Monday, April 29, 2013

Schizophrenia

Today at work we got in a heated debate about whether you would rather fuck an average Coachella raver or a Stagecoach boozer. Stagecoach is the country western version of Coachella, same location, same set up, one weekend later. Valid points were made on both sides. But you have to take the good with the bad. For every molly popping sorostitute, there is a armpit hair bearing hippie. Conversely at Stagecoach for every jeanshort, white tank blonde from the midwest there is a redneck who is wearing that outfit unironically. For me it all comes down to who is less likely to have pubic hair. Is that taboo still? Danny Boyle's new movie Trance I'm fairly certain is about a guy who will only fuck girls with waxed vaginas. That's it. That's the entire plot. The whole subplot of the New York Times Best Seller Gone Girl is about a girl who goes insane after trying to put on the persona of "Cool Girl" her whole life. I'm pretty sure the straw that broke the camel's back is the fact that "cool girl" has to get her "pussy waxed raw once a week so it's optimally fuckable" (I paraphrased) But if talking about the state of a female's pubic hair was considered off limits before today, I didn't plan on being the first, but I'm glad I could start the conversation.

Yes I think that dude is actually gay, but he seized the opportunity to go down in history not as a 5th man off the bench who averaged 3 points per game for his career, but the Jackie Robinson of gays who will become one of the top 10 most famous athletes of all time.

He'll also become a folk hero and very rich. He knew what he was doing.

But Coachella vs. Stagecoach, whoyagot? Well as much as I prefer beer drinking blondes to strung out raver girls, the fact of the matter is that no one at Coachella is over 29...and stagecoach attracts lots of adults. I'm pretty sure all females stop waxing at 30 so odds are better of getting a clean one at Coachella.

That said it's going to be sweaty gross tent sex so does the issue of well kempt even matter? What is the policy on tent fucking by the way?

It's not like you can make your buddy go sleep on the couch. Do you shamelessly rail her in the sleeping bag not 6 inches from your sleeping friends, do you boot them to the car? Maybe you just go find a random secluded area, get your nut, and then go about your day. This issue did not come up this year at Coachella. However, in my younger and more vulnerable years I was quite adept at Indy 500 camping. I twice had sexual experiences in the famed coke lot. One with a girl I had been dating on and off throughout the year and another that was totally random.

She puked mid-hookup.

I wish I could say that is the only time anyone every puked in or around me mid-hookup. It also happened once during the middle of a shingles post-tailgate party during parents weekend. I'm fairly certain several of the superfrat parents watched me get dome at 2pm. But why the vomit? It would be easy to say that I just routinely hook up with girls that are WAY too drunk, but the truth is, I have a penchant for punching women in the stomach when I near orgasm.

That's a lie. But the vomit part is real, I didn't clean it up for 3 days. I threw newspaper over it bought 5 cans of Febreeze and when I brought a different girl home later that night I said there was a dead animal in the intersection of 7th and Indiana. Roadkill. I am a terrible person.

Speaking of being a terrible person, I often wonder if I came up in the game Marry/Fuck/Kill. I think I was likely either married or killed routinely. But maybe I got a fuck once or twice, but I'm pretty polarizing and when you are polarizing you either get the "marry" option because she loves you so much as a friend, "you're great" all that bullshit.

Or.

In real life you fucked her or her friend and inevitably dicked them over and now they have a neverending vendetta with you, in which you will hitherto be killed in all future games of Marry/Fuck/Kill. Even though I would prefer to be chosen as the fuckee in almost all scenarios, it probably represents a fairly nonchalant opinion about someone. "I would let them inside of me, but like only once because they aren't fun enough to marry or loathsome enough to kill."

Let's be honest, I almost always got killed. Maybe a couple marries from the Tri Delt girls in like late 2008.

I was driving down the street today and I saw this very bizarre left turn only sign. I was coming out of a Trader Joe's and it was clearly in my best interest to go right. Like left led to eternal doom and trafficy frustration, right led me through this perfect little neighborhood short cut...and I immediately realized that the sign probably existed because some cunt of a mom was afraid that if too many people became privy to said short cut that one day her child would be playing in the middle of the street and get straight up Rabbit Hole'd.

The death of a child is a tragedy, but so is 1 more second in the car than I absolutely have to be.

I turned right.

Those overprotective mothers remind me of those stupid fucking child at play signs that people used to put out in my neighborhood when I was about 16. These people would literally go to like Toys R Us and get these non-legally binding "Stop, Children at Play" signs and they would be appalled when I would roll through them like it wasn't fucking nothing. APPALLED! I'm sure I was brought up to the Geist Harbours neighborhood association for failure to observe FAKE traffic signs. It ought to be illegal to have these! Honestly, and this gets back to me being a really awful human being, but every time I saw those, for a split second I wanted to fucking Grand Theft Auto the shit out of that intersection (whether you interpret that as me wanting to just drive recklessly or actually treat playing children as bowling pins is up to your demented mind to figure out) but really at the end of the day I'm not an overly fast or reckless driver, I'm just a guy who is confident enough to drive with his knees and throw emotes to chicks at the same time.

Last thing.

After I left said Trader Joe's I drove back to work in Hollywood and I saw a girl in a beat up Acura with Ohio plates. The license plate read "FIDM GRL." I couldn't help but think of the failed Hollywood dream. This chick drove out here in her 1992 Acura legend probably listening to Sheryl Crow's Tuesday Night Music Club on repeat and is just about at that point in her life when she realizes that not even blowing a producer can guarantee her a spot as the costume PA on his latest independent feature, and now she has 100 grand in debt, an associates degree in Fashion Merchandising and a moderate cocaine addiction.

Mine's basically the same story except my license plate reads KEL E BOI.

Just kidding...but seriously, all this talk about dicks in the mainstream media today (not on Fox, they chose to ignore it) when some guy/girl has gauged ears does some erect cock somewhere fuck it? It doesn't seem pleasurable at all, but the idea that you could legit ear fuck someone is enticing to me. I just watched the Sopranos episode when Artie Bucco has his ear ring ripped out. Do you think anyone has ever been ear fucking and ripped through that thin layer of cartilage keeping the lobe connected to the rest of the ear.

