09/12/2014 09:35 am ET Updated Sep 12, 2014

When A Sports Bar Moved In Next Door, I Freaked Out. I Prefer A No-bro Zone

Randy Faris/Fuse via Getty Images

Nothing is scarier than a pack of white men drunk on privilege and microbews within spitting distance of my sofa.

I came home to Los Angeles last week after five months away. The house was in good shape, save for a few dead plants. My car was right where I’d left it. All of my mail was piled up neatly. There was just one problem: the restaurant next door, which had been an expensive small-plates place when I decamped in April, had closed. It is now a sports bar.

I was horrified. Not because I’d been a fan of the $15 tapas, which beloved local food critic Jonathan Gold had dubbed “haute cuisine with Etsy sensibility” – gag – but because the bro element had invaded my neighborhood.

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