Ernest Hemingway Visits Chappell Roan’s Pink Pony Club

If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, it stays with you for the rest of your life. Yet I could not ignore the visions of myself in Los Angeles. They said there was a place called Santa Monica. It called to me.

I have never been drawn to the rugged American West. I prefer Key West, Spain, or Cuba. But I have an innate sense of adventure. This is what drew me to the Pink Pony Club in West Hollywood.

For weeks before the journey, dreams taunted me, insisting that I visit the Pink Pony Club. I knew I could be happy there. I can be happy anywhere there is liquor. I heard this club was a place where boys and girls could both be queens every single day.

I want to be clear: I have never wanted to be a queen. I respect a man’s desire to make himself into whatever he wishes. Anyone who can pull himself up by the bootstraps should be free to do so.

Though the journey itself is important, it is good to work toward an end. I was happy to finish my trek at the doorway of the Pink Pony Club in West Hollywood. When I walked into the club, I said, “God, what have you done?”

The club was full of pink pony girls, just as I’d been told. And they danced. The line out the door meant I was not the only one called to this place of self-expression. I did not care what it was all about. I wanted to learn to live in this world, this Pink Pony Club. To keep up my metaphorical dance of life here, in West Hollywood.

I am a simple man, not accustomed to black lights and a mirrored disco ball. I sipped my whiskey and watched the blondes dance in their heels, my jaw on the floor. I went to take a piss and interrupted some lovers in the bathroom. For a moment, I felt lonely for a lover of my own. The moment passed.

I watched more pink ponies dance at the club. Indeed, boys and girls could both be queens, just as they had said. They were regal. In their presence, I felt common, and yet somehow gallant. I was ready to be the king to their queen, to break these wild ponies if the occasion called for it. I offered several times, yet I was told these pink ponies simply wanted to dance. They had no need of me. I was certain that would change. Until then, I would drink whiskey alone.

Day after day, I watched these pink ponies dance. My thoughts turned to their mothers. The mares. I wondered what their mothers would think if they could see them on the stage. I imagined their mothers might want to scream. These mares might want to buck against what their children had become. I knew what the pink ponies would say: they were just having fun. They did not care if it made their mamas proud or if their mamas caused a scene. They were no longer baby girls. They had become pink ponies, no longer from Tennessee.

Everyone has strange things that mean something to them. There isn’t always an explanation for everything. Eventually, I realized that there would be no end to the dancing. Santa Monica had been good to me. Like Paris, the Pink Pony Club will stay with me for the rest of my life.