Oh, it definitely has.

Friday, April 26, 2013

5 things to keep in mind going into this weekend.

Monday afternoon I was ready to swear off alcohol. But not only alcohol, I was ready to quit uppers downers, lefters, righters, red meat...fuck it I would have vowed to go gluten-free if it would have meant I would have felt even 2% better.

It's amazing what a couple days will do.

Now I'm ready to slay dragons. I could drink more than I drank last weekend. I mean fuck it, there is perfect weather here in LA and I have a bed that I can sleep in until noon. Is it possible that I would feel differently had I worked 60 hours this week instead of laying around in my boxers watching 3 seasons of the Sopranos? Oh you call that lazy? Fuck you, I'm a writer...that's research!

But I did vow off drinking this weekend...what to do...

5. Break the vow!
You made that promise to yourself under duress! You probably felt like shit, and just like a contract isn't honored if you enter into it while intoxicated or with a gun to your head nor so shall a drinking contract be honored when it is inked amidst a severe hangover. You feel fine now, fun things are happening, don't feel like you need to stay in to prove to yourself that you are capable of non-degenerate decisions. I trust you. And that juice cleanse you're doing? It's stupid. They just load that stuff with ingredients to make you shit. And you starve yourself. Want to starve yourself and take lots of shits? Coffee, cocaine and cigarettes. Do that for like a day and you'll lose 5 pounds. Boom!

4. You cannot avoid Monday
It's coming. Nothing you can do will stop the inevitability of time. Even if you spent all weekend trying to track down uranium and a Delorean, you wouldn't have time to perfect your machine by Monday. That said, you can make it seem like Monday stays away longer, fucking enjoy every moment of your finite weekend. Stay up until 5 in the morning...BOTH DAYS. Build some fucking memories. Monday is going to suck regardless, at least if you can zone out at points of the day and reflect on how badass your weekend was, it should move a bit quicker.

3. You have a limited amount of weekends left before...
THE EVIL JAWS OF RESPONSIBILITY CRUSH ANY AND ALL HAPPINESS YOU EVER FELT. You see it every day! Someone's fucking engaged, whoop di doo. Someone's having an ugly fucking baby. Isn't that nice? But while you are snarking away at how they are clogging your Facebook feed with feel good bullshit and taking away from the bikini pics you so crave. SOMEDAY ITS GONNA BE YOU! That's right. Not next week, not next month, but what if 2 years from now, you are the one getting engaged. 28? Sounds about right. Your life is over. No more casual drug use with the boys. No more one night stands with UCLA students. That shit is over. And if you work backwards from that point. This coming weekend represents roughly 1% of your remaining weekends as a free man/woman. SO the question is, do you want to waste that 1% on a "Mental health weekend?"

2. You will miss out
It might not be the best weekend ever. But at least one thing will happen. Tonight might be the night that your buddy Mikey gets so drunk he shits his pants. If you stay in watching reruns of Tosh you will not be able to give him a lifetime of shit for it, because YOU WEREN'T THERE. Tonight might be the night that hot chick Sarah from next door trips over the couch and her massive tits pop out of her poorly constructed top. LIFETIME OF SHOWERBATE HIGHLIGHT REEL. Missed. Or of course there is the classic maybe your soul mate is at the corner bar and had you gone tonight you would've gotten her number and 2 years from now lived happily ever after. You'll never know because you decided to stay in and "catch up on work" aka see how many times you can masturbate sans lube before your dick hurts.

1. Pain and Gain will still be playing in theatres Monday
All kidding aside, it's the beginning of Spring. It's fucking beautiful outside. It looks wonderful, it smells vibrant, your friends are cool that's why you chose to make them your friends because they are enjoyable to be around. Sure there are positives to take away from alone time, if you don't enjoy kicking it with yourself, no one else ever will. But that's not what Friday nights are for. Remember the agony of waiting for the phone to ring in middle school/high school? You don't have to deal with that petty shit anymore, you can grab life by the balls and go make a memory. So fire up a few beers, go out to a moderately priced meal and have the greatest fucking weekend ever. You fucking deserve it. Life is amazing but it's short, it would be a shame to waste even a single moment.

Now get the fuck out there and have a good time.

Tuesday, April 23, 2013

5 days in the desert


It's a Tuesday in late April around noon and while most people I know are at work, doing something normal...maybe looking forward to some NBA playoff basketball tonight; I am coordinating the logistics of retrieving my cell after leaving it in the back seat of a molly dealer's back seat about a week ago. Yes I should be more worried about tracking that thing down instead of finishing this column. After all, I'm technically a freelance contractor, I could get hit up tomorrow morning about working on the new Christopher Nolan movie and if my cell phone is still in the back of a drug dealer's car, I will not work on aforementioned movie.

But that's unlikely and I'm still hungover so fuck it...so instead I feel like telling a story.

Where do I begin? 2 weeks ago I randomly made $350 filling in for an actor in some movie you will never see, I deduced that I could parlay that money into a Coachella ticket with the plummeting prices. I waited until the last minute, scooped up a ticket for $180 12 hours before I was scheduled to leave, lost my phone 8 hours before I was scheduled to leave and thus I took off for Indio Thursday morning 10 AM with 3 coworkers, 6 cases of water, 3 gallons of vodka, 8 cases of beer, a pocket full of trouble and no way of communicating with my friends in a sea of 100,000 drunks in the dark.

Coachella 2013 we have arrived.

Day 1
The general consensus is that Coachella is 3 days, but that simply is not true. I suppose technically you can leave at 5 o clock in the morning Friday to check into your hotel and leave after the headliner Sunday night, but if you are camping you need to be in line to enter the camp site by noon on Thursday.
After 3 hours sitting in the backseat of a fucking hatchback (note: hatchbacks are worse than cancer, why they are made should go down as one of humanity's greatest unsolved mysteries) we arrived at the Grand Polo Grounds. You then sit in a line entering the campgrounds while security searches your car for illicit drugs and glass. I had read online that this was a fairly painless process and that as long as you didn't drive in with a pound of grass on your lap you should be fine.

