#ApresLife

I’ve been kicking around the idea of hitting a few open mics. I’m starting to get the impression that my schtick would sound better performed as opposed to read. I already have several hundred thousand words of content ready to go, I just have to stand up there and read it. I think I would be a storytelling comic, social commentary mash up…I’m thinking Jim Jeffries meets Bill Burr.

That said, I’m not sure the same shit that gets a laugh in real life is what will also make people laugh in a club. For example, I have this little life hack that any of you that have spent time with me will be familiar with. If you are ever with your friends and want to get a guaranteed laugh, create an ironic acronym.

Like if your buddy is telling you a story about a time when he got a blowjob in a car…while the girl was driving! and you shout out some shit like “Ahhhh the Olllld RRH.”

Pause. “RRH?”

Reverse road head…it’s a classic.

This will make anyone within earshot fall to the floor laughing because it’s ridiculous. Reverse road head is extremely rare. What is even less likely is that someone uses it so commonly in every day conversation that they have associated a literary device to abbreviate it.

I do this a lot. Especially when I’m drinking, I will turn everything into an acronym because it’s funny and it presupposes that the outrageous things my friends and I talk about are in fact commonplace.

Over the weekend, I went to Park City with a bunch of friends. I spent about a billion dollars but I didn’t care because I was having fun. Monday morning I had a $135 cab, which to be fair drove me for 40 minutes, but it’s more than double anything I have ever paid. This is the type of shit that can ruin a trip.

Furthermore, once I got out of that $135 cab I got onto a 5:30 flight, landed at LAX at 7, went to my car, drove to Burbank to pick up some bullshit for work, drove to work, drove back to fucking Burbank, came back to work and then went home at 7pm…roughly 18 hours after I had woken up in Utah I was back home. This is the type of shit that can ruin a trip.

I had 30 beers on Sunday and did all the aforementioned bullshit. I was so strung out yesterday I think I know what a heroin comedown feels like. This is the type of shit that can ruin a trip.

But none of it could, because our trip was fucking money.

Friday night I hopped the last bird out of town and pulled up to the Grand Summit Canyons at around midnight. The next 48 hours were…aggressive.

Saturday

I always say I’m going to get first tracks on my first day skiing. In theory I am freshest on the first day and the least hungover. But in practice I have 3 double whiskeys on my flight and 6 beers between midnight and 3am. So of course I woke up at 8am after cuddling with Smolen for 5 hours, feeling like shit. Smash a couple Morning Brews TM(Coors and a Coffee) and then head to the lifts, shit it’s basically time for lunch, which means more pitchers and the countdown to Apres. I would like to say that I went on a ski trip, but it majorly revolved around Apres. This is not a bad thing.

After bombing the Apex Ridge a few times and a nice top downer on Doc’s, it was tome for my favorite part of the day: Umbrella bar, Hot Tub, steam.  Being that this was our only night to burn it down in the village, it was important to get some relaxation involved first

Per usual, we tried to get into High West. Per usual, they were cunts. We settled on a nice pizza place and sat next to a table full of drag queens. I have to be honest with you, the LGBTQFGTDBJZZ42? Movement can go as far as it wants, I will never not laugh at a tranny. What followed was a long dinner followed by a long night of dancing, followed by an even longer night back home of the Eight of Mundt* no one was banned…but unfortunately, we all went to bed around 3am nearing black out.

*The Eight of Mundt is a simple drinking game in which all the cards are dealt and whoever gets the 8 of Hearts has 2 minutes to drink 2 beers or they are banned for life. It sounds easy right? Not if you get hit 3 times in a row.

Sunday

After again cuddling with Smolen for 5 hours I woke up feeling like shit. As one does when they are hungover, I tried an unsafely hot shower. When that failed to work I tried an unsafe amount of coffee. When that failed to work I decided to go nuclear*

*Going nuclear is a tactic used when all other options are gone. Example: In an argument with your boss he tells you that he would like you to start coming in earlier. In a rage you decide to tell him you fucked his wife and know about the time he sucked a dude’s dick in college! You then throw two middle fingers in the air and walk out.

In this situation, going nuclear was pounding whiskey shots until my hangover went away. It took about seven…and let me tell you this, while it might not be the safest option; skiing drunk is amazing.

