Beloved Comedian Laura Peek Accused of Being Fun, Hot & Genuine At Zebulon
Laura Peek–undefeated best boobs in town–dances at Zebulon to ABBA despite mounting claims that she is the best
Laura Peek is having a bar birthday at Red Lion, followed by dancing at Zebulon for their ABBA night. It's an ambitious plan, but if there's one thing I know from personal experience, it's that drunk women love committing to a second location.
It would be annoying, frankly, for almost anyone else to ask a group of comedians to go dancing to celebrate their birthday. Laura is different – so fun-loving and fast-talking that it seems endearing– the type of woman who can make a sweat-inducing dance night at Zebulon seem appealing, even fun.
I've been to fewer birthday parties recently, especially those of comedians. If I'm being honest, I stopped enjoying them. The whole thing can be so anxiety-inducing and exhausting, even when I'm surrounded by people I love. Put simply, I can tolerate people being losers. I can even tolerate people being rude. Yet, comedians are often a baffling combination of the two– rude losers. (Hurt people, hurt people, etc.) This is not true of Laura and her friends, of course, who make being affectionate and welcoming look cool.
A few days before Laura's birthday, I catch up with her on Hollywood Boulevard. We're leaving a screening of our friend Joe Kwazcala's film, American Comic. (It's shockingly funny and brilliant. Everyone I know is talking about it. Run, don't walk!) As we leave, Laura asks Jared if he's coming to her birthday. He can't. He'll be in New York. "Damn it! Everyone's out of town!" she wails, descending on an escalator.
More bad news? On the night of Laura's birthday, I'm running late. I'm leaving a poker game where I lost $25 in one hand to our friend Dan Donahue. In the car, I'm wondering if he's a genius poker player or if I'm merely stupid– most likely, a mix of the two. (See you in Hell, Dan!)
I was not at Red Lion, so I rely on my close friend Amy Silverberg to recount the events. Well, everyone was in a good mood – no one had a bad attitude, only sweethearts. When I ask Amy about Laura, she says: "When you tell someone you're good friends with Laura, it makes YOU seem cooler — that's how magnetic she is." I agree. When Laura vouches for someone, I implicitly trust them. To be liked by Laura is to be seen. She's discerning and emotionally intelligent, possessing a quiet confidence that comes from having integrity.
Katy Fishell, one of Laura's closest and oldest friends, weighs in: "When Laura laughs really hard, it looks like she's sobbing, so seeing her look absolutely devastated all night truly set the tone for an amazing party."
I ask my dear friend Joe Kwazcala about Laura. He tells me: "Laura is the kind of effortlessly charming and sweet person who anyone she meets might feasibly believe they're in her inner circle, which makes for a party where you'll see at least a few people and go 'oh! You're here? Huh"
For all the charismatic bravado that makes Laura a great comedian and a fun hang, I'm often reminded that Laura is also deeply thoughtful and vulnerable. You can tell her anything, and she'll meet you with understanding and grace. The opposite is also true. Laura is constantly telling on herself– gladly exposing her idiosyncrasies and shortcomings that only make her more lovable.
At Zebulon: Laura and her husband, with some close friends. It's so clear to me how much Carson, Laura's husband, adores Laura– and who could blame him? She is the only person at Zebulon not trying to look cool and interesting tonight. (My bone to pick with the Zebulon crowd? If you're not in a band, I don't think you should get to dress like you are.)
Laura dances spiritedly to ABBA classics alongside her friends, including Amy Miller and Julia Loken, who wears a blue shimmering dress that I cant stop complimenting. They both look particularly gorgeous tonight.
Worth a mention– I ran into another delightful and beautiful woman, Hannah Benson, on my way inside Zebulon. She was wearing a silver sequin two-piece and looked radiant. It stopped me in my tracks. She looked like an off-duty movie star from the 90s.
Laura tells me funny gossip about (redacted), who is notorious for being rude. I won't say any more than that. (If you're worried this is about you, I'm sure it's not.)
On the dancefloor, a strange man asks me to dance and then gingerly kisses my hand. He's wearing a peasant blouse and reminds me of Nosferatu.
On the patio, Amy Miller tells me she lives next to the La Brea Tar Pits and explains a riveting story about how they're excavating saber-tooth tigers. It's an archaeological hotspot for dinosaurs. It's genuinely fascinating. I speak at length with Carter about the local stand-up scene. He's genuine and easy to talk to– I love his girlfriend, too. Anytime I run into them at a party, I'm delighted.
A bouncer asks us to leave the bar at 2 am, where we spill out into the street. Laura is a charming level of drunk– the kind where you effusively express gratitude for everyone and everything. She's dancing. It's infectious. She tells me she loves my writing, compliments it so effusively that I have the urge to cry. At that moment, I love my writing, too. I think to myself: that's Laura's gift —those brief, fleeting moments when you get to see yourself through her eyes and the world is beautiful and kind again.