But then a couple punjabs blew up Boston and this entirely changed. (This is how you know the terrorists are winning, 3000 miles away someone who just wants to dance and take a few recreational drugs is punished) This line became a full police/military operation complete with drug/bomb sniffing dogs, full cavity searches and a 5 hour line. Fortunately, this line of hundreds upon thousands of cars, moved so fucking slow that my friends and I were able to set up a mobile beer pong table adjacent to our car to drink away the anxiety of our impending doom when a Rotweiler literally teared open my asshole to find exactly what I was sneaking in. The line moved so painfully slow that we stopped even getting in to move it, instead we would throw it in drive through a window and ghostride the car 20 feet every 30 minutes. Needless to say, by the time we arrived at the border we were all so shithoused that none of us quite cared about the ramifications of the low class felonies we were attempting.

And thanks to my theory that everyone basically sucks at their job and doesn't really give a shit, especially past 4pm, we miraculously passed through the border cleanly! That 60 minutes episode from Sunday about the power of drug smelling dogs was full of shit! That or other people just had more, but whatever, I performed a small victory dance, shotgunned a beer and then urinated in public to celebrate. America! (Note: In an unopened case of beer if you reach through the handle and squeeze some contraband in between the cans you are legit unless they open it up, most people won't open something that is sealed)

What awaited me beyond the gate was more than I could have ever imagined. A faint dubstep beat started ringing in my ear, setting a subtle dance score that would envelope my entire weekend. As far as the eye could see, 20something attractive white people who like to unapologetically party in a desert wasteland, amidst a sea of drugs, alcohol and music. I was home.

The euphoria quickly came to a jolting halt when I realized we actually had to set up camp...in the dark. Usually I'm not the guy that hates putting up a tent, but this was one of those bullshit 3 room deals and I wanted to find something to fuck before my dick was too sweaty and gross, alas 3 hours later we had a makeshift campsite that would be livable for a few days.

Now it's time to meet the neighbors. Vancouver to the left, Swedes to the right, 15 Santa Cruz high schoolers that bought a pound of marijuana and decided to skip school for a few days, some Stanford girls that had a staunch opposition to bras and us. It has the feel of a youth hostel in Amsterdam, not a couple hundred miles away from LA. Looks like things could get interesting.

By the time I made it into the campsite's makeshift village to check out the party in the dome I was running on fumes...DO NOT SHOOT YOUR LOAD THE FIRST NIGHT...Coachella doesn't even start until tomorrow.

Day 2
HOLY FUCKING SHIT IT'S HOT! And so bright. What the hell is that light, the sun you say? Well how late did I sleep...how late did people stay up partying last night? Who is blaring that dubstep already, what time is it, noon?

No, it's 6 in the morning. It's 104 degrees. There is no way I am getting back to sleep. Might as well get up and start drinking.

Now remember when I ran through a checklist of our inventory at the beginning? That's literally all we brought. No food, no grill. Booze and water, the life blood! Well regardless of how much water and/or booze you drink, I think it goes without saying that you feel like shit in the morning when you wake up. You are so dehydrated you have lost the ability to sweat and it looks as if someone amputated your foot in the middle of the night and reattached that of Wesley Snipes.

But have no fear, the campsite has showers! But these showers have a 2 hour line. The village also offers arts and crafts (come decorate your iPhone case) an activity tent full of retro pinball machines (???)  a general store that will gladly sell you a 15 dollar bag of potato chips (that price inflation is so unchill brah) and a dodgeball arena (which would be badass if it weren't 100+ degrees) Needless to say, I spent most of my days in the shade drinking beer or playing bags.

We went into the show pretty early Friday and went immediately to the Sahara tent (the equivalent of Lollapalooza's Perry's) raving is a lot of fun. It is a little less fun at 1 in the afternoon sober. (Saw C2C, beardy man) However probably the biggest advantage of camping is sprinting back to the campground to do more drinking in between acts (there are beer tents in the festival but a beer is 10 bucks and can't be take out of designated areas.) Our exact spot was probably about .6 miles from the main stage, a walk I would do probably about 40 times.

Something incredible happens right around 7pm that is a total gamechanger, the sun goes down and then temperature drops about 30 degreees. Now it was time for Passion Pit, the only band I really had on my "must see" list. While I loved the set, it became apparent to me that there are one of two experiences one can have at Coachella. You can go see your indie bands or you can go rage at the Sahara tent. I chose the latter for the rest of the weekend. Skrillex and Bassnectar finished up my first night with a solid back to back, but the main takeaway from Friday night should be this story.

At some point in the evening I found a rather cute girl at the beer tent and we started dancing, she asked for my phone number and told me she was staying at a nearby hotel with her friend and that I should bring one of mine and come back with her at the end of the night.

So far, so good.

But I left my phone in that drug dealer's car...fuck (strike 1) However I made a quasi recovery when I saw that said friend of hers is already making out with one of my buddies. This could work out perfectly, I might get a mattress, a pool and a potential bj out of this!

But I forgot her name...not once, not twice, but thrice. (Strike 2) But it's totally ok because I am funny and charming and we are KILLING it with some advanced ballroom dance moves, we actually tumble to the ground a few times, but it's ok because we're drunk and at Coachella party!!!!

Ok, time to get a cab back to her hotel but.......
The girl I have been dancing with, can't find her wallet. It must've fallen out of her pocket when we were dancing. And it's my fault because I picked her up and spun her around and I should've known better. (Strike 3) Gentlemen, you are never going to recover from a lost wallet or a lost phone. I knocked a girl's tooth out on the dance floor in college once and she was still willing to go home with me, but you lose that iPhone or her wallet that has her fake ID, you can kiss that Quality Inn and blowjob goodbye.

I sulked back to the tent and drank a water bottle of vodka and cut my losses. Tomorrow is a new day.

Day 3

And it's even fucking hotter and the rave music starts even louder and my headache pounds even harder. But one must press on, it's Saturday and I'm basically 0 for 2 on what appears to just be a sea, nay an OCEAN full of sluts.