All of a sudden I had that fearlessness that 10 year olds have. I bombed down runs I had no business attempting because I didn’t give a shit. I fell a few times, but it didn’t hurt. And every time I went over a bridge or under a tunnel I fucking celebrated for no other reason than it looks cool. Going through a tunnel on a mountain is always a good time but the OBE (Over bridge experience) is wildly underrated.

The good thing about ski jackets is the outrageous amount of pockets, I didn’t know what they were for until this weekend. They each comfortably fit about two beers.

I didn’t know why ski lift rides were so fucking long until this weekend. They last the length of a beer.

The next 6 hours. Apres, Hot tub, steam, Oscars, Eight of Mundt, all ending with me passed out on the floor unpacked with an alarm set for 3:30am. And then I had my Monday from Hell that was previously discussed.

Monday was a bad day.

Tuesday wasn’t much better.

Today I fell on my Razor scooter right outside a bunch of hot chicks at Red Bull and I may have broken my fucking wrist…again. But it was still the best day of the week so far.

Long story short, vacations are awesome and work will still be less awesome than vacation even if you’re well rested. Spend everything you can on travel and worry about the rest later. If you never get married and are forced to rent forever at least you’ll have some fun stories.

I spent today booking flights for the rest of the summer because I so thoroughly enjoying reliving it all through columns like this. You can't take the money with you and debt is always one Chapter 11 from going away before you turn 40. Sacramento, Bloomington, Chicago, San Diego, Austin, Park City (again!) I’m fucking coming for you. 

20 things to do in the desert before you die

In 2011, I was on a transatlantic flight between Helsinki and Chicago. This was the final leg of what had been a ten day Tuscany trip. Usually I would spend my time on an international flight getting hammered, but I was pretty sure I was going to be arrested when I landed because of an outstanding warrant, so I decided to read a book instead.

The book was called A Reliable Wife and it was 50 Shades of Grey before there was 50 Shades of Grey. My then girlfriend had read about it in People and because we were huge losers, we always read the same books...and then had book club meetings. (We were the only two members)

Anyway, this book contained graphic depictions of sex...like the type of shit I wanted chicks to say in chat rooms when I was asking them to cyber growing up, or what I would beg my girlfriends to sext to me. IT WAS HOT. About an hour in I realize I have a throbbing erection and badly wanted to go to the restroom to take care of the issue. I got to wondering, how many people jerk it during international flights? It has to be at least somewhat common. An A340 has about 8 restrooms and there is rarely a line, this is how people join the mile high club. Most of the passengers are asleep or watching a movie, no one would ever know.

After strong consideration, my shame got the better of me and I started drinking instead. When I landed, I drunkenly walked right through customs without a problem. My warrant had been cancelled a week prior.

I was thinking about that book last week when the 50 Shades movie came out. I MUST GO, I thought. I needed to see the pathetic wine drunk menopausal women cat calling Jamie Dornan. I needed to do research to see if there had been a spike in the sales of Magic Wands that week.

I fully intended to drink 2 bottles of Reisling last Saturday, go see the movie and then blog about my experience. I promise, that was the plan.

Instead I did a fuck ton of Molly on Saturday night and decided to go to the desert. This is that story.

***

I've had Joshua Tree on my mind for a while now. I've thrown up status updates to spur some interest, had a few conversations with friends, but never made any concrete plans. However, something I underestimated was the momentum an idea can gain while day drinking.

Saturday I started drinking on the beach at 4ish, was at a BYOB dinner with 6 bottles of wine at 8, was at Townhouse at midnight...and according to my phone, trying to recruit people to come do drugs with me at my house at 4am. Not necessarily my proudest moment, but apparently during this black out I also kept trying to convince people to come to the desert with me the following day. When I woke up Sunday at 11, I realized I had been successful.

"We're coming to wake you up. Let's go to the desert!"

You know how I get that foolish overconfidence when I drink? Well apparently I also overstate my experience with things. I'm pretty sure my 3 camping cohorts were under the impression that I was a Joshua Tree veteran...nay EXPERT. In truth I went there one time 3 years ago for about 16 hours. I have no camping equipment, didn't know where we were going. In fact I didn't have much except the spirit of adventure and the vague notion that we should head East.

