Wednesday, May 28, 2014

Pinch Twist Suck

In a former life, Memorial Day weekend meant one thing to me: Time to go racing.

Now for those of you not intimately acquainted with what this means, it meant loading up a car with a tent, a bunch of your buddies and enough booze to end the current California drought. School had just let out and all of the hopes and dreams of an amazing summer were still alive. That girl who you missed out on shacking with during finals week, she was back in play for one more night. Everyone would meet in a large grass field near the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, and within a matter of minutes, the scene would devolve into total chaos. A day and night of partying, followed by the greatest spectacle in auto racing the following day.

Memorial Days were spent riding out a hangover by a pool or on the lake. Drinking just enough beer to bring you back to zero, because tomorrow you start a prestigious internship at a bank/accounting firm/law office and you don't want to fuck it up.

Those were the days, the days when I could easily spend 48 hours consecutively in 95 plus degree weather, wearing nothing but jorts and a 1992 Reggie Miller jersey, drinking Bud heavy until I would eventually succumb to heat stroke.

Those days are gone.

I have noticed little snippets of my own maturity lately. I have started to take extreme pleasure in shopping for very comfortable sweat pants, and for the first time this weekend when I looked at Instagram, I felt something other than FOMO. I felt relief.

I used to see someone standing on the back of a pick-up truck and think "MAN I would have crushed that beer, SO much faster." This time around I thought, 'man he looks hot...and sweaty. I bet he is going to be uncomfortable later. Buuuut more power to him, like.'

That was it. You know that feeling where you can't look at any more of your friends photos because the jealousy turns to outlandish rage? I didn't have that! It was awesome. This must be the mature feeling one gets when they feel empathy for someone. I'm happy something went well for you, I'm not jealous at all. That feeling has been rare for me to this point in my life, but maybe I'm starting to grow up.

My weekend was rather unspectacular but it was exactly what I wanted out of my three day holiday. Three days I had beer and food in hand by noon, three days I was in bed by midnight. (Well Friday I got a bit tuned at Shore Bar, but we'll leave that out of this)

But this blog isn't about my ill fated attempt at surfing with a broken wrist, or the frustration of watching both my teams lose a crucial game 4 last night.

It's about crawfish.

I have a funny relationship with French culture. I think French Quebec is about the worst place on Earth, and I never met a Francophile that I didn't want to punch in the face, but for some reason the French inspired culture of Louisiana I find to be about the greatest thing in the world.

When I was in college, I should have spent more time writing and making youtube videos. Instead, I spent my time social climbing and trying to find girls that would take me to all the cool dances. But also I spent a good amount of time on an ahead of its time blog called FrattingHard. It was an SEC country Greek lifestyle blog and I would go there and read all about the goings on in the south because I was fascinated by their culture. This website had a knack for ranking things that they thought were awesome, and creating a tournament. More often than not two unfamiliar items would meet in the finals.

Costas and Croakies vs. Crawfish Boil.

Pictured: All I ever wanted to be when I was 19.

Of course I recognized things like "Sperry's" "Old Crow" and the like, but I couldn't for the life of me figure out what the other two terms were, so I took to the interwebs and learned that Costas were a brand of sunglasses, and croakies were what held them around your neck. 

But a crawfish boil seemed to be this mythical ceremony similar to the classic midwest barbecue, except a thousand times better.

I was wrong, comparing a boil to a bbq even in the slightest is unfair to the crawfish/crayfish/crawdads/mud bugs of the creeks all over the world. A crawfish boil is a life changing event that I wish I could experience bi monthly.

So let's explain how it works shall we? I show up to The Brig, a shitty Venice bar famous for being close to a bus stop that services Culver City (I'll leave it at that and let you infer what you will) however, it has a massive parking lot off to the side. On this day, the parking lot was transformed into a beer garden. Nothing but picnic tables, a Budweiser truck and a Sailor Jerry's RV.

My group sat down at a table unsure of the procedure until a friendly cajun man at least 150 pounds overweight placed a long wax placemat down on our picnic table (you know like the kind at shitty pizza places growing up where you can play tic tac toe with your dad or something to that effect)

Not moments later, the same friendly Cajun rolled out about 100 pounds of crawfish, corn, jumbalaya and garlic onto our placemat, handed out some empty trays and told us to enjoy. Giving this man the once over, it was apparent that he liked to eat, I had a feeling we were in for quite a good time.

