challenged mug up.

A few days later, I stuffed a couple Hornsby's in my bag and headed into K-town--Koreatown, for those unfamiliar with the area. What I believe really set the tone for this whole experience is that I first noticed the art studio was located in a building right next door to a Korean all-you-can-eat named "Gangnam Style." So relevant. And as a total aside, someone please tell me I'm not the only one who originally thought the chorus of the song was "Open Condom Style," the unsafe sex anthem of our youth's generation. I digress and head up the elevator to the 14th floor where I anticipate shit getting real.

I don't know about y'all, but when I think BYOB-anything, I think of taking something normal, removing any pretention, uptightness, or morals, and then maxxing the party factor (totally convinced that if there were BYOB H&R Blocks, nobody would put off doing taxes until the last days of mid-April). So forgive me if the fantasy in my head about this art class involved hot soccer players doing keg stands against the LA skyline, while in the foreground scruffy shirtless guys in berets and paint-stained goatees held brushes at an easel in one hand and glasses of lambrusco in the other--it's my fantasy, dammit. The reality I walked into was more like a small, quiet group of menopausal women, all of which were either unaware of, or opted out of the BYOB part of the experience. Maybe this was partly due to it being a school night and there would have been a different crowd for the Friday night class, and had I recruited a few of my rowdy friends to come with me, the vibe would have been far different. Never fear, I busted out my cider and got down to bidness.

First I learned about mixing acrylics and how certain colors, when combined, cancel themselves out to black by making a color chart.

Then, with the expert guidance of the instructor, I put it all to good use and created my still life masterpiece:

This was all done during a two-hour class. I will say, at the risk of sounding like a total asshole, that I generally hate to learn. I hate taking classes, and even when it's something that I think I'll enjoy like a dance class, I'm checking the clock every 5 minutes, agonizing over how long it will be until I can go home, wrap myself in a Slanket, and settle in for a Bad Girls Club marathon. In this instance, there wasn't a clock, and my cell phone was across the room, so I was pleasantly surprised when right around the time I was thinking that I must be halfway into the class and maybe I can peace out in time to watch a sloppy drunk Janae pop off at Valentina, the instructor announced we only had 5 minutes left of class. Sure enough, two hours had gone by like nothing. So, time flies when you're drinking and painting. 

Next time, I'll try my luck at the Friday night class.