Wednesday, April 30, 2014

The White Wedding

Pictured: My dream closet
There have been probably five seminal moments in my life that drastically affected the future.
- The discovery of Lawry's seasoned salt
- The moment I first walked into Kilroy's on Kirkwood
- When I read The Alchemist
- The first time a girl licked my ear
- The Parisian going out of business sale

So we have everything covered there right? Food, Alcohol, Inspiration, Women...and wait what?

Oh yes. In 2008 there was no Nordstrom at the Indianapolis Fashion Mall. You would have to trek downtown for Nordy's, on Indy's north side was the now defunct Birmingham, Alabama based Parisian. (Many of these locations have been spun of to Bon Ton stores such as Carson Pirie Scott) Anyway, when Parisian was shut down to clear the way for a brand new Nordstrom flagship store, there was a legendary going out of business sale. Polo, Lacoste, even some Burberry shit was 90% off.

The unemployed housewives of Indianapolis nearly murdered each other, fighting over the last few large shirts and 34x32 designer jeans. By the time I returned from abroad that summer the store was pretty picked over. The only items left were 4XL or waist size 26. Twas a pretty dire scene. I grabbed a nice Polo golf hat listed at $3.99, a pair of pink shorts and made my way toward the check-out when I saw a hint of yellow grab my eye.

I sprinted to a corner where I saw a full yellow and white seersucker suit untouched. I was fairly new to the seersucker game, I think I was unaware of its existence until I saw some Fiji walking down 3rd street with his white polo shirt tucked into some 5 inch inseam white/blue seersucker shorts. It remains the one time in my life I have been impressed with something a Phi Gam has done. I didn't even check the price tag of this hidden gem, I immediately proceeded to run to the check out and buy it. I believe I paid something like $15 marked down from $300. It was the happiest moment of my life.

I only wore that seersucker suit twice. The first time was to my cousin's outdoor wedding. I don't remember much about that night, other than the minister that oversaw the wedding kept asking me if I had accepted Jesus Christ and inquired as to whether I was a virgin. I thought it was weird so I blacked out and danced inappropriately with one of the bridesmaids.

The second time was at the sales conference of my internship for the summer, which had been selling cigarettes for Philip Morris. If you ever asked me about that job in the past I probably took some bullshit moral high ground and told you I felt guilty about selling something that harms other people. The truth is, if I wouldn't have done what I am about to tell you, I would be making 100 grand a year, driving around a mini-van and slanging cigs all over the place...

We were out in Naperville celebrating the end of the program, we were holed up at whatever hotel one stays at in Naperville and the hotel bar was a pretty depressing scene. I decided that we should hit the town, we landed at some divey karaoke bar where I attempted to recreate one of my classic Thursday nights at Bear's in Bloomington: Consume 45 shots of vodka, sing a Britney Spears song, have my pick of any girl in the bar.

As you can imagine, this did not all. I woke up the next day on the floor of my hotel room with 37 missed calls, 3 hours late for my performance evaluation and somehow my seersucker suit had ended up in the fountain at reception. The staff had deemed it ruined and thrown it away. My management team was unimpressed and thus I was not extended a full time offer. And because of that I now live in Venice, CA blogging and working as a peasant on TV shows. I feel comfortable calling it an even trade because, well...beach.

Why this long set-up about the seersucker suit? Although I have clearly not had the best luck in said attire, I do think there is a certain stigma to wearing it. It kicks things up a notch, it's the same logic behind someone that does the stuntman shot at a bar (snorts the salt, takes the shot, lime in the eye) it says, let's fucking go and brings a new aggressive energy to the situation.

I am going to a wedding on Saturday in Scottsdale, Arizona. Of the 400 people going, I have never met a single one save for my father. A month ago my dad called and said "Your mom is going to Florence for two weeks in May and I never get to see you, will you come to this wedding with me."

My immediate response was, "Can I go with mom?"

Unfortunately not. But my dad offered me a plane ticket, a sick hotel and it's an open bar. It would be nice to see him and hey what's one more trip to plan to take my focus off of the fact that I should probably get a job.

So I'm going to a wedding where I know no one. Furthermore, I am one of 10 people going from the groom's side. Yes you read that right, of the 400 people going to this wedding Saturday 390 are with the bride. The groom is bringing his dad, my dad, some random uncles probably and me.

I have no clue how I'm going to interact with anyone at this soiree.

"So who are you with?"

"Um, the groom I guess."

"And how do you know him?"

"Uh, I don't. My dad manages his dad's money, and most of the groom's friends and family were too poor to fly to Phoenix...I got the invite because LA is close and they figured I would come for the open bar."