Step 1: Pinch (the tail)
Although that may sound like a coping tactic for premature ejaculation, it is actually the first step in crawfish consumption. First of all, let's get something out of the way. Crawfish look fucking disgusting. The fun animated images that may be attached to marketing materials for a Boil or cajun themed restaurant? They're lying to you. Staring down these soulless dead eyed river shrimp can be extremely intimidating. I'm sure that the whole bottom feeder caveat in Kosher of the Jewish tradition was the doing of some priest who was like, NOPE.

However, like all things that require lowering your inhibitions there is booze. Did I mention the god damn Budweiser truck!?!

And no this is not one of those annoying "all you can drink" events with one shitty bartender and 79 people trying to get a drink. There are like 5 speed pouring champs serving out 12 beers a minute, more often than not, there will just be a handful of drinks waiting for you at the beverage tent. I recommend double fisting, it's the quickest way to quell your anxiety.

Once you are lubed up enough to conquer these undead boiled prawns, proceed to step two and...

Pictured: A fucking lie

Step 2: Twist
And pull! Decapitate that motherfucker, not so terrifying now are you? Oh wait, yes yes you are. Let's focus on something else shall we? There is a bags tournament going on in the corner and...what the hell is the deal with that Sailor Jerry's RV, they giving out some swag inside? Let's go investigate.

Ah, free tattoos! Who doesn't love a tacky temporary tattoo so when they stroll into work Tuesday morning they will bear a faded remembrance to their coworkers insinuating that fun was had without them!

What's that you say? They are actually doing REAL tattoos in there? Of the Sailor Jerry's anchor? AND THE LINE IS THREE HOURS LONG?!?

I always figured that getting a tattoo could be a bit of an impulsive decision for some. Even though it stays with you, like the rest of your life, but I never knew there would be such high demand for corporate brand integration. COME BE A WALKING ADVERTISEMENT FOR US FOREVER! We'll ink you up for free! (Tip your tattoo artist) To be quite honest, there are much lamer things to be tatted up with than an anchor, you can attach faux-bullshit meaning behind it. (It means I'm never leaving Venice Beach, get it I'm ANCHORED HERE) However upon further investigation it turns out the reason for this whole tattoo stunt was that Sailor Jerry, the namesake of the Rum, was a famous tattoo artist. Before he died, he imparted his tattooing wisdom to one person, Ed Hardy, I can no longer support Sailor Jerry.

See ya in your nightmares!

Step 3: Suck the head
Celebrity chef and hero to the people, Anthony Bourdain, once said: "There are two kinds of people, those who suck the head and those who don't." Again, knowing Bourdain is a lush you may mistake this for a rant about blowjobs and the growing prudeness of women in America, alas he is talking about crawfish consumption.

Now that you have ripped this fucker in half you are presented with the head and tail section. Obviously the tail section contains the classic crustacean meat that you are accustomed to. But the head...the head contains the goods. I'm not quite sure how it happens, but at some point during the boiling process, the crawfish brains warp into this succulent cajun juice that MUST be consumed. I am like a crawfish zombie...fuck the tails, GIVE ME THEIR BRAINS. I need them all.

I can see how it might be off putting to spend an afternoon, sucking crawfish heads (what if their evil devil eyes come out too!) again, did I mention the copious amount of free beer? I used to be afraid to eat anything that wasn't Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, I didn't even eat cheese pizza until high school. If I can do it, you can too.

If there is anything that makes one feel sexy, it is undoubtedly the feeling of being covered in Louisiana hot sauce while having strong garlic breath. So for this reason most of my crew decided to go out after the boil. Let's go to Townhouse, down some Fireball and dance like the world is ending.

Naw, I'm good.

If you think about the key components on motive to go out they are getting drunk, spending time with friends and maybe finding a girl to kiss. I already had two out of three, why shoot for the moon. The idea of getting in a conversation with someone of the opposite sex, sharing things about myself, stories of my childhood, asking her about her interests, hopes and dreams only for a sweaty make-out during "Turn Down For What" is it worth it?

Naw. Because tomorrow I'll just be the sweaty guy with garlic breath she kissed at a bar.