Saturday I decided to wait in line for the shower and it provided temporary relief but I also believe this is when I contracted the 3rd degree burns that currently cover my entire body. There is not enough Solarcaine in LA County to fix me up, I should probably just check into Cedars Sinai at the conclusion of this writing and report right to the burn unit and get on the skin graph wait list. This is also the day that I purchased my first and only meal of the weekend. One slice of cheese pizza. On Thursday I had ordered 2 tacos off of the Jack in the Box value menu. That and a slice of za are all I would ingest until Monday afternoon, next time I'll try to bring a hot plate and some fucking canned food or something, but hey I was just a stupid rookie.

As the festival goes along, people go into the festival later and later. I'm convinced that if I was at a hotel with a pool and enough cute girls day drinking I may have just avoided the festival until the headliners each day, but there is still fun to be had at the campsite during the day as long as you can find shade. Saturday I set up the beer pong table and taught everyone in a one mile vicinity the awesomeness of the game civil war (3 on 3, non stop beer pong) it was a lot of fun until I demanded to be the south and some black kid was like "yo why would you want to play as the south?" I assured him that my first cd was Puff Daddy and the Family's No Way Out, so it was impossible that I was racist.

By Saturday it is so hot that everyone is basically naked. There are bros shotgunning beers, 17 year old women in bikinis dancing on top of cars while flashing crowds and everyone is trying to play their EDM music the loudest, it is total anarchy, it's how I imagine a world without rules would operate.

My shoulders started peeling late Saturday afternoon and I went to go put on a proper shirt and realized I hadn't packed anything with sleeves, bro tanks only #fratboyproblems so in leu of going to the general store I walked around the campsite with a case of beer offering it to strangers that would let me hang out in their well-shaded campsites (remember we have a tent only in terms of shade and those radiate heat to an unbearable level during the day) This may have been my favorite part of the trip, meeting people from all over the world, learning their drinking games, hearing their stories. This is what Coachella is about, not how many moly tabs you take during the edm shows, not about how many beers you shotgun in 10 minutes or less, it's about the people, and I wanted to take one sentence in this debaucherous diatribe to point that out.

But it's also about the other stuff too...
I came out of my blackout watching two girls chicken fighting in the middle of a Knife Party show, they knocked each other off of their bases' shoulders simultaneously and fell into some sort of mud pile (which had to be at least partly urine because that's the only moisture anywhere for miles around there) and immediately began making out. Because, hey LSD is a hell of a drug.

I think I spent 6 hours in the Sahara tent Saturday night in various stages of blackout and/or hallucinogenic trance. At one point I believe I was trying to swim up a grass hill to no avail. If you get a chance check out Simian Mobile Disco, I'm pretty sure they singlehandedly melted my brain, well not singlehandedly, but they were definitely a key conspirator.

Day 4
Just fucking end already. I'm over this, all of this. The desert sucks. Take me back to Venice where it is 68 degrees with a cool ocean breeze. And oh great we are out of beer because we didn't budget for that first night of drinking, so now my only option is to drink the warm vodka that's been siting in the trunk for 4 days...

But then a Christmas miracle. Our friends nearby from Vancouver have an early flight Sunday night and they have 2 cases full of Fat Tire that they can't take with them. Fuck it, take the cooler too boys. That's that sense of community Coachella, helping out a friend in need! Fuck yes!

We're back in the game.

No bags or civil war today, just a 3 hour game of Kings with the high schoolers and Swedes from next door. Kings is kind of a shitty drinking game but it is fascinating to see the difference in rules each grou of friends has...I think my favorite from this iteration was the "Never have I ever" rule. Remember never have I ever? The game that you used to play? Well it's actually a pretty solid game to play in a group of strangers especially if you are wondering which one is most likely to have a one night stand with you. "Never Have I ever had a 3some" "Never have I ever had anal sex" "Never have I ever slept with someone within 12 hours of meeting him" If someone is moderately attractive and goes down on 3 consecutive strikes with that line of questioning, go for her. Wear a condom.

We mobbed into the show on our last night, everyone running on fumes...but pulling it together for once last party. Paul Oakenfold, Hardwell and Excision set up nicely for a mellow Red Hot Chili Peppers finish. (They still rock by the way) By the end of the night we were out of all of our alcohol, my entire body ached from nonstop dancing and sunburn and we kicked it outside the tent with a group of about 15 strangers now friends, recapping the weekend. Even the silent disco seemed a little bit more mellow at the end of Sunday night, the raveheads that would dance like maniacs in pure silence with a pair of headphones until 6 in the morning seemed to even be ready for the adventure to end.

In a way it's sad when it ends. It's such an epic scale event, like nothing I have done before. Completely cut off from society, without the benefit of electricity or proper plumbing. (The portopotty situation is the most disgusting thing I have ever dealt with, it's like people go in there and just start throwing shit on the walls for sport, it's a true struggle to not vomit) But I was ready to go home, ready to get back to society, find my cell phone and move on with my life. It kind of felt like finishing a marathon, it was awesome but I'm glad it's over.

Day 5
But it wasn't over, because we didn't break camp the night before, so it was another 2 hours shoving all our gross shit in the hatchback while the sound and stench of thousands of bodies finally breaking down came to a crux. Bros vomiting, girls crying, cars not starting, it's a depressing scene, don't taint the experience by sticking around too long. We got on the road around 9 am (I had the back seat again, it was awful) we stopped at a Del Taco around 10 am, whereupon I ordered 10 tacos. I can proudly say I finished them all. This was probably my largest accomplishment of the weekend. I got home and plopped on the couch and haven't moved since. I will not be drinking this weekend, or maybe ever again. I'm thinking of relocating to an area of the world with limited sun exposure. Perhaps Alaska?

But I can still hear that bass line subtly pounding in the back of my ear and makes me smile thinking back to all the cool people I met and all the stupid shit we did. I didn't really learn anything about myself, I didn't really discover any new band that is going to change my life. I don't have an epic new story to throw in a screenplay anytime soon, but festivals like this reaffirm my faith in humanity. In a world where terrorists have epic 12 hour shoot outs with police and throw pipe bombs all over a Boston suburb, most people are content to just make a pilgrimage to the desert in search of a good time.

Camping is part of the experience and I think part of the catharsis of the event is knowing that you have to endure a bit of misery and that makes the experience all the more gratifying, kind of like joining a frat.