"Oh." (slowly backs away/thinks I'm a sociopath)

There are pros and cons to this situation of course.

The pros revolve largely around the fact that absolutely no one there will know me, nor will I ever see any of them again so I could say basically anything.

The cons revolve around the fact that likely no one will talk to be and I'll spend the whole ceremony drinking by myself at the table while my dad urges me to go talk to some girls on the dance floor.

What my father fails to comprehend is I rely almost exclusively on the energy of those around me. Any girl I am ever linked to is because we started out as friends or I met her in a group. I have zero ability to walk up to someone and start a conversation. In college this was easy of course because almost everyone (for terrible reasons albeit) knew who I was, in Venice people may know someone that I know, Saturday in Scottsdale I am anonymous.

This is why I need the power of the suit.

Remember the end of Space Jam? It turned out "Michael's special stuff" was just water all along, but it helped the Tune Squad overcome an almost insurmountable Monstars lead? The moral of that story was that they had the power inside themselves the whole time, they just needed to believe.

Well, I assure you, that is not the case with me. I went to a wedding in September with basically everyone I had ever known and I was still nervous because I hadn't talked to most of them in a year. So I did something to break the ice a little, I brought a bottle of Fireball to dinner. It was a huge hit.

If I wear a seersucker suit MAYBE someone will be inspired to come talk to the misfit. Oh joy it's going to be like those awkward family vacations all over again. You remember the kind? You're like 16 and want to party, but your little brother is just a little too young to be your wing man and it's not that cool to hang with your parents, so you go to the hot tub and hope like hell that there is a beautiful girl in there in the exact same situation...and then you two become best friends and make out on the last night?

Ya that was the dream that never came to fruition for me either. Or maybe it did once. My childhood is racked with false memories that I created later in life to convince myself it was more awesome than it probably was. Now I cannot distinguish between the truth and a lie, I could probably pass a lie detector test that said I really did hook up with all of those anonymous spring break girls I invented in my mind.

Anyway, off topic. Making friends at this wedding is going to be difficult, not impossible. Somehow, I have an invite to the rehearsal dinner (actually I'm sure all 10 of the groom's side got the call) so it's ALMOST like I'm on the inner circle. I can plant seeds Friday night, with the smaller intimate group. Maybe get a little day drinking going at the pool with whoever I meet Friday night. That way, by the time I finally get to the wedding reception everyone will be old friends with the random dude from Venice, CA.

I see it playing out like this...


A couple of the COOL KIDS from the rehearsal dinner approach DAVE, 27 blonde, looking ridiculous in a seersucker suit. He downs a whiskey rocks as his FATHER silently judges him.

Holy shit Dave, you actually did wear that seersucker suit. Where did you find that thing?

One of the benefits of being on hiatus this week was that I had plenty of time to scour Venice thrift shops for this beauty.

Dave signals to a server for a refill on his whiskey. Anyway, what did you guys get into today.

We were so hungover, I didn't get out of bed until 2pm.

Dave looks to his father who is engaged in small talk with some DRUNK NERD who seems to be blabbering about his tech start-up.
Ya, pops was feeling pretty loops after his second margarita, and I knew I wanted to bag a few rays today, so I turned in a bit early. Tonight is going to be a different story.

Fuck ya man, we're heading up to our room to bang some lines, wanna come?

Off Dave, a devilish grin spreading across his face.

End Scene.

Oh drugs, the great equalizer.

I should mention that my 2 prior experiences in Scottsdale are that of Spring Training baseball and a themed river float entitled pirate day. But from what I remember about my most recent trip, there was a lot of tattoos and a lot of full flavored beer. I don't actually have any idea what affluent people from Phoenix are all about, it's like one of those cities that lacks a cultural identity. If I say rich kid from LA or New York you picture something entirely different. Rich kid from Chicago is a bit more down to Earth. Rich kid from San Francisco is like a socially conscious rich kid from Chicago. WHO ARE YOU WEALTHY WHITES OF PHOENIX? Are you like a U of A frat guy or a Flagstaff outdoorsman that vacations at Jackson Hole?

We shall see.

But then again, this is all a pipe dream, and a silly one at that. I should go, spend some quality time with my dad. Find a nice lazy river, maybe get a quick 18 in and relax. The only inevitabilities about this trip are that I will undoubtedly return with a full set of third degree burns due to my refusal to wear sunscreen. But honestly, I'll probably be surrounded by super nice people that treat me like I belong. And if it really sucks, I'm sure I can find a TV and watch some hockey. My dad will probably even come along with me even though my Hawks pwned his Blues.