I really don't see the point anymore. Sure I'm capable of an all day/night bender once in a while. I'll be hungover for half a week and drink every Pedialyte at the local CVS, but I can do it. If I'm at a concert and there is a little Molly floating around, I might not say no. But I'm starting to realize I have limits. I'm starting to see the value in going to bed at midnight instead of 8am. I think it's no crazy revelation that partying at day > partying at night. Maybe it's the sun, maybe it's the type of activities.

A typical night out costs north of 100 bucks between cabs, drinks, late night drunk food, bouncer bribes. A typical day out costs about a case of beer. Using that logic, I saved 300 bucks this weekend (subtract 3 cases of beer @ $20 a pop) I'm net positive $240.

So what did I do with that $240? I bought a round trip flight to Seattle. Why? I dunno, why the fuck not? I heard there is this boat race weekend called SeaFair that is pretty epic. So now instead of 3 hazy nights that I will never remember, I have a trip to look forward to.

If I use this same method the next couple weekends maybe I can book a late June trip to Austin to see some friends and get a quick New Braunfels river float in.

Growing up I was always told nothing good happens after midnight, I didn't realize the wisdom in that. I assumed it was adults telling me to scale back my partying, however they just realized that partying is better between 12 and 8 than it is between the other 12 and 8.

The bonus? You wake up feeling great the next day with more time for activities. No shame of sleeping until 4pm and wasting the whole day, no instead you even have time to knock out a few episodes of Lost before you head to something like a wine tasting, sailing trip or you know...a crawfish boil.

Friday, May 23, 2014

The Venice Mini Club

When I was 16 years old, I had pretty much hit rock bottom. I was struggling academically, athletically and socially in my Sophomore year of high school (a bad trifecta) I still hadn’t gone past 2nd base with a girl and my parents wouldn’t let me have a Motorola Razor. Things were worse than ever.

However shortly thereafter, out of pity my dad bought me a 1997 Pontiac Grand Am GT…and everything changed.

It was a matter of weeks before I had installed a cold air intake, mirror tint and two, thousand watt subs. I was awesome. I got a reckless driving misdemeanor charge for street racing, a bunch of Carmel Freshman started making out with me and flashing me for rides. It was also around this time that I discovered vodka and started making rap demo tapes. Life was good.

Flash forward 10 years, I hadn’t thought about my existential teenage crisis in years. I was living the dream in Venice, actually I was planning a Surf and Skate swap meet with a gay motorcycle enthusiast at a bar on the beach…which is like the most Venice thing ever. A friend of mine was supposed to pick me up and take me to Beerfest at Paramount Studios and I was expecting to see his white Audi roll up, but instead he shows up in a brand new Jeep Wrangler.

Now this friend of mine is an awesome dude and wildly successful in his career, but he is by no means the alpha male that approaches a girl in a bar and says “You’re coming home with me tonight.”

But that fucking Wrangler man. It gave him a swagger. Girls made eyes with us at red lights. Dudes gave us approving nods. We were suddenly in an elite society of  people with an awesome ride. Just cruising from Venice to a movie studio on a Saturday to drink. No big deal. I’m pretty sure my buddy went home with a model that night.

Now unfortunately, that was just a courtesy car while my buddy’s car was in the shop, but it left an impression that a cool car can change everything.

Now jump to the recent past, a couple weeks ago I was without a job, I had a broken wrist and I had a shitty car that leaked gas and had no air conditioning. I was playing constant chicken with a combustible liquid, and thankfully I was winning thus far, but I was pretty low, there were times when I actually kind of hoped for a spark.

But one night while Ubering home from a failed date (I refused to drive in the presence of women) I remembered what a game changer a new vehicle could be, so I took to Craigslist and started closely monitoring for a situation I could exploit. And on Wednesday I found it. A Brazilian professional surfer was getting rid of her Mini Cooper because it couldn’t fit her boards. I told her I would be in Manhattan Beach in 20 minutes with a stack of hundreds.

So that’s it. I own a Mini Cooper now. And it’s fucking tits. I know what you’re thinking, 6’3 210 pound dude in a Mini looks dumb. It’s a chick’s car. Well to you I say BITCH DON’T KILL MY VIBE.

If some struggling writer who had a great great step-aunt that was half Cherokee can self identify as American Indian, I reserve the right to self-identify as a Mini person.