But next year...for Coachella 2014, I'll be at the Quality Inn and Suites of Palm Springs and I will NOT be doing inverted maneuvers with young ladies on the dance floor.

Thanks for playing Coachella 2013 and congrats to all the survivors, until next year my friends.

I'm going to go get my phone now (and I never even got lost once!)


Tuesday, April 16, 2013

Really short films series: Fan Mail

Does anyone want to shoot this with me? I think it's hilarious.

FADE THE FUCK IN:

INT. UTA MAILROOM - NIGHT

Superimposed: "UTA MAILROOM SATURDAY NIGHT 9:52 PM". A beat then OFF THE CLOCK appears along with a cha-ching sound effect.

A lone MAIL ROOM EMPLOYEE is burning the midnight oil on a Saturday evening in the mail room. Why is he here working on a Saturday night unpaid? We have no fucking clue. Maybe he is brown nosing to management trying to get promoted to a desk, maybe one of the partners was expecting an important letter to be delivered to the office on Saturday and needs it immediately, maybe this guys is just a big fucking loser and has nowhere better to be on Saturday night...IRRELEVANT, he's there and he's sorting through some fucking mail.

He picks up a stack of letters labeled "Noomi Rapace fan mail." He unties the stack and non-chalantly opens a letter and pours it's contents onto the table. A small card and a bunch of white powder fall out onto his desk.

MAIL ROOM EMPLOYEE
Sweet, cocaine!

The Mail Room Employee then picks up the card to examine, the meaning of this...I mean obviously he is keeping the drugs, but who are they from? Some crazy fan? Is that how they role in Sweden, sending their role models grams of blow. We zoom on the card which reads. "Enjoy the anthrax you fucking cunt :) "

MAIL ROOM EMPLOYEE
Fuck...

AND SMASH TO BLACK

That's how short films are made bitches, simple premise, complete story with a beginning middle and end...and oh by the way, run time of 7 seconds. Coming to a film festival near you, please let me know if you would like to get involved.

Email me your ideas for really short films and I'll post them here and if a lot of people like the idea we'll shoot them and post them on the blog.

Monday, April 15, 2013

VLOG: Brochella

Why I put myself in a situation where I will be sharing a tent with 4 sweaty dudes in the 100 degree desert for 72 hours I will never know...I guess it's because I'm too old to go to Little 5 this weekend, so partying with 100,000 nearly naked 20somethings on ecstacy in the middle of the desert sounded like the next best thing.

Thursday, April 11, 2013

Path of no resistance

Today I was minding my own business at work signing talent release forms as celebrities such as myself are wont to do, and I was blindsided with this little gem of awesome, Matchbox 20/Goo Goo Dolls ticket presale. You may or may not be down with the Goo, but I still have vivd memories of sucking some serious face of a girl I had recently mentored at my Catholic high school. I had prayed with this girl, I had been a sounding board on her day of recollection. But I was drunk as fuck, sweating profusely and committing misdemeanor statutory rape at good old Deer Creek.

That portion of the story is largely unrelated, but I just thought it important to throw that into the ether of the internet. I have never seen Matchbox 20, which is a shame because I hear they were good and popular in the 90's, a decade of classic music that I missed because I was too busy memorizing every lyric to Puff Daddy and the Family's No Way Out. I remember he had a song with Santana and a song with and the one where he complains about the real world hassling him.

I get it. For those of you that read this blog regularly, you know that I am oft at odds with this so called thing called reality. Growing up I was told things such as "You should be on the radio." Unsure if that was a compliment for my voice or a slam on my face. Likely both. I was also told once in a while that I should be on The Real World. It would be cool to be on tv I thought, but at this point in my life I was still worried about things like my "corporate career and image" clearly I have regressed because I don't give a fuck about those things anymore. Regardless, I never put much thought into it.

However, one day I was at my senior house (shingles) throwing one of my legendary post tailgate parties that was typically shut down by the swat team. I was still drunk from the Chi O bar crawl the night before and had recently Hulk Hoganed whatever shirt I was wearing. So here I am, sitting in a Walmart kiddie pool/beer bath wearing a swimsuit, half a shirt and pouring a beer on my face. My buddy Colin walks by and tells me that Real World is hosting auditions at Sports, a local bar nearby.
I am well beyond the social definition of intoxication at this point, but I like a drunk walk as much as the next person so I embark on a journey to said bar for my audition.

When I arrived I kind of waved at the bartender from afar and was immediately poured a double long island pitcher. An MTV producer saw this take place and immediately assumed I must be a big deal if a bartender knew my drink and gave it to me free of charge as soon as I walked in (this is how Steven from Laguna Beach was cast, he was the most infamous kid at the school.) I am rushed to the front of the line to sit down for my Real World audition.

As I sit down, I inform the producers that I will be drinking during the interview. They did not object.

Producer: What happened to your shirt?

Me: I ripped it in half.

Producer: On purpose?

Me: Yes.

Producer: Why...do you do this often?

Me: It's a phase, I guess I just felt like it. It's nice out...I suppose I wanted some sun. Do you have a problem with it?

Producer: No, but you could have just taken it off.

Me: That would be far less awesome.

Producer: I see...

Me: Hey man, I'm having a really awesome party right now, how long is this going to take?

Producer ignores question.

Producer: How do you get along with people different than you?

Me: Different? Like GDI's? I don't I hate them.

Producer: Thanks David, you can go back to your party now.

I realize now that he was probably referencing living with gays and minorities...or gay minorities. Anyway, that shows you how much of a Brobot I was back then, I assumed he was talking about non fratters. So I go back to my party thinking nothing of it. I pick up a girl, take her up to my room and halfway through our day shack she pukes everywhere so I bailed back to Kilroys. Eventually during the evening I saw a string of calls from the 212, I didn't answer because I was in a bar, it was loud and I had my eyes on a pretty rad sophomore that I thought I was close to converting on.

As is the case still, my voicemail box was intentionally full because fuck you text me.

Days later I realized it was probably MTV calling to cast me in real world. I called back finally on like Thursday, it was too late. I had lost my opportunity for stardom.

Years pass. I go through a really rocky period of my life that we will just call "The Chicago Years" those involved know about the atrocities that took place. One day I pulled my head out of my ass long enough to move to LA and surprise surprise, I hated it.