Sometimes that is enough, so without further ramblings, 20 ways to ensure a successful trip to Joshua Tree National Park.

Part 1. Prep

1. Take a sedan.
If I was in the midst of an existential crisis and needed to go to the desert alone, the Mini Cooper would probably be sufficient, but I vastly underestimated the size of things like firewood a cooler, beer...let alone three other people. Sleeping bags, tents, there's only so much shit you can throw on your lap.

2. Make pit stops.
Targets and Walmarts are hard to come by in LA, but once you get into the IE aka where the poor people live, they are fucking everywhere. If you are wandering around your house looking for camping supplies and realizing that you are woefully unprepared, FUCK IT just hit the road. Target sells a four person tent for 40 bucks. Coolers and sleeping bags sell for a fraction of that cost. I recommend the West Covina Target, it has a Starbucks.

3. Grab a shit ton of beer
Once you get off the 10 and are making your way toward Yucca Valley there will be some shitty grocery stores (States Bros, Food 4 Less) and in San Bernadino County they sell 36 packs of Coors Light. I had never seen something more glorious. Get two!

4. But also whiskey
Better make it a handle.

5. Bring food to cook
Hot dogs are super cheap and super easy to grill. All the camp sites at Joshua Tree have little fire pits with built in grills. You might want to pick up s'more supplies while you're at it.

6. And also precooked food...
Because, well we'll get to that.

So after we made a 5 minute stop at Target
- Cooler
- Tent
- Sun Chips
- Frapuccinos

and a 5 minute stop at Stater Bros
- 36 pack Coors
- 750 ml Bushmills (not enough)
- Hot dogs and buns
- condiments
- Jalapeno Kettle
- one rockstar (for me)
- Firewood
- Smore supplies

AND WE WERE FUCKING READY TO CAMP.

We turn in to Joshua Tree National Park past no less than 7 signs that tell us "CAMPSITES FULL"

But like fuck that, the rangers were just too lazy to take the signs down after Saturday right?

Right.

We enter pass the guard booth, Free admission Pres Day Weekend? Fuck ya Lincoln! This day is going to be off the hook. But of course we got to the campground and...oh shit it's full.

On to part II. The Test

7. Press the fuck on
Joshua Tree is like a billion acres with 12 campsites. Just because the first one is full, doesn't mean you're bones. ENDURE. Drive down that dirt road there, maybe something goo will happen.

8. Flag down a stranger
I'll be honest, the map Ranger Rick gives you is absolute dogshit. We were about a mile into a dirt road and the wheels on our Jetta were falling off. Thankfully we were able to flag down a hipster and his girlfriend for help.

9. Demand his secrets.
"So you guys just came out here on a whim with no reservation and all the campgrounds are full?"

Yes.

"Ok, so here is what you're going to do. There is a little secret, you're going to pretend to be backpackers. Double back to that boy scout trail, park in the lot and hike out for a mile. Once you're a mile out, with all your shit, find a spot more than 500 feet off the trail and you're golden."

And that's the secret to backpacking.

10. Decide which of your things are absolutely necessary.
Walking a mile into the wild is fun, it's less fun carrying a hundred pounds of camping shit. Remember the beer and ice are a must, your sleeping pad may not make the cut.

Part III. Camping

11. Shotgun a beer when you stake your claim.
You fucking did it bro! Worry about pitching the tent later, you just dragged a Coleman across the desert, enjoy the fruits of your labor. You know what? Shotgun a beer and take a pull of whiskey...straight, the two liter of Coke didn't make the cut.

12. Now pitch the tent, you'll feel cool.
Pitching a tent is bad ass, you should have a buzz by the time you start, hopefully you're drunk by the time you finish. Throw the sleeping bags in the tent, but out the food and most importantly set up the speakers. No open flame in the back country, hope you brought those PB and Js homey.

13. Explore your surroundings.
Climb a fucking rock, howl at the moon, snort some cocaine. You are in the great outdoors, the stars will be out soon!

14. Meet the Neighbors.
Well there might not be any if you're back country camping like a boss, but maybe do a courtesy check just in case. See how loud you can play your music, ask if they have any spare mushrooms. It's cool I promise, it's a culture thing.