So here’s the thing. When I woke up this morning, my problems weren’t suddenly gone. I still have questions in my head about failed relationships, if I did well on my interview this week or what’s going to happen when the state of California finds out I forgot to pay my seat belt ticket. (Yes after a Tuesday morning tennis match on my way to have an organic juice I received a seat belt ticket which, ok after that pseudo-pretenti-douchiness filled last sentence, I deserved it)

But there is just something about driving a German inspired British roadster that makes you stop giving a fuck. I mean I hit 90 going around a hard curve on Sepulveda last night and it was awesome. And now comes a three day weekend.

I am in a good mood.

It was one such goofy mood that gave me the following idea. I’m going to start a fake club, make fliers and put them on every Mini Cooper on the west side. I’m hoping hilarity will ensue? Anyway this is what the flier says…

Congrats! You have been invited to join the awesome and totally exclusive Venice Mini Club!

Greetings fellow European sport coupe enthusiasts! My name is Dave and I am starting a new club for us West Side Mini owners. I thought we could do super rad stuff like recreate our favorite scenes from the Italian Job, drive down Lincoln in a ‘flying-V’ formation and talk about how much better life on LA’s west side is!

Membership is open to any Mini owners that live AWOL (always west of Lincoln) with SOME exception being made for our friends in East Venice (but not Eastern Marina Del Rey or Eastern Santa Monica because that’s basically just West LA. Yuck)

Anyway, send me an email at and answer the following questions. Let me know if you have any fun ideas for social mixers or if you are interested in holding a leadership position.

All club meetings will be held in the downstairs room of Townhouse, Fridays at midnight!


Mini year/model/color:

Most hated east side neighborhood:

Essay!! How do you feel about the gentrification of Venice?

Well. This will likely crash and burn, but I think there is a chance I will get some hate filled responses or hopefully some genuine interest, at which point I reserve the right to make my parody real, the same way Quentin Tarantino and Robert Rodriguez made Machete a movie out of a fake trailer.

For some reason light hearted pranks are dead…and I’m bringing it back!

We’ve got a three day weekend coming up. I’ve got several barbecues, crawfish boils and Blackhawks games to tend to. And if I play my cards right maybe some girl will flash me for a ride in my new car…and that ride of course will be back to my place where I’ll finally get past second base.

Why yes that was a double callback. Don’t worry, that one’s free. Have a great weekend.

Tuesday, May 20, 2014


I don't know when it happened.

I grew up a staunch supporter of everything that the Republican party had come to represent. I dreamed of marrying a gorgeous Christian girl in a large church and spending the rest of our lives making fun of poor people and Democrats.

Then there was the whole, 'oh I'm a "social moderate" but I still believe in fiscal conservatism thing.' Really this just meant I was largely apathetic about social issues and I wouldn't go out of my way to bash gay marriage, legal marijuana or abortion. But selfishly, I didn't care, those things don't affect me.

But then one day I just stopped caring about anything. People should be able to do whatever they want, even if I think it's stupid. I think it is stupid to self-identify as a fish. But if self-identifying as a fish makes you happy, then you should fucking do it. I do a lot of stupid stuff. But it makes me happy, and no one tries to stop me. So I figure this is a fair trade.

This doesn't mean I can't root for certain things. And while I don't have much of an agenda, there are a few things that I hope for, one of them being anarchy.

Like what if...

Donald Sterling was in the middle of his legal battle with the NBA and LeBron James pulled a Samuel L Jackson by storming the court room and shooting him in the fucking face with a shot gun.


Of course the surface result of this is that Donald Sterling is dead and the best basketball player in the world goes to jail (unless he has McConaughey for a lawyer) but deeper down there are the questions of, well shit. The King just murdered Sterling in cold blood and now his wife is the owner of the team.
But clearly you can't take the team away from the widow of a murdered husband while the HazMat team is still clearing pieces of his brain off of the judge's gavel. The case is halted, the Sterling family retains ownership, and only half the players decide to strike the following season. Chaos.

And what if, on that VERY SAME DAY, a sex tape of Michael Sam and Kendall Jenner surfaces, mind you it is timestamped 2012 OMFG she's 17!!! And then a bunch more girls come forward claiming Michael Sam hit them raw when they were in their mid to late teens. What happens then?

Or, Aaron Hernandez is acquitted of triple homicide and goes on to have a career season with Oakland.

This is the shit that I am into. Things that make the collective head explode. I love a good scandal, and the only thing better than some athlete killing his wife, is a crazy twist in which his wife was actually an international drug warlord.