But If I do find a seersucker suit in the next 24 hours, and I wear that bitch to a black tie wedding at the JW Scottsdale...I'm telling you, I will walk in and jaws will drop. Metaphorical shots will be fired. And everything, EVERYTHING, about this wedding might be different.

I mean, I suppose I should probably just wear a nice black suit, keep a low profile and NOT embarrass my family....but what's the fun in that?

Tuesday, April 29, 2014

Self Medication

The most frustrating invention of the 20th century was certainly the single cup coffee maker. Essentially you have to go through the exact process of brewing a pot of coffee, yet it yields only one cup. Who the hell has ever wanted just one cup of coffee? Perhaps there is some caffeine novice who requires only one cup to have a productive morning, but eventually we all turn into zombies that require the equivalent of crystal meth to walk 15 feet from the bedroom to the shower in order to wake up in the morning. For this reason, when I am perusing the K cup selection at work I always seek out the most intense titles.

For example, Jet Fuel is more likely to get you JACKED UP than Starbucks Blonde. Moreover I choose to fly with the Black Tiger any day before Donut Shop. In fact my real secret to success is to do a Revolution K-cup and then slam dunk it with a purple Nespresso capsule (the purple ranks 9/10 intensity and tastes infinitely better than the 10/10 black. It's very similar as to how 'Wild' wings at Buffalo Wild Wings are delicious whereas 'Blazin' is a flavor reserved for self loathing sadists) This is referred to by commoners as the 'Red Eye' a phrase that never made sense to me. When I'm flying on a red eye, all I aspire to do is sleep, and when the fucktard next to me throws on their book light and decides to read for the entirety of my flight I become borderline homicidal. In fact let's take the time now to rank the 5 worst people to sit next to on an airplane.

5. Overweight person.
I will forever maintain a certain level of physical fitness if only to not be the fat person on an airplane. I can imagine no shame greater than being told by Southwest that you need to purchase a second seat.

4. Someone that smells.
Oh I've been this guy, coming off of a NYC bender where I have slept 3 total hours, changed clothes once and showered 0 times. It doesn't matter if it's BO or alcohol coursing out of your pours. There should be a minimum accepted hygiene code of conduct for all flyers. Remember when people got excited and dressed up for flights? I promise to never say "Ok I'll do one more shot and then cab it straight to the airport" ever again. It's unfair to fellow humans.

3. A Talker.
Look, unless you are a 21-30 year old blonde female between 105 and 120 pounds I really have nothing to say to you. Even if you are, I might chose a few quiet smiles because I can't sustain conversation for 4 hours and I don't want to hit an awkward lull somewhere over Lawrence, KS. I prefer to read, sleep or fuck around with my personal in-flight monitor and send sexts to the smoke in 11C (on Virgin Flights only)

2. A baby.
I do not know how there isn't an airline yet with a minimum age requirement. Is it discriminatory? Crying babies are about the worst thing in the world. Some day I will (maybe) be a parent. I will have to deal with this inevitability at that time. I should not be subjected to it until I so chose to make that life decision. In church or a restaurant, the parent has the option of removing the annoyance from the public. Not so simple on an airline. As an alternative form of punishment I think the parent of said crying baby should be forced to buy drinks for everyone in the nearest three rows affected. God would it suck to be in that fourth row.

1. Red-eye reader/bathroom person.
There is an unspoken code among flyers. Lights out on a red-eye and if you sit in the middle seat or window you are allowed one bathroom break. If you have an overactive bladder you pay the 10 bucks to insure that you get an aisle seat. About the biggest affront to humanity short of war crimes is waking the aisle person up MULTIPLE times so you can fucking pee. The same with the red-eye reader. Who is this clown that is trying to finish a powerpoint before going into the office Monday morning, or catching up on the Divergent series? Do what everyone else in America does, bum an Xanax from a friend who goes to a Beverly Hills Doctor.

But back to my point about one cup of coffee, I don't sit at Starbucks all day and get quarter refills on my coffee or go broke buying a second latte (seriously I feel shame if my daily spending at Starbucks eclipses 10 bucks, if I do get a 2nd latte I always get an unflavored one to stay under this threshold) but if you are at the office or doing some work from home and you put forth the effort to brew a pot of coffee; you deserve more than one cup.

The problem is, I have gotten to a point in my life where I am basically a robot. I add certain things to my body to increase my energy during the day (30 cups of coffee, red bull, rockstar, adderall, pepsi) and then at night I power down with some Nyquil, red wine and an imperial IPA. This is not healthy, nor do I recommend it AND YES I KNOW BENZO ABUSE IS HOW ALL THOSE CELEBRITIES DIED LEAVE ME ALONE. This is just the way it is. That is my routine.