15. Party, hard.
People may pretend that camping is all about becoming one with nature, quiet reflection, all that bullshit. Camping is actually about getting really fucked up. Because, really once the sun goes down, there is nothing else to do. Eat, play cards, get drunk and...

16. Have a Dance party.
If you have chosen a site next to a large rock structure, a strategic placement of a lantern can lead to some CRAZY shadow dancing. Sunday night we used a natural rock formation to amplify "Wild for the Night" and had a photo shoot. I regret nothing.

17. Smoke a J and look at the stars.
Eventually you will run out of beer and the music will die. At this point the last thing left to do is get super stoned and stare at the sky. Stars are dope, stars in the desert are UNFUCKINGREAL. Every 30 seconds you stare into the distance a new layer of stars will appear, you can almost reach out and touch your favorite constellations. The occasional shooting star doesn't hurt either.

18. Cuddle in the tent.
Or have crazy desert sex or a threesome or a foursome, it doesn't matter. Just conserve body heat, it gets cold at night.

19. Wake up early, go on an adventure.
Hike, go bouldering, climb a mountain, go on a bike ride, take some pictures, go on a run, last night was fun but holy shit look at this. There is nothing prettier than watching the sun rise in the desert. Sweat out some demons and get ready for the trip back to lala land.

20. Eat breakfast at Crossroads.
Preferably the corned beef hash. Of course if you follow these 20 steps you'll just end up doing exactly what I did this past Sunday, but I had one of the greatest days of my life, there's no thinking that you won't have a similar experience. I literally want to go back once a month. If you are flirting with this idea, do it. Drag me. I'll even do a fuck ton of Molly the night before just to put myself in the proper strung out slap happy moods. Best of luck to you future explorers.

Venice Razor Scooter Club

Pictured: The late 90's encapsulated

8th grade was weird for me.

I had gone to public school my entire life, but in 7th grade I hit a wall. My grandma died and I missed 2 weeks of school. School administrators thought that was weird. They threatened to pull me out of the gifted student program, because at 11 years old if you can't show a commitment to academics over family, you should take regular classes with the other plebeians. I also didn't make the baseball team and my parents concluded it was because I was being punished for flying to San Francisco and waiting around while we decided whether or not to take my grandma off of life support.

Lawrence Township had failed me.

So that spring a bunch of private middle schools "courted me." I had one friend each at Heritage Christian, St. Simon and St. Pius. St. Pius decided they didn't want me because I wasn't Catholic, Heritage Christian wanted to make sure I knew that they were also a High School (I was dead set on Cathedral at this point)

But St. Simon was different. On the day I shadowed, everyone whispered about me.

"He's from public school."

"I hear he got kicked out."

"He fights a lot."

Everyone approached me with nervous excitement. I earmarked the cool kids right away, they didn't know what to make of me. One of the popular girls approached me and demanded a list of every girl I had "hooked up with" at Belzer. (A list that was one...IF we are counting truth or dare kisses)

I lied.

So I went to St. Simon and everything was pretty cool. I was a 4 sport athlete, I got invited to the parties and on the weekends we would hang out in lavish Geist basements and ask chicks to show us their tits with a 15% success rate. (Sober!) I even kinda had a girlfriend for about a week.

I would talk back to teachers, carry binaca and ask girls questions about sex during home room. I was edgy, I liked being edgy. But right when I was catching my groove, it ended. Everyone went off to different high schools and I had to start over again.

That was all 14 years ago. I probably remember 20 of the 50ish people I graduated with. Talk to one...maybe once a year. I'm a completely different person now. I went through high school and then college. I moved to Chicago and then LA. I started drinking, I started doing more than drinking, I've been in love, I've been heartbroken, I've been beat up by a bum in Monte Carlo.

Two things stuck with me from that experience though.

1. I started blogging in 8th grade.
I think I've talked about it before, but I had a GeoCities about the social life of St Simon middle school. I would talk about parties, about hook ups, polls about the best tits. It was pretty much a hybrid of the Mean Girls burn book and Juicy Campus. It was awesome, and almost got me expelled.

2. There was this guy I used to hang out with that had a fleet of Razor Scooters at his house and he lived on a big ass hill. Do you ever struggle to remember what you did for fun before alcohol? You took razor scooters down a big ass hill...and it was awesome.