Until one day whilst sitting on a park bench in Westwood, whining to some girl from back home about how I want to come back, an old man offers me $400 for my sandals. $400 that could have changed my life. $400 that could've gotten me off the streets and change my future. But it turned out that a 90 year old woman was punking me and I was still living on a couch.

ALAS, 6 months later while having a barbecue to prep a new reality show that I had just written I made my reality TV debut on Betty White's Off Their Rockers, almost 4 years to the day after my Real World audition. That was fun, got a few random Facebook wall posts from friends and family (but seriously what the fuck are you doing watching Off Their Rockers) I went about my life continuing to work on my new reality series until it suffered the same fate as countless others. After shooting the pilot the series was shelved indefinitely. Dreams shattered.

I start doing PA work for all sorts of random low budget movies, tv shows and commercials and low and behold one day an actor doesn't show up.

But some of his scenes were already shot.

You don't see his face so we just need someone that is his height, who can we find last minute that is 6'4!

THIS GUY! They put me in a movie and because of non disclosure agreements I can't tell you what I do, but it's fucking awesome.

Sure I'm a glorified extra, but I'm in a fucking movie and you're not. I may not have made it on the Real World and I may not be a writer producer of a tv show and I may not make 100,000 a year yet, but I live in LA and when you work here sometimes cool shit happens.

I'm sitting in my office right now killing time before I walk over to Staples Center for a Passion Pit concert. The last time I saw a Passion Pit concert was in Bloomington. I pregamed in Fiji of all places and a lot of people in the house were doing Molly before the show. Due to my rambunctious personality and questionable reputation, the president of Fiji blamed me for the illicit drugs because heaven forbid a Phi Gam take party drugs before a rave. Allegedly there was an attempt to ban me forever from the house, an attempt that apparently failed because I have visited my brother since. But the main takeaway is, even though I have done PLENTY of things to wrong FIJI, in that particular case, the drugs weren't mine and I didn't even drink that night, and the asshat who blamed me while perhaps successful will likely marry a girl that won't suck his dick even on special occasions. And he will never be in a movie.

Take the path of no resistance, because while the cream may rise to the crop, so too do things that have been dead for a while.

Enjoy Coachella you degenerates.

Wednesday, April 10, 2013

20 reasons I suck at being an adult.

For the better part of 3 years I have assumed I was in the midst of a quarter life crisis. I'm starting to find out though that maybe it's not just a phase. Maybe I'm just a bad apple. I'm arrogant to an almost sickening level even though I have nothing to brag about. I'm writing a non-fiction memoirish book right now and I feel like my tales of awesome raging can compensate for the unlikable person I come off as, spoiler alert...it doesn't. Yet through all of this I have no desire to change in the least because fuck you I live in LA and my life is more interesting than yours.

Sometimes when I'm browsing the internet something will hit me over the head to remind me of this, let's do a breakdown of Post Grad Problems 20 reasons you suck at being an adult.


1. Maybe you have a 401k. Maybe it’s an IRA. Either way, you don’t know how it works, you’ve never checked it, and you don’t care.

I'll do you one better, I've never withheld a penny from one of my paychecks and I always take out the maximum number of exemptions on my taxes. The reason I do that is because that $50 that I would put in my IRA might provide me with financial stability some day down the road...or it could get me a gram of Molly this weekend. Easy decision.

2. “Buying groceries” consists of loading up on perishable foods that you’ll fail to eat on time, but they’ll remain rotting in your fridge for weeks.

Buying groceries? Do they sell those as Taco Bell? Buying groceries is code name for me rewarding myself with a steak after a grueling week of working one or two days. Although it is nice to load up on my beer and fireball from the grocery store, it's a nice masking tool for those of us who still have our parents ties to the old Chase account.

3. You don’t know how to make a doctor’s appointment.

Ha! Doctor's appointments require health insurance! Besides everyone has a friend in dental school or something that can write them prescriptions and "doctor's appointments" are for giving yourself a legit 2 hour delay for work on Friday when you know in advance it's going to be a big Thursday night.

4. You still casually drop curse words into everyday conversation, and it’s inappropriate.

Fuck that, if I lived in a world where I couldn't routinely drop the word cunt I would be lost.

5. You joke with everyone that you’re a “functioning alcoholic,” but it’s not funny and you’re “functioning” at an unacceptably low level.

I tend to be an unapologetic degenerate, I used to lie to my adult co-workers when they would ask me about my weekend, but it's much more entertaining to give a brutally honest account of the events and watch the color drain from their face.

6. Your parents still pay your car insurance, and cell phone bill.

Well obviously. This iPhone 5 with unlimited data isn't going to pay for itself. And also my parking tickets.

7. People around you are getting married and reproducing, but you’re single and can’t keep a goldfish alive for more than 48-hours.

Oh good for you! Enjoy that loose vagina and stretch marks homie, I'll be meeting desperate 19 year olds for tinder blowjobs while you tell your inflating wife that she looks beautiful. True story I bought a beta fish in college, it died within a week. I got a cactus in Chicago, a fucking cactus and I couldn't keep that alive either.

8. You know nothing about cars. The mechanic could tell you that brake pads cost $5,000 and you wouldn’t argue.

Oh this is another thing that gets invoiced to the patriarch, but I'm the kind of guy that will just go ahead and just live with a rattle, my car would have to literally explode before I would willingly take it in to get looked at. Furthermore I still have Indiana plates and haven't done the CA emissions test yet, because fuck the environment.

9. You’re terrible at making yourself presentable, whether it’s buying clothes that fit well or getting a haircut that doesn’t make you look like Lloyd Christmas.

My wardrobe consists of my polos from college, whatever I get for Christmas every year, and whatever shirts I steal from the Chive when I am blacked out. I also still wear Kilroy's and Phi Psi t shirts all the fucking time just to make sure people know I was a frat guy who spent a lot of time at the hot Greek bar.

10. You’re too lazy to vote.

I've grown increasingly apathetic as I've grown older. I used to care SO much about the ideals of conservatism, now I just put up the facade so people mistake me for a waspy blue blood. I have a dad from Iowa and a mom from Pittsburgh. The whole old money thing is a fraud, Moeller is German for Miller. My ancestors were blue collar wind mill operators. Yay.