That said, I'm not so sure self-medication is a bad thing.
When I'm stressed out, I go for a run or vent on a blog post.
When I'm upset about girls, I drink a bottle of red wine and watch Forgetting Sarah Marshall.
When I'm nervous about my career prospects or what I'm doing with my life, I take a slow pensive walk to the beach and breathe in deeply because I don't have it too bad after all.

These are all forms of self-medication/self-preservation I suppose and although there are healthy ways of handling your problems and unhealthy ways, I believe there is something to be said for meeting them head on instead of pretending they do not exist.

There is so much good in this world if you make an effort to go find it, yet we spend so much time focusing on the negative side of things.

For example: I have a minor annoyance in my life right now. I am flying to Phoenix on Friday to go to a wedding with my dad. Flight prices inexplicably shot up 300 dollars overnight and I was faced with the grim reality that I was going to have to drive alone 8 hours to Phoenix or suck it up and buy a 500 dollar flight. Fortunately for me, I have ninja-like Priceline skills and I was able to lock in a flight of 200 dollars by naming my own price.

Unfortunately, the Sunday flight I was assigned gets back to LA at 9pm. How does this fuck me? I had plans to go pick up a new kitchen table Sunday and then tickets to OAR at the Troubadour. In order to rectify this problem, I need to standby on an earlier flight and for that "convenience" United will charge me $75.

I schemed all morning about how to get out of this fee.

"I'll take to social media! Airline Twitter accounts LOVE to engage the customer."
"I'll dress in a suit, I'll volunteer to sign up for their credit card, I'll offer to sit next to ANY ONE OF THE WORST 5 PEOPLE TO SIT NEXT TO ON A PLANE."

Just don't make me pay that 75 dollar stand-by fee!!!!!

Or. I just say fuck it and pay the 75 dollars because:  I'm going to a million dollar wedding in Scottsdale with my dad, whom I rarely get to see, Ikea dining sets are like 100 bucks and oh my god I'm seeing my favorite band in the world in front of a crowd of 200 people. Plus I know the secret to drinking for free on airplanes, so I'll totally make that $75 back.

Usually the best form of self-medication is a quick attitude adjustment. When I'm seated next to one of the undesirables listed above, I could bitch about it or remind myself how cool air travel is in general. I bet the majority of the Earth's population will never ride on an airplane, and I complain if I don't get an exit row? The worst.

The thing is, sometimes when things seem to be at their worst, the next big thing is right around the corner. My show ended 2 weeks ago and I haven't found a new job yet, despite having countless meetings and sending out a thousand resumes. So you know what? Instead of wallowing in my own misery, I'm going to grab my surfboarT and head to the beach, because last time I checked bagging rays is the only thing that is still free and never going out of style.* I'll probably get 5 job offers while I'm in the water and then I'll have a whole new set of problems.

*Wear sunscreen because chemotherapy is not free!

Tuesday, April 22, 2014

Advanced Haters' Guide to Misery

Pictured: Me at the Sahara tent.
You've seen it all by now.

There is the article that started it all.

There is the follow-up article that responded to a bunch of shots fired from the basic community.

And this article that was just mean. (But how much weight do you given the opinions of some motherfucker named Marlow?)

The gist of these articles is all basically the same. Coachella is full of a bunch of rich white kids getting super fucked up.

Now the general response from the accused has been, "No way am I fucking basic! I listened to Bastille's EP waaaaay before that shit played on The Vampire Diaries!"

I look at it differently. I say, "So what?" So what if Coachella is a mecca of rich white kids getting super fucked up and spending a ton of money that they did (or didn't) earn. That's what they're into, so let them enjoy it.

You wouldn't say "The West Hollywood Halloween parade is full of a bunch of gays frolicking around in crazy costumes and getting super fucked up! ARGGGGHHH" No, that's just what it is. And that's fine, because that's what the people that go to the West Hollywood Halloween parade are there to do. At what point did everything have to elicit some sort of redeeming cultural value? Coachella is basically Spring Break for adults and if you want to save up your money (and vacation days) to go have a debaucherous existence in the desert for 5 days, who am I to stop you?

I suppose I am a tad bit biased because I just got back from the desert yesterday. I am in the midst of recovering from severe dehydration, probable sun and alcohol poisoning and whatever the other substances were that I ingested over the long weekend. I have taken 2 showers today, shaved my 2 week beard off and scrubbed away any remnants of temporary tattoos. I even had the maturity to cut my wristband off today and not walk around for another 2 weeks rubbing it in to everyone that didn't go.

In fact if I combed my hair and put on normal clothes you might erroneously believe that I was a high functioning adult.

And as I neatly fold all of my bro tanks today and put them away until next Coachella season I find myself asking why?