Sure maybe I'm a monster, but I'm fair. I universally loathe inflated public outrage. Twenty years ago you could speak your mind, now if Jennifer Lawrence makes a rape joke it becomes an international incident. And I think that's silly.

All of the faux outrage is silly, and it's largely an indictment on the internet and social media as a whole. And if it was just a collection of people getting overly worked up over things that in no way impact them. Fine. Look, Aaron Hernandez is a dick. Donald Sterling is a dick. And Michael Sam? I wish him the best.

But the groupthink is not contained exclusively to hating on dicks. Nay, there is collateral damage...and I am here today to say one thing...

Leave Coldplay the FUCK alone.

Honestly, let me tell you fucking hipster contrarians something. If you think it is an original thought to hate on a popular band, you need to trade your skinny jeans in for a nice pair of croakies. I will concede that Coldplay is a band that has made a living off of an affable lead singer making formulaic radio-friendly hits. But there isn't necessarily anything wrong with that.

I think there is a clear distinction between the people that have jumped on the Coldplay-hate bandwagon and those that enjoy it when they find an old iPod mini (lime green) and see that they had 3 different live versions of "In My Place."

You either did or did not get a hand job at a Coldplay concert in high school. That's all there is to it.

It's not that the Coldplay hating hipsters were incapable of receiving hand jobs in high school, only that to do so at an outdoor concert would pose a challenge due to the tight constriction of the denim and the awkward design of the button fly. Abercrombie and Fitch shorts though, the definition of convenience. They may have been lambasted by the screenwriters of Superbad, but my guess is that a pre Freaks and Geeks Seth Rogen never tore a whole in the lining of his shorts so he could get jerked off through a cargo pocket.

Ahh, nostalgia.

The truth of the matter is, I'm not even THAT big a fan of Coldplay, but I like them enough that I felt the need to stand up for them when their album dropped this week and they were given a collective FUCKKKK YOUUUU. Maybe people don't remember the first time they heard 'The Scientist.' Or when they heard 'Don't Panic' in Garden State whilst simultaneously falling in love with Natalie Portman.

And in the same year that Chris Martin divorces megacunt Gwyneth Paltrow, I thought for sure, Coldplay would be embraced now more than ever.

In 2005, Coldplay dropped X&Y which escalated them from British alternative pop band, to international superstardom. 'Speed of Sound' was all over the place, 'Fix You' became a melodramatic anthem that they rode to 15 million albums sold and deeper cuts like 'Swallowed in the Sea' I would play on repeat while driving home from a girls house.

Looking back, this was my emo phase. While many of my contemporaries were blasting Simple Plan and Dashboard, I was listening to Coldplay (and lots of rap music) In my opinion there was nothing else better to drive to, super loud with the windows down.

In 2008, I was living on my own for the first time. I had a house in Wrigleyville and I was selling cigs. But it turns out, I didn't do much that summer aside from listen to Viva la Vida amplified on airport through the whole house...drinking copious amounts of vodka. Coldplay was finally a band that you could party to! I remember people coming over to my house and doing coke off the counter during 'Strawberry Swing' and thinking oh shit, this is NOT your older brother's Coldplay.

At their concert at the United Center that summer, I remember sitting outside a liquor store in Garfield Park at the corner of Madison and Western (not a nice area!) I was with 2 dudes passing a handle of vodka around a circle while someone played 'Clocks' on an iPhone first generation. The only explanation for us not getting stabbed/robbed must have been that the local hoodlums legitimately thought we were crazy. We snuck a second handle into the United Center and then moved down from our seats in the upper deck to the lower level right before the intermission.

Somehow the band went down some sort of secret elevator that lowered them below the stage, moved them across the arena and raised them, right in front of me, where they played 'Green Eyes' (unfortunately I was no longer wearing cargo shorts at this point or the nearest girl to me would have immediately given me a handjob...I assume)

My friends and I met some 19 year old Wilmettte chicks on the red line back to Wrigley and had an after party until noon the next day. It is largely agreed upon that this was one of the greatest nights in Chicago.

So maybe I don't subscribe to musical theory, but I associate my appreciation of music with the life experiences that accompany them. And sure this was a pretty crude account of my Coldplay experiences (a majority which were fabricated) but I can say with certainty I have had a good time whilst listening to some of their songs.