11. Something as simple as a speeding ticket absolutely destroys your budget, and sends you into a self-destructive spending spiral.

At this point in my life if I get pulled over the consequences would probably be disastrous. There's certainly some sort of warrant out for my arrest, I have an unregistered car, probably 3000 in unpaid parking tickets, and yet I still drive tipsy from time to time...Whatever, I'll trust in fate and hope.

12. You stay up until 2:00am every night, and complain about being tired every morning.

Of course. Because when you go to sleep the next thing that happens if you have to wake up and go to work. That sucks. But I can derive the smallest amount of entertainment from one more episode of The Sopranos, I'll pop an adderall in the morning and just deal.

13. When people ask, “What do you do?” you craft your answer to be as vague and confusing as possible to avoid further conversation on the subject.

God this one is so true. When I lived in Chicago I couldn't fucking understand why people would ask this question. WORK FUCKING BLOWS WHY WOULD YOU WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT. As I've grown older I realize it's probably because before a girl fucks you she wants to make sure you don't work at the post office. Now that I work in a cool industry I make it sound like my job is WAAAAY better than it is. "Oh I work on a tv show for Fox." Oh what do you do? "I'm in production." Never say PA. No one knows what "I'm in production means." But then you talk about how the actors are SUCH A PAIN to deal with and you sound important. Then start talking about somewhere you have traveled recently. Everyone loves to talk about travel. Congrats, you can probably bang this chick at least 3 times before she finds out you're a glorified barista!

14. 75% percent of your workday is spent mindlessly surfing the internet and purposely testing the company’s web filters to see which sites aren’t blocked.

I've just kind of come to terms with the fact that I have a horrible work ethic. I really like to write, but outside of that I am pretty fucking worthless. I would prefer to spend every second at work straight up zoning out and working 4 hour days. Every time I'm against the ropes I'm like "I would literally do anything to make my dreams come true." But I wouldn't. I would like for my dreams to come true, but outside of writing my self-indulgent screenplays and this blog, I don't really actively strive for greatness.

15. Your dad still does your taxes.

I did my taxes this year. I said I gave several thousand dollars to charity because I think the government expects normal Americans to tithe. I did not tithe. But I probably have a 1% chance of getting audited. Living on the edge!

16. Instead of doing the dishes or cleaning your apartment, you call a maid service once a month. 

Well someone has to employ the illegals in Southern California. If the government would wise up and build that big ass fence, this wouldn't be an issue! I'm kidding, I don't care about illegal immigration, it probably keeps the price of drugs lower.

17. You haven’t hit the gym since freshman year of college.

I still go to the gym for several reasons. 1.) I take pleasure in knowing that I could beat most people up. 2.) I like checking in on foursquare and letting people know I'm at the gym and reminding them that they are fat 3.) When I look physically fit my dad tends to let all of my other flaws go, ignoring my thousand dollar charge at The Body Shop in West Hollywood. (It's not a mechanic)

18. “Going out for a drink” means blacking out, passing out on your couch, possibly pissing yourself, and calling in sick for work.

My friends and I have probably used every collective excuse in the book for calling in sick or coming in late for work after going on a bender. One of my buddies started killing off members of his family, that's extreme. I tend to use the classic, "my car got broken into or my apartment flooded" these can be reused and make people feel bad for you, but not to the point where they will follow up.

19. If you’re at a concert and somebody offers you drugs, you still haven’t learned to just say no.

Or in the bathroom at a bar.

20. Your Google search history includes both “Kardashian porn” and “naked Harlem Shake"

"When does Chloe Moretz turn 18"







I think the main takeaway here is that maybe we're growing older and my sophomoric outlook on life is starting to look a bit immature. I may not be great at being an adult, but I still love my family, I pick up my friends from the airport and I read non-fiction books from time to time so I think I'm doing all right. I'm not going to win any citizenship awards any time soon, but I just might have enough villain in me to have a happy ending because nice guys finish last.













Friday, April 5, 2013

SingleDudeVlog Old dudes and models

Your desire for what you find physically attractive will probably never change, so stop beating around the bush and just own it.

Wednesday, April 3, 2013

#SingledudeVLOG The Wetsuit

#broellervlog is now #singledudeVLOG enjoy my struggles as I attempt to adapt to daily life with these 1 minute vignettes of a twentysomething trying to figure it out

String Theory

Evidence!

I never had to clean up after myself. Ever. Growing up you take for granted that your mom cleans up after you. You could slide head first into home just to feel like a hero, cut yourself jumping over a fence and shit yourself because you ate too many Walking Tacos from the Skiles Test Little League concession stand (literally a bag of doritos with chile meat poured inside, I know AWESOME) but if you threw said vomit stained, shit/blood covered dirty clothes in the dirty clothes it was guaranteed to come out looking immaculate.

See I grew up in a semi-affluent area during the 90's when all the dads were bringing in low 6 figures, the moms were "raising the kids" and as long as you batted above .400, hit 70% from the free throw line and scored a goal per game not much was asked of you. Needless to say I never learned "chores" or "how to clean up after myself."

This behavior was reinforced when I got to college and had legal slaves cleaning up after me. Except these people you didn't even have to treat with civility like a mother, so after 18 years of an awesome mom, and 4 years of slaves, when I moved into a house at the age of 22 sans a mom or pledges clearly I was doomed.

My first few years operated under a general understanding that nothing would get clean ever unless it infuriated the other roommate to no end and he (or his girlfriend) would eventually crack and clean it up...or pay for a maid to come clean it. Needless to say I was much better at this waiting game than most, I do not need cleanliness to be productive or happy, and laying on the couch is always going to take precedent over picking up broken glass in the kitchen.

Lately I've become a much more considerate roommate, but there are still things that I shrug off. A burnt out light bulb, eh the other 3 still work. The carpet is stained, eh whatever, if I schlep over to Lowe's to rent a carpet cleaner I'm just going to get drunk and spill again. But I keep my mess in my room (my writing den is a landfill of coffee cups, cheap wine bottles and about a thousand beef jerky wrappers,) because I'm evolving into something of a grown up that is at least aware of the feelings of others.

