Monday, August 24, 2015
There have been some significant setbacks.
I missed out on at least 2 jobs because of my inability to start immediately.
I am essentially broke which has led to the cancellation of phase 3 of FBMO.
Chicken Selects are gone from McDonald's again.
And someone stole my bike.
Yes my fucking bike that I love more than anything in the world was locked up outside a bar at 4pm in the afternoon on a Saturday for 30 minutes. 30 minutes so I could go for a leisurely swim to reduce some stress while I waited to hear back on a job I really wanted.
At 4:30 I got a call giving me bad news. At 4:35 I found my lock cut in half by some homeless dickhead. This is why I will always be a classist asshole crusading against the poor. Let them starve I say.
So I've lost my favorite possession and the driving force of my number one hobby. I remain unemployed, and barring a miracle, phase 3 (wisconsin) of Ferris Bueller's Month off is cancelled.
But none of that matters right now, because in 8 hours I'm getting on a Frontier Airlines red-eye (You're flying with Frank the Ferret) to Chicago and as soon as I land, my troubles will melt away.
Yes...phase 2 of my month off is upon us. You may have forgotten, but there is a little wedding this weekend. More on that later.
I will be in Chicago for exactly 24 hours starting at 7am tomorrow. I want 3 things.
2. Drink vodka out of a water bottle while stumbling around Lincoln Park Zoo
3. Drink beer on a roof top (Looking at you Sylv)
If you can help me accomplish one or more of these three things, please reach out. I'm not planning on forcing a big Tuesday night as I have an early AF Megabus in the morning. But I will entertain any and all Trivia at State/Dinner/White Sox requests. Fuck it, maybe you have access to a boat. Sure there aren't fireworks on Tuesday nights, but I am all the entertainment you need.
Wednesday morning I will be in Indianapolis for exactly 24 hours starting at 9am. I want 3 things.
1. Lunch at the Moondog Tavern (OMG it's a Wednesday I could totally go to Champps)
2. Sit in my parents pool drinking something fruity
3. Ride the Monon, ha just kidding I'm not a cyclist anymore.
If you can help me accomplish one or more of these things, please reach out. I'm not planning on forcing a big Wednesday night as I have an early AF departure in the morning. But I will entertain any and all Retro Rewind/Dinner/Indianapolis Indians requests. Fuck it, maybe you have access to a boat. Sure there aren't ever Fireworks on Geist, but I am all the entertainment you need.
Thursday morning I will be in Bloomington for exactly 72 hours. I want 3 things.
WAIT A FUCKING SECOND?!?!?! I'm going to Bloomington for 3+ days? For a wedding? That I'm in?!? And basically everyone I know is invited?
What could possibly go wrong?
I think the best way to go about this column is to do a write up on what COULD happen and then follow up next week with a wrap up on what DID happen. It seems like the most entertaining way to go about it, right? At least it will give me a chance to stroke my ego and attempt to forget that there is some crackhead riding around a Trek 1500 somewhere near the beach.
One of my best friends is getting married this weekend at my alma mater, Indiana University. I am in the wedding, but not the best man. This is really the optimal spot to be in for any wedding. I'm a big fucking deal at this wedding. My name will be in the program and shit. I will walk down the aisle with some hot chick that is probably wearing pink. People in the crowd will ask who the tall kid with the blonde hair is.
"That's Jake's old roommate Dave Moeller. He lives in Los Angeles, he's a writer."
I mean, come the fuck on. Coolest guy at the wedding based on that alone. It's entirely possible that I'm the most eligible bachelor at this wedding. I just