Why do I do this to myself? I am essentially a thousand dollars poorer after the weekend and I don't have steady employment lined up. I will feel like shit until Friday and I have nothing to show for it.

Or do I?

I wrestle around with the idea of happiness constantly on this blog. What is it to be content? What are the things that make me feel good about my place in this world. I've come to the conclusion that it isn't fancy toys. I really have no tangible assets, except for a handful of Apple products I have acquired over Christmases and birthdays, I could likely wear the same wardrobe the rest of my life, so I chose to invest in life experiences.

The memories that came from this trip are priceless. Sure the crowds were annoying, the beer was expensive, but what about the fact that a member of my group broke their foot and continued partying hard for 12 hours. That's almost as impressive as Bob Gibson's famous broken leg game.

But let's just get down to it shall we? How rad was it to stay in a Palm Desert house with 14 people?
There are probably people out there that do not subscribe to the phrase the more the merrier. I happen to live by that motto though, so the fact that we had 3 beds in a house of 14 people did not phase me. Let me set up the scene of how our night would look.

Bedroom 1: One couple (2 people)

Bedroom 2 One couple (2 people)

Bedroom 3: 3 girls in one bed. 2 girls on one air mattress.

Family room: 1 guy couch a, 1 guy couch b, 1 guy behind couch b laying on the cushions from couch a, 1 guy behind couch a on a pool float raft

Outside: Me in a tent*

*Although I slept in a tent Thursday night, I did not put the rain cover up, because it's the desert obviously I don't have to worry about the rain. However, I failed to realize that since there is hardly ever rain there would be timer activated sprinkler systems. Friday morning I awoke to find my tent under siege. Shots fired from multiple directions, water pouring in from the top, I'm certain this is what it feels like to be water boarded. I escaped the tent and decided that sleeping on a floating raft on the floor was probably a wiser decision moving forward.

The nice thing about going on any vacation with 7 women, is that you wake up to breakfast. Believe it or not, there is this strange breed of people that like to get up before noon whilst on vacation, furthermore they don't mind shopping for mimosa ingredients and cooking pancakes and planning Easter Egg hunts. You should always go on vacation with these people. They are the best.

A breakdown of a typical day would look like this:

8:00a - First unit wakes up. I either continue to sleep or improve my sleeping situation by taking a bed vacated by a first unit.

9:00a - First unit returns from a supply run. In my head I am thanking them, but I continue to sleep.

9:30a- Breakfast is ready, I wake up, but decide to sleep 15 minutes longer.

9:45a- I press snooze once more.

10:00a- The alcohol embargo is lifted. First unit begins drinking, someone comes into where I am sleeping and bring me a mimosa. I decide to wake up and have breakfast.

11:00a- Swimsuits on, we play civil war, flip cup, kings, pong, and do awesome diving nerf catches into the pool. Meg Breaks her foot (Sunday only)

12p-3:30 Drinking escalates.

4p - The Blackhawks blow a lead with less than 2 minutes left (Thursday and Saturday only)

4:15p - Depart to sponsored party at Heineken House to continue to drink for free.

5:30- Throughly sauced, stumble into the festival. Put drugs in swimsuit lining. (didn't think of that one did you?)

5:45p-1a Rage.

2a-330a. Slam beers in hot tub.

Rinse and repeat.

It's hard to say what my favorite part of Coachella actually is. Based on who you talk to Coachella is about lots of different things. It's about the music or it's about the art, or it's about the rise of branding at festivals. But for me, Coachella is about laughing at the fucking Applebee's banner flying across the sky and talking to my friends about how much we loved eating good in the neighborhood when we were little. It's about trolling the VIP parking lot for 2 hours in search of a free backstage artist pass. It's about filling Easter Eggs with 3 ounce shooters (attempted, need bigger eggs next year) and it's about spending 96 hours with 13 people that I love to be around. (Ok and it's a LITTLE bit about rolling my balls off during Zedd)

Bloggers of the internet have a problem. They preach acceptance of every lifestyle imaginable under the sun. You read articles about why people should be able to self-identify as a man, woman or cat if it makes them happy. Yet the "douchebags" are not afforded the same courtesy.

If being a "basic bitch" is about doing things that make you happy, singing every one of the words to that one Lorde song you know, dressing up like an idiot in the desert and taking a bunch of stupid ass selfies in front of that astronaut and high fiving your friends when you eclipse 30 instagram likes, losing your SHIT when Pharrell brings Jay Z on stage...

Well then consider me BASIC AS FUCK.