A week ago for my birthday, my brother sent me something I hadn't seen since the summer I started high school. He was leafing around in the attic and found my old Razor Scooter Xtreme. He informed me and I told him I MUST have it.

Now for those that don't remember...Razor Scooters were fucking HUGE for like 2 months in the spring of 2001. Sharper Image was slangin them like it was crack on a street corner in Queens. Every white kid of privilege in Indianapolis had one. They were the shit. There were video games about them, kids started learning tricks. I made my mom get me the Xtreme version because it had shocks and looked fucking rad.

(Exposed shocks were big in the early 2000's you may remember the Nike Shox)

Well now there is a discontinued Razor Xtreme at 6th and Westminster...and I am about to take Venice by fucking storm.

You may have noticed that scooters are making a come back. I've seen lots of little kids scooting lately; I know lots of Silicon Valley dorks ride them around their work campuses. Shit, some new Venice start up called Luxe has dispatched them all over my neighborhood, but they need to know, there's only room for 1 set of polyurethane wheels in this hood pal.

AND OH GOD MY WHEELS.

I'm going to make them light up. All I've wanted since I was 19 was some fucking LA Lights. I had legit conversations with people in college, "The only thing in the world that could make me more awesome is if I stormed into Kilroy's wearing some fucking red blinking shoes. Every GDI would melt and I would take one rep each from XO, AXO, ZTA, Kappa Tri Delt, A Phi and Pi Phi home and have a fucking 8some!"

I really thought that at the time. I think I wrote it down somewhere. Yes. I did. If someone digs a hole next to the basement of Shingles (my senior house) they will find a time capsule there. I think there is a piece of paper with that written on it and a Flo Rida cd. God late 2000's music was bad.

I digress. Light up scooter wheels at 28 years old are going to be my fucking LA Lights. Venice has gentrified, sure. But it is still CRAWLING with fucking geeds and their heads need exploding. You subtle little hipster fucks might not understand, but attention MUST BE MINE.

Do you know why I learned how to dance like an asshole? Well, I thought it would help out fitting in with the black kids at Belzer Middle School. That's why I became decent at dancing and freestyling. But you know who is even more impressed with that shit? WHITE BITCHES.

Once I have my light up wheels installed I will be like the god damn pied piper leading 23 year old size 0s to the basement of Townhouse. Did anyone see Under the Skin? It will be exactly like that, except less arty and fewer aliens.

Here's the deal guys. Lots of figures in history have derived their power from a thing. Freddy Kruger uses fear. Thor has his hammer. I have a scooter. A RAZOR SCOOTER...with light up wheels.

Let's step back to 8th grade for a minute. I had this girl that I was infatuated with and her best friend would come up to me and tell me "We were talking in the bathroom, and she wants you to kiss her."

But I would do nothing. I was scared. I would ask my buddies if we could walk back across the lake and watch a movie. (The lake was frozen, but if I would have had the light up wheels I probably could have walked on water) Because see that was Superman with kryptonite around his neck...a pathetic prepubescent boy, getting by on a rumor that he beat someone up.

I still think to some of the cowardly decisions I have made in my life. Senior year of college I wrote myself a letter to my future self. I gave it to some dude and he said, "I'll mail this to you in two years." Two years go by and I'm checking the mail hoping there are no bills or notices from the IRS when I find a crudely scratched letter sent to me.

I opened it up. It was one line.

"Stop being a coward."
-Dave from 2009

That was 2011, four years have gone by and I haven't done anything bad ass like I said I would. I keep talking about joining the reserves but I don't. I'm afraid of strangers unless I'm absolutely bombed (my secondary power source) and I really haven't done anything of consequence with my life.

BUT THAT IS ALL OVER.

Because I have a fucking scooter, with (soon to be) light up wheels.

I might start a gang. I could mock up another Mini Cooper Club-esque call out letter.

HEY ARE YOU THE FUCKING MAN?

Do you still think Tang is a dope sports drink?

Are you a fan of early 2000's modeled Razor Scooters?

Well do I have a club for you...

We'll take over the Venice Skate Park from those poser bitch skaters within a week. I'll proudly fold my scooter and toss it on the skate rack at Nikki's. Everything is finally going to work out, just the way it was supposed to all along. I'll finally be as cool as I wanted to be when I was in 8th grade/

Oh sorry, back to the application.