And maybe you did too, or maybe there is another band that you reflect fondly on. Leave mine alone.

See the problem with keeping the status quo is you're essentially endorsing the message of a High School Musical song. You know who fucked with the status quo? Zac Efron! He started doing a lot of drugs and quit doing Disney movies and look at him now.

(Side note: I would be very interested in a HSM where are they now. We all know that Efron went to rehab for coke/heroin and every man in America has spent significant time with "leaked" photos of Vanessa Hudgens, but I really want to know what happened to Ashley Tisdale's gay brother or the piano player, what the fuck are they up to)

So in closing...I'm sure I've lost all of you by now, but in closing, the shitty (or not shitty) music from our youth's will always hold extreme sentimental value to us. I will never stop loving DMB, OAR, Coldplay, Third Eye Blind, Blink 182...etc. And you should equally treasure your Tool, ICP if you were one of those weirdos.

And let's save the collective outrage for a real tragedy, you know like a war or terrorist attack. If someone gets drunk and tweets something mildly offensive, how about we let them off with a free pass?

Monday, May 12, 2014

Life with a broken wrist

I used to wear crocs to the bar in college. I didn't do this because I thought it was a fashion statement, I did it because I took overwhelming pride in how few fucks I gave about everything. I wanted every person at the bar to know, that the same crocs I wore in the frat shower riddled with dip spit and urine were the crocs I wore to the bar.

Everyone kind of has that vibe in college though. People roll to class in sweat pants, drinking whiskey out of a water bottle playing Brickbreaker on their Blackberry Curve or pinging girls they want to fuck later. Hell my frat bought a car during finals week, parked it in the front lawn and smashed it to shreds with sledgehammers. The idea behind this was that it would become a philanthropy event. We would take money out of the fraternity's budget and buy some shitty car from a townie for $500 bucks. Then during finals week, for $5 we would let stressed out students blow off some steam by taking a few whacks at it.

Well as soon as the car pulled into the yard we immediately began drinking Jack Daniels and pulverizing this poor thing. I think within 3 hours we had set it on fire; the philanthropy netted -$500.

Not surprisingly one day, when I was wearing aforementioned crocs at Kilroy's some dumb chick wearing heels (I'm kidding, it's never dumb to wear heels, unless you're super hot and 5'11, find a nice pair of Tory flats, other than that every girl should always wear heels) stepped on my foot. She went right through one of those holes (designed for those LOONEY pins you could design your crocs with lolz) and about a half inch into my foot. I bled profusely for days, had a scar for a while, and the rest of the time I owned those crocs, there was a small tear in the shoe right where her heel had speared through the top of my foot.

But I deserved this. I'm sure I pissed and moaned at the time about how she was a drunk bitch and she should watch where she's going and not step on my foot. But who the fuck wears glorified sandals out to a bar and doesn't expect disastrous results? This one was all on me. Those who don't give a fuck are destined to stumble at some point or another. BTW it's all good, I think I went home with a Sophomore Kappa that night that wanted to "help out with the bleeding." College is full of negative reinforcement.

This concept of not caring has not gone away, let's just look to popular music. I think sometime between the release of the 17th remix of Ellie Goulding's "Lights" and the introduction of some Australian white chick rapper that tries to sound like Nikki Minaj; the recording industry is officially trolling us, and like the music business didn't learn their lesson after giving notorious lip syncers Mili Vanilli a Grammy, they gifted us Ashlee Simpson several years later. Time is a flat circle and history is doomed to repeat itself.

Thus it should be no surprise to anyone that under the guise of training for a triathlon 2 weeks ago, I through on my douchiest cycling kit, put on an aggressive dubstep Playlist from Songza and set out to smash all of my records on MapMyRide. I am the guy on the Santa Monica bike path that everyone hates. When you bring your toddler to the beach on a Saturday I am the one speeding by way too fast, endangering your family. I am the dickhead that screams "ON YOUR LEFT!" to drunk Mexicans leisurely pedaling by on their stolen beach cruisers. I do this for two reasons.

1. I legitimately like to go very fast, because adrenaline. It is fucking thrilling to take a turn at 20 mph at a 45 degree angle where your knee almost scrapes the pavement.