Because here's the thing: All the hipsters and the haters, and the social media trend forecasters and the ultra liberal bloggers that just cannot appreciate MY lifestyle because it doesn't match up with theirs? They're becoming the exact thing they've been preaching against. When I took a moment of pause, to really survey the situation at the festival grounds, I didn't see perpetuators of intolerance, I didn't see any fighting, I saw a crowd of one enjoying a festival together, and I think there is some beauty in that.

You are never too cool to be happy.

But if writing 3,000 words trashing the establishment makes them sleep at night, that's fine. Misery loves company so their articles are certain to go viral on Facebook when everyone that can't go this year tries to shit on "the douchebags who have lost touch with what the festival is actually about"

No I know what the festival is about, at least what its always been about for me. Having a fucking legendary weekend with my friends and making memories that I will never forget.

And there is nothing basic about that.

Tuesday, April 15, 2014

Egomaniac pt 1

Despite accomplishing basically nothing to this point in my life, sometimes I get overwhelmingly cocky for some reason. It's as if the fact that cute girls showed up to my parties (really just for a semester) in college set in motion a lifetime of overconfident behavior. I don't have a great job (or any job at the moment) I'm terrible at women and well, I just don't have many skills (making buffalo chicken dip, telling stories may be the lone exceptions)

A perfect example of this is my search for Coachella tickets. Last year there was a notoriously bad line-up at Coachella, but I didn't care because the point of going to Coachella is doing MDMA with a bunch of trust fund kids and douchebags. (Note: The Daily Beast only gets away with this article because it attacks upper middle class white culture. That said, never has being a douchebag seemed so fun!)

So I just assumed that I would again pay $150 this year and go party in the Sahara tent for 3 days.


Apparently the trust fund douche bag culture is peaking this year as there are tickets currently selling on Craigslist for over $1000. Either that or there are some hipsters that REALLy want to see a couple washed up rappers or a middle-aged black person. So when I heckled all my friends that tried to sell me a weekend 2 pass for face saying "only an IDIOT pays full price for Coachella" well now I truly am the asshole.

It's nice though, to get knocked off your pedestal once in a while.

Sometimes, maybe on a morning where I have kissed a girl the night before, I will walk into a Starbucks with some sort of unearned swagger and spew out some bullshit like "I'll have a trip CDL grande no whip" and it just TOTALLY FALLS FLAT.

Everyone in the coffee shop will look at me like "what the fuck is that buddy? you just creating crazy acronyms for no reason?" Then I will feel immense shame and whisper cinnamon dulce latte and don't worry about the extra shot or the no whip...Um here's 5 bucks for the tip jar, I'm sorry.

I feel the same way about when I get coffee shamed by the snobs at Intelligentsia, like how could I not know which fair trade blend of beans I wanted, what a dickhead I am.

But it's nice. These moments remind me to be humble. Arrogance rarely gets me where I need to be, but sometimes when I color within the lines, things work out for me. Here is a story from my early childhood in which I wasn't a cocky fucktard and things worked out. I sent this out to all of NBCTV a couple weeks ago in a general office email, because...why the hell not?

May 10, 1994 there was a total solar eclipse in Indianapolis, IN. All the first graders at Amy Beverland Elementary were told not to look at the sun or you would go blind and die. I stared at the ground all day only to find out that all the other kids totally watched it. They made fun of me until I cried and I was devastated as there would not be another Indy solar eclipse in my lifetime.

Such a 6 year old perspective, to think that I would never move out of my home town. Almost a bit precious...we continue.

Nearly 18 years later to the day I was at the Hudson block party (what happened to that?) watching Haim perform "The Wire" and I caught wind that a total solar eclipse was happening. I stared right at that sun for a full 5 minutes, I was blind for two days but it was totally worth it. Now Haim is headlining Coachella and one of the kids that made fun of me lives at home with his parents.

And the moral of the story is...WAIT. I still don't have a ticket to Coachella. So let's rework that ending.

Now Haim is headlining Coachella and I will be live-streaming poolside while I wait for my 13 house-mates to come home and afterparty with me...still better than living in Geist.

Oh, who am I kidding, I'll totally pull a hail mary and get a ticket (or get in, I doubt that fence line is 100% secure) Enjoy the molly you douche bags!

Thursday, April 10, 2014

The Cold Never Bothered me Anyway

Ok, slightly larger than three ounces
Sometimes I get really frustrated when things don't work out a certain way for me and I go into a tailspin of despair. In the past, any number of a certain things have caused it. Personal problems, professional angst, physiological lack of endorphines or sometimes (usually) a perfect storm of everything that could go bad, going bad. I get really down on myself, think about all the negative decisions that led me to where I am and then I pout for like a week.