But now a new roommate has moved in and for the first time I'm not living with exclusively my best friends. I can't just expect her to play the waiting game with me while AIDS slowly infests our apartment and hope she cracks first and cleans the whole thing, that would be unfair.

For example, yesterday I discovered our sink is clogged and the disposal doesn't work. A rational person would have immediately called a plumber, but instead I walked to the bathroom and grabbed the toilet plunger and used it on the clog in the sink. Miraculously it worked! Big win for me! I washed said sink afterward in case there was any lingering bacteria, and I felt like the problem had been solved.

Of course it hasn't been solved because the root of the problem is that on St. Patrick's Day we did a bunch of shots of Jameson from glass Kirloys shot glasses and when I drunkenly cleaned the apartment I'm sure a few of the shotglasses shattered and fell through the drain, breaking our disposal. But fuck it, it won't clog again for a few days and then I'll just plunger it again.

Later in the day I went to take a piss and when I tried to flush the toilet the flushing level literally snapped off...Fuck. So I opened the top tank and upon further inspection I realized the contraption that lifts the plug to let the top water flush into the bowl thus creating the scientific process of a toilet flush was no longer being lifted.

Again, I probably should have just called a plumber, they probably fix shit like this in 30 seconds. But alas, I felt it a path of lesser resistance to find an old pair of shoes, and rig a shoelace tied to the plug that will flush when said shoelace is pulled. I was actually quite proud of myself. This is a handy innovation, look at me, might as call me fucking MacGuyver.

Later in the evening as I was doing a load of laundry (whites and colors not separated of course) I had a realization. If I lived alone I would probably be content with my shoestring toilet and my plunger sink for the rest of eternity. What if I had some babe over to watch a movie, we have dinner and wine and when she's doing the dishes (gender stereotype holla!) afterwards she notices a clog in the sink and I come heroically in with a toilet plunger...or she has to go pee at some point in the evening and I say, don't worry just pull the shoestring when you're done.

This is not how adults are supposed to live. So this morning after conducting an hour long interview with my healthcare company assuring them that I do not use tobacco or drugs nor am I sexually active, I called a plumber and my problems will be fixed tomorrow. And my landlord has to pay for it!

This is fucking sweet!

So you're saying any problem with my apartment that isn't an egregious violation of my lease, my landlord has to completely and in an expedited manner fix at no charge? Why would you ever want to fucking own?

I think my aversion to calling my landlord to fix things is because in the past I've always had an unspoken understanding with my landlords: I'm going to rage this place to the ground and do lots of horrible things here at all hours of the day, but I'm never going to bother you.

Well the thing is, I've tamed down quite a bit so I shouldn't just endure a broken heater because I'm afraid my landlord is going to find a beer can or something. I'm 26 AND I live in California, everything short of murder is legal here.

So roommates, visitors and people genuinely interested in my emotional development I can proudly report that the string flusher will be gone at 10am tomorrow morning. That said, I know for a fact I'm going to grind some more shot glasses in the garbage disposal so I should probably keep an extra plunger under the sink just in case.


Tuesday, April 2, 2013

Site news: I went to Easter in spanish

I drank until 4 in the morning this Saturday because I knew as soon as I stopped I would pass out and it would be Sunday. I treat the end of Saturday night the way I think most people mourn the death of a child that had a congenitive heart defect. You know it's going to end, but you cherish every moment of it and are devastated when it's over. Ok so perhaps the end of a weekend isn't as bad as the tragic death of a child. The death of a child is way worse. But fortunately most families have more than one child, and there's always another weekend. So that's a positive right?

So when I woke up at 11am all normal protestant Easter services were over in the greater Venice/Santa Monica area, Baptist services notwithstanding. Legit, if you are in Venice there are 5 Baptist churches within 100 feet of you at all times. But I definitely didn't want to go to one of those. Black people dress UP when they go to church. We are talking suits and shit. Plus their shit goes for like 3 hours and the old black women like scream and all that gospel choir shit...not for me. Granted it may have gotten me some clout with the homeys on the block but I also didn't want to offend them by rolling out of bed in what I wore out the night before.

This left me with only one option. The 12pm spanish language service at the Catholic church.

Bingo.

Catholic services are short and there is only one time you are forced to interact with others. Learn how to say "peace be with you" in Spanish and I'm good. Also if I piss off some Mexican gangbangers who gives a shit Mexican gangsters aren't scary only black guys. (Ya I saw End of Watch, if you really want me to fear the Latin Kings don't cast Ugly Betty as the antagonist)

I swear to God I get there and there is a fucking mariachi band playing contemporary Spanish hymns. I was totally digging it. Sure I looked out of place being the only white person there (and wearing a sweater vest) but no one gave a shit. It was all pregnant 18 year olds, their screaming newborns and their tatted up factory worker husbands sauntering in 20 minutes late. People wearing ripped up jeans, oversized tshirts and backwards flatbills, it was such a beautiful justification of every stereotype I have. Seriously, you want a judgment free zone, go find a Mexican church. These people are the chillest of all the church going folk.

I tried to convince myself that people listened to the latin services for years without knowing what the fuck the priest was talking about so it was cool, but like come on I know the story of Easter, I just need to take this communion so I can keep my Chreaster streak alive and bail to my dinner party.

It might intrigue you that I write this blog laced with high brow vulgarity but still make such an effort to make it to church on Easter. I'm kinda banking on being that bad guy next to J man on the cross who was like "Hey man, I'm was a thief but I believe in you" and that dude totally got a VIP pass into heaven.

Ok enough religion that shit makes me as uncomfortable as a guy sharing a heroin needle with a gay prostitute he just met in West Hollywood. How about some light site news?

Cool.

As you've noticed I have started making short one minute videos, they are usually me ranting to a certain extent about some Sophomoric qualm about growing up. I do this because people are too lazy to read, but it's also a nice change of pace. I am going to absorb those into the blog, I am also going to make a Facebook fan page where you will be able to find links to all the videos and the actual blogs. Maybe some pictures and shit too.

Basically I am trying to streamline your SingleDude experience.

I'll try to be more active and if anyone has any suggestions please let me know.