Please state the best trick you can perform

Rank the west side neighborhoods in order from worst to best (Hint: 2. Santa Monica 1. Venice)

Why does Echo Park suck so much?

How many times have you seen the movies Airborne and/or Rad?

Would you be interested in funding an Airborne reboot with scooters.

Hold on...I just had a creative breakthrough, I have to go.

8 Simple Rules (For Dating an Iowa Farmer)

And then there were 6...ish. I don’t really know, I chugged 15 Fireball shots after the Badlands Massacre. My god it was amazing. I put it right up there with Mountain v Viper or Jason Mamoa ripping that dude’s fucking tongue out through his own throat; Maximus slaying an unknown hairlip Joaquin Phoenix before dying gracefully in the arena. Chris’s double homicide of noted c muscles Kelsey and Ashley I gave me overwhelming joy.

That said I think Megan was spared until next week, hopefully she’ll give us one more spurt of unfathomable stupidity on her way out. So let’s call it 7. There are 7 desperate bitches left. My girl (Samantha) went home this week because she was too normal, thus I have created some rules for the remaining women who might want to advance further in the competition.

11.  No one gives a fuck about your story.

It was cute early, I guess. Stories of dead husbands, daddy rape and accidental abortions…wait a second. Nothing about that is cute. That is called baggage. No dude wants a chick with a bunch of emotional bullshit. In fact, these are red flags, things that I actively run from. Your husband killed himself? NOPE! Your daddy left you when you were young? WHO IS PAYING FOR MY WEDDING? See ya! What I want to hear is, “I grew up wealthy with 3 fun brothers who love to drink. My dad loves to sail and we have a chalet in Aspen.” GIVE THIS CHICK ALL THE ROSES.

22.  Shut the fuck up about your feelings and the other dumb bitches

I understand it is important to have an open line of communication, and there is nothing wrong with sharing emotions. That said, the girls that are clearly in the lead right now are the girls that like to do fun shit. Whitney got turnt and crashed a wedding, Britt absconded to a country rock concert at a saloon in Deadwood. Having enjoyable experiences is much more powerful than shitting on your competition or talking about a god damn connection.  You’ll get your sloppy make out either way. Dating multiple women is fucking awkward, do not draw attention to it, instead create a memory, it will go a lot further.

33.  Stop Crying

It makes you look ugly, it makes men uncomfortable. No man like a crying woman like no man likes a woman with short hair. I don’t care if you think it’s trendy, it makes you look like a lesbian.

44.   Stop being a female stock character

Nothing is more attractive than passion. But all these girls must all think Chris is really fucking dumb playing into the whole “I want 5 kids and I want to live on a farm in Iowa.” If you are really looking for the one, a better answer would be “I am looking for someone to spend the rest of my life with, we’ll figure the rest of the shit out later. Oh and I’m also really interest in all this other shit, I love scuba diving, do you want to hear about it?” We talk about the lack of “strong female characters” a lot, and the lack thereof. It is because shows like “The Bachelor.” These chicks sound like they want to spend the next 10 years of their lives getting stuffed, pumping out kids and watching their bodies grow flabby and gross…all while cooking pot roasts on a farm in Davenport. Kill me.

55.  Kick out the epic mother fucker

If you aren’t Britt or Whit you probably don’t stand a chance, so throw a hail mary and do something that will ingratiate you to the rest of America. This whole show doubles as an audition for The Bachelorette, right? Hijack a date! Chris is pathetic, but his dates are even worse. New Mexico? The Badlands? I’m not opposed to all outdoorsy dates. I mean I can understand going to Joshua Tree with a girl to take acid, but songwriting with Big and Rich…the FUCK outta here. Tell Chris you don’t want to go to a Mormon aquarium in Salt Lake City. Maybe plan some skydiving instead, the producers will panic, it will be a whole thing and America will think you’re a bad ass.  It will probably back fire, but maybe result in a part time hosting gig with E!

66.  Get along with others.

This is like the first fucking thing you learn as a child, how to share, how to play nice. No guy has ever woken up and said, you know what I want in a partner? A chick that has no friends! This goes by my general life rule of “Just be a homey, and everything will work out.”