Last week I wrote some mundane droll about how the older I get, the less I know and that we are all con men trying to hide our real feelings from the world because if our true colors were actually seen by the people around us, we would all be exposed as borderline sociopaths. No one has anything in life figured out, everyone is just trying their best to fake it.

Thank God I didn't publish that bullshit. Because last Saturday I woke up and the sun was out, the beach was open and the 21st Amendment was still going strong. This is the new positive message SingleDudeinLA where NO ONE, including the author will be allowed to whine about the pretty girl in class not liking them. Now I know that a lot of this blog has preached questionable treatment of women in the past, so if you've ever been offended please accept this sincere apology and listen to about how hanging out with a bunch of chicks helped me pull my head out of my ass.

I've been telling my roommate for weeks that I would go to Beer Fest with her.

"Buy your ticket now, it always sells out."

Sure, I will I promise.

Beer Fest is something that is held about every 3 months in Los Angeles. You go somewhere that is far as fuck away and super inconvenient to get to and pay $40. For said $40 you are allowed to chug as much craft beer as possible in 3 hours out of a 3 ounce sippy cup.

I never had any intention of buying a ticket. But Saturday morning, when my roommate and her friends were literally jumping on my bed trying to get me to wake up like they were my brother on Christmas morning of 1995 or my roommates on every little 5 race day in college (Christmas mornings 2006-2009) I caved. I log onto the website to buy a ticket and of course, it's sold out.

Fuck. I then sauntered on over to Craigslist where every dipshit seller wanted to charge me 4 times the value of the ticket and drive to Pasadena to pick it up. Actually, I believe in a free market, mad respect to people that flip beerfest tix for a living. Alas, I did what anyone in a rut would do when met with mild adversity, I gave up.

But this was unacceptable to Stephanie, who told me to "stop being a pussy and get in the fucking car" or something like that. So at her urging, I got in the fucking car. Riding in the front seat, I continued to search the bowels of the internet for a ticket when some good samaritan responded to one of my texts, "My roommate got to fucked up last night, do you want his ticket?"

I went through my mental Craigslist check list to see if this person was going to scam me or not.

1. Believable back story. If someone tries to tell you their cousin died, and they are just SO heartbroken that they have to travel back to Kansas with their fiance to attend the funeral, they're full of shit. They're trying too hard. "My roommate got fucked up" seems refreshingly honest, this is LA people party. Check.

2. Blue Texts. I realize that Droid now has a larger market share than Apple, but I will always mistrust green texts on my iPhone. Sure, the GS4 is a lovely device, I'm sure the Android interface integrates seamlessly with your Chromebook...but you know what other phones have green texts? BURNERS. No one is putting together a long con with an iPhone to get $50. (10 coachella tickets could be a different story) but again, I inherently trust Apple users. Check.

3. Area Code. While it may come off as a prejudiced, I feel a lot more comfortable dealing with a 310 or a 323 as opposed to a 562 or 714. This guy had a 425. (Does quick Google search) Tacoma, Washington? Is there anyone in the country that seems more trustworthy than a Seattle hipster with a whispy blonde beard? They're not trying to scam you bro, unless for every con they pull, a child in Indonesia gets a Latin Book. It's all about the give bro. Check.

4. When you call to meet up. The only time I have ever been conned by someone on Craigslist was a white girl. And yes the fact that I let my guard down for a while girl is lingering latent racism on my part, but I would urge you only to see if they sound educated, would mind letting you meet at their house, or quickly take a picture of their ID. No one is fucking you over if you know where they live.
We met at a Von's next to his house. Acceptable. Check, check check.

I gave "Max" 40 bucks (under face!) and it was off to LA Center Studios to pound some IPA.

Ok so remember that daunting picture I painted about the beer fest? If you can get past the logistics of getting there, and you don't mind watching uberSTRECTH's unloading with USC frat bros wearing customized tanks (Name BARLEY LEGAL Number .08 Get it, it's a play on words for barely/barley) then it's pretty fucking spectacular. And frat bros, you're my people, I ain't mad at cha.

So we get there, sample about 40 beers (big ups to Breckenridge Brewery and Marin Brewery) and proceed to dance at the b106 tent while a bunch of black people pointed saying things like "OHHH SHIT, look at white boy!" I have moves, I am used to this. Needless to say those 3 ounce beers, add up. I had some more beer, smashed a lobster roll*

*Side note: The only way to get a Lobster roll, is Connecticut style. Maine style is fucking gross. Everything in the fucking world is better hot. Weather, coffee, sandwiches, icyHOT. Ok maybe not beer, but if they put melted butter on my warm beer I might change my mind. /endrant

Whatever. It's 3 o clock, I'm drunk, time to go home.