2. I don't like outsiders coming to the beach. If you're from Santa Monica/Venice go to the beach every day. It's yours, you earned it. What I do not approve of is these family outings from the valley on the weekends. You crowd up the bike path, cause unnecessary congestion and cause the wait at Venice Ale House to always be over an hour. You decided to move to Woodland Hills for affordable Housing and decent public schools, you made your grave, now lay in it. You can't have the best of both worlds. Therefore if I give just one outsider a bad experience when they visit the beach well then I feel like my obnoxious behavior was all worth it. As Charlie Hunnan so eloquently says in Green Street Hooligans "WE DON'T LIKE OUTSIDERS."

And so on this particular day when a certain Zedd song came on my headphones, I decided to pedal my little heart out rounding a corner just north of the Santa Monica pier. An Australian jogger cut me off EVER so slightly, forcing me to turn my wheel just a hair, but at that precise moment I hit a patch of sand, went over the handle bars and SNAP.

Broken, bloodies and covered in sand...and you know what? I deserved it. In a world of Karma you can only get away with being an asshole for so long, until life kicks you in the ass and gives you a little wake up call.

So now I'm in a brace and have a broken wrist...and it kinda sorta sucks. Lots of things I used to be adequate at, I now struggle immensely with. Things like using a pencil, plugging in my phone charger, masturba...I mean mustering the strength to take out the trash. All of these things are now enormous undertakings. probably didn't help that I took a vacation to Phoenix and went to a wedding before, you know...getting an X-ray. The O.A.R. concert that Sunday night probably didn't help, I've spent enough time on Web MD to know that jumping up and down, showering people with beer is not the ideal way to let a bone set.

And of course, my first day on my new show was the Monday immediately following wedding/concert/broken wrist. Like why the fuck do I do this to myself? I truly must be a sadist. The last 3 shows I have started this is the activity I did the night before my first day.

1. Mardi Gras New Orleans
2. Coachella
3. An OAR concert (on cinco de mayo)

I promise before my next show I am going to stay sober the entire weekend in anticipation of my big first day. The sweet irony will be when I watch 16 hours of Lost, lose track of time and end up sleeping in when I go to sleep at 4 o clock in the morning the day before I start a new job. TV binging can be just as unhealthy as unchecked alcoholism.

Fortunately for me, things in my life seem to be turning around. If the glorious state of Indiana can get me a new title by Friday, CarMax is going to buy my car (because apparently they were looking to invest in a bomb) I'm shopping around for a replacement and now that I have this brace, no one at work asks me to lift heavy shit.

Also to my surprise, the brace is a social asset. I went out both nights this weekend and just stood in the corner while girls came up to me and introduced themselves and inquired about my hand. GAAAAHH ICEBREAKER MUST BREAK MORE BONES!!!! (or I can just wear the brace forever mwahahaha)

Caveat: It is also possible that girls approached me because of my hair. A while back a girl asked me on a date for the following day. That day I got my hair cut, because I dunno, that's what I planned to do that day. I showed up for the date and was told that due to the change in my appearance, she no longer wanted to go on aforementioned date. I vowed to never cut my hair again. That was like 4 months ago, I have "hair popping through the lacrosse helmet" flow at this point. Though I'm still a couple months out on the full Gordon Gecko slick back.

So as much a pain in the ass having a broken bone is, it has taught me lessons. (Don't be a dick), has garnered me some degree of sympathy (easier tasks at work, my dad wants to help out with a car) and I now have a universal excuse to stay in, take Vicodin and watch copious amounts of Netflix. Sure eating crab legs might be a little difficult should I decide to go that route tonight, but that's a #firstWorldProblem if I ever heard of one.

I went to 3 doctors in the last week, and what I thought was going to be a career ending injury requiring 17 surgeries ended up being something that cost $250, got me out of about 8 hours of work and will allow me to be back on the bike in 4 weeks. And I learned a valuable lesson, ride with caution on the bike path, share the beach. Maybe be the guy at a stop sign that waves a car by even if I got there first. And maybe if I focus on being a generally better person in the next few months the Karma bug will boomerang me back some good news, like I am secretly 1/32nd cherokee, I will get staffed on a show next TV season...

AND THEN I WILL PARTY LIKE JOHNNY FUCKING MANZIEL with my outrageous weekly salary.

And then that show will get cancelled after 2 episodes, because karma and history is guaranteed to repeat itself, because time is a flat circle and shit.

I'm so fucked.