77.  Die gracefully

Do you remember right before Hank got his head blown off in the penultimate episode of Breaking Bad? He didn’t cry, he didn’t beg for his life. He said “Go fuck yourself!” It was that moment that Hank became a legend in my mind and I turned on Walter White. Similarly, when Chris dispatches of you on The Bachelor, smile and wish him good luck. My biggest fear as a man is I will try to break up with a girl and she will refuse to go quietly. These chicks that come back after they are dismissed? GAHHH kill it with fire!

And again, see rule 3. Ashley made everyone in America very uncomfortable doing whatever the fuck that was last night. Reality career over.

88.  Have fun.

Toward the end of Notting Hill, Julia Roberts says something to the effect of. You know none of it’s real right? I’m just a girl asking a boy to like me. That’s basically the premise of this whole show. It’s a fucking joke. Have fun while you travel the world on the Disney dime. Smile, get drunk with the other girls, Enjoy your dates with Chris, A positive attitude is infectious and maybe, just maybe, it will help you wrangle yourself a farmer.

Broke Bitches Guide to Bungalow

I had an incredible weekend. It kicked off with my birthday dinner Thursday in which all of my friends showered me in gifts of whiskey. Then Friday I saw two incredible people get engaged and celebrated with them by swimming in the Pacific Ocean in my boxers at three o clock in the morning. We should do that more.

Saturday...my God, Saturday. I don't know if I could do an ample job of describing karaoke in Koreatown to a stranger. This particular spot was on the 4th floor of a strip mall, I felt like I was on my way to be shot in a bad heroin deal. But once we walked in it was a flood of neon lights, lasers and thumping bass. You get a private room and...rage? But this is not your regular dive bar Thursday night fare, the Koreans have this shit down to a science. The microphone has a subtle reverb, some built in echo and I believe just the slightest amount of auto tune built in. It made me sound like a rock star. Ok, that may be an overstatement, but I sounded at least passable.

Possibly the best part however though is that due to a total lack of supervision we had all snuck in flasks of various liquors. And in between (or during) every performance, we proceeded to get shitfaced.

Drinking from a flask is great. First there is the knowledge that every gulp you take, you are essentially saving $10. It's empowering.

"Man, I don't want to go to that fancy dinner Monday night." *Takes 4 large gulps of flask* "But fuck it I just saved $40, I'm in!"

It also feels like you're doing something wrong, bringing back that edge that drinking had before you were 21. I like it, I enjoy coloring outside the lines. Of course some may argue it's cheap and I wouldn't necessarily recommend it on a standard night out. Ball games, concerts, Koreatown karaoke? Fuck ya, but a Saturday night at Bungalow...probably not.

...which is a shame, because Bungalow is expensive AF. I don't know who is the evil mastermind behind Bungalow's existence, but he is probably very rich now.

It is hard to build a relevant bar in LA. Remember when Phoenix was a thing? That place on La Cienega? GONE. Remember when L bar was a thing? GONE. (And Warwick will die too) 3110? Nope.

Staying cool after the buzz dies down 6 months post launch is nearly impossible. But every week, thousands of affluent white people line up dying to get into what is essentially an outdoor hotel bar. Bungalow is arguably more popular than ever, and the clientele look like they were hand selected out of a Vanity Fair photo shoot. Ugly people do not hang out at Bungalow. Poor people do not hang out at Bungalow. Bottle rats don't even hang out at Bungalow. Models in sophisticated dress talking to ethnically ambiguous actors, that's who hangs out at Bungalow...or they're just a bunch of trust fund wannabes from the Palisades, but I digress.

Part of the reason that I don't like Bungalow is because I do not excel there. I do not like approaching girls, I do not like talking to strangers, I don't like buying a girl a drink and then asking her about her life? I like dance floors. But I also hate Bungalow because I feel like everyone there is a fucking joke. The non-writing writer, the "actor" who hasn't even taken an improv class, the trust fund kid who calls himself an independent film producer because he gave his buddy three grand for a web short.

But it's always packed and the bar generates enormous amounts of cash...and I still go because everyone loves it and the girls are gorgeous. As part of the probable riff raff that Bungalow attempts to price out, I need to have a strategy. So after exhaustive research I have broken down the menu for you...you're welcome.