That day would have been good enough, but it gets better. There is magical place near mid-wilshire called The Boiling Crab. They will sell you a bag of boiled crawfish and crab legs and let you take it home.

We did this. And we ate 20 pounds of crawfish and crab legs while watching Titanic in standard definition on the Ovation network, and I'll be damned if it wasn't the greatest fucking night of my life. No molly, no fireball, not even Kate Winslett's boobs made an appearance, this was a 4 hour, grainy edit of Titanic and some cajun juice, and it was magical.

Fast forward to Sunday. Although the lion's share of the drinking was done with the sun up, that didn't prevent me from having a debilitating hangover. And if there is one thing I've learned that is a terrible mistake to make when you're hungover, it's to double down.

So I went to a beach party and resumed drinking.

Every day in LA is summer, but when April hits everyone freaks out and "holy shit Spring is here" like they weren't allowed to go to the beach before when it was still sunny and 75.

I have a theory.

People are content to be having just a little more fun than their friends. So even though it's nice here year round, we don't feel the need to shove it down everyone's throat in the winter when it's negative 10 degrees in Chicago. In a certain solidarity, we keep the Sunday fundays to a minimum, but once those midwesterners post one photo of "Sluggers after the Cubs game #wrigleyville" it's all OH FUCK THAT, I LIVE IN PARADISE AND WILL NOT BE OUTDONE.
Cue epic day that includes, kite surfing, Malibu Wines and a Game of Thrones themed beach party.

Oh yes, unfortunately we ran out of beer on the beach around 3 and had a few hours to kill between beach and Thrones. So I did what any enterprising young man would do, I ran to the store, bought 6 cheeses with some friends and hosted a cheese draft. I remind you, none of this is metaphor. Cheese draft is not cocaine, titanic is not an indication of orgy, I'm growing up...we went to the store, bought cheese and put on Frozen.

I have a bone to pick with men now.

I know you're not into musical theatre. I know you probably think it would be more fun to plug in the Nintendo 64 and play Mario Kart. But seriously buddy, I'm putting you on blast. Do not pout and leave the party when a Disney movie goes on. We are at a birthday party, for a mid 20's girl. She likes Frozen, her friends like Frozen, and most importantly, I like Frozen. It's a great fucking movie, and if you don't like the song "Let it Go," well then you don't have a fucking soul. Everyone needs to check their 'man-card' at the door. Being a man, is being able to admit that you dig things that aren't traditionally manly, and if you leave the party when something doesn't go your way, that is an allegory for how the rest of your life will play out. /endrant2

And you know after Elsa saved Anna by an act of true love, and me and 8 girls polished off several gallons of white wine, well then Jamie Lannister tried to fuck his sister, there were some gay whores and an 8 year old girl stabbed two guys in the neck and laughed while they bled to death.

It was a perfect evening.

Tied the whole thing in a bow with my favorite BYOB restaurant in Venice Sunday night and I was officially out of my funk.

Late 20's is a volatile time in everyone's life. I don't really know what I'm doing, I'm not sure I'm where I thought I would be or if I should be doing something different. But that's fine. That is what growing up is about. You're allowed to just be sad sometimes, just fucking feel...something. Wallow in your own misery, it can feel, dare I say, therapeutic? I'm still pretty young, there is a lot of good and bad left to come, so when you feel cold, bitch about the weather for a minute and then throw on a fucking scarf. (Ok now that was a metaphor, allow yourself to be sad for a minute and then go do something about it)

I wrote most of this on Monday, and then I got completely sidetracked with my Coachella planning.
By the way, I still don't have a ticket, but I think if I create 20 email adresses next Tuesday SELLING tickets for $200-$220 I can shift demand down, because people are stupid. Ask any of the chicks that sent their "best selfie" to some burner phone with the promise of a FREE WRISTBAND. Seriously, there wil be a Tumblr next week, "The dumb girls that send me tit pics for Coachella tix lol" it's despicable, wholly disgusting. But there should be an aptitude test required to use the internet.

Here's the thing. Tomorrow is the last day of my employment. Monday I will be a free agent for the 6th time in 3 years. It's a stressful part of the life I chose, but I don't regret it at all. Because Thursday, I'm driving 3 hours east, where I will take up temporary residence with 14 kick ass people, and we are going to have the greatest fucking four days of our lives. And really can you ask for anything more? Sometimes you'll feel like you're going through cold spells in your life, and sometimes you just need to rent a house in Palm Springs to turn everything around. Or have all the awesome women in your life remind you that things really aren't that bad. And all my friends that I'm heading to Coachella with next week, do yourself a favor and memorize the lyrics to "First Time in Forever" because I'm most definitely bringing the ice to the desert.