AN EFFICIENT GUIDE TO PARTYING AT BUNGALOW

Fireball - $13
This is the worst deal on the menu, which is a shame, because fireball is the shit. If you are having a bad night at a bar, a shot of this cinnamon elixir really can turn the night around. But at $13 it's just too much. That's a $30 round for you and a buddy, or more likely a $100 round for your group. Remember playing credit card roulette on Monday nights at Kilroys? That was fun! $10 doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things. You try to pull that shit at Bungy? You're playing with your rent. Besides, an entire bottle of Fireball is $12 at Rite Aid, I can't pay more on a shot than I could a bottle. This is the Fireball Principle.

Rose - $12
One time when I was at Bungalow, a girl was super drunk and stumbled up to me and demanded that I buy her a glass of Rose. I didn't know what rose was at the time.

Is it the shitty pink wine that comes in a box?

NO! That's White Zinfandellllll, what the fuck is wrong with you, don't you want to buy me a glass of wine and try to convince me to go home with you?

I proceeded to walk away while she yelled "whatever faggot" proceeded to slip and break one of her shoes while falling down.

NFL players should be shown this exact situation at the rookie symposium followed by a giant X.

But ya, I guess $12 for a glass of wine isn't the worst you can do.

Sangria - $10
Sometimes I'll get an Old Fashioned off of the "specialty cocktail" menu at a bar and it will be like 15 bucks. But I justify it because they take like a good three minutes making that drink. It is a damn fine cocktail. The bartender pours the whiskey with care, peels the orange ever so delicately. All the while, my anticipation builds. It's fun. However, a lot of times, Sangria is on that same specialty cocktail menu for 15 bucks. But when you order a sangria, essentially someone just fills your glass from a premade bucket of stuff. That's not exciting. Someone at Bungalow realized this and priced sangria at a sneaky efficient $10.

Corona - $7
This is the absolute cheapest thing on the menu...and at $7 a bit of a steal. A while back I thought Mexican beers were making a come back. They are easy to drink, they're fun. We live on a beach after all and Corona has extremely effective marketing.

I am now, however, convinced that a bunch of broke ass Hollywood assistants got hooked on this shit after constantly drinking them at Bungalow. The good news about drinking Corona is you can drink them all day and not break the bank. The bad news is, you can drink them all day and probably drive home. If I am going to be approaching women I do not know, I'm going to need something a bit stronger.

All red wine - $14
I do not think I have ever spent more than $14 on a bottle of wine. I know that said bottles exist, but I really can't tell a major difference between 2 buck chuck and whatever is served at Paul's house on Thanksgiving. For these reasons. I'm out.

All white wine - $12
I used to get 2 bottles of Bloom at Crazy Horse on Wednesday because I didn't really like wine and this was the sweetest. All the chicks drank Little Black Dress, because it had a cute bottle. I don't think I have had a white wine since, nor will I ever again.

Margarita - $14
I think tequila is about the worst thing in the world. It's right up there with gin. Anyone that ever ordered tequila shots at a bar and thought it was cool? I hate you. To the person that introduced me to the stunt man shot? (Take the shot, snort the salt, lime in the eye) I hate you. That said, something about a margarita makes all of my worries in the world float away. It must be the fact that I instantly associate it with vacation. Daqs, Miami Vice, Margarita...vacation drinks. So ya...if you're on vacation or want to feel like you are, knock yourself out.

Sierra Nevada Torpedo IPA - $10
This isn't technically a double IPA, but it's damn close. For $10, 16 ounces of 7.2% abv glory from NorCal can be yours. And let me assure you. This is the play.

Have you ever had 4 IPAs? You are drunk. You ever had 6? You are FUCKED.

If you polish off a half dozen of these, you will be looking to create an impromptu dance floor somewhere under the green house-esque tent. You will be spitting such hot fire that you should probably call the Fairmont and inquire about a room. Better make it a suite because there will be an after party. Models and cocaine will be involved. Don't worry, all that is still about the same price as the 14x Uber you would take home anyway.

On a menu full of overpriced bullshit, Torpedo IPA is a beacon of light. You can have fun at Bungalow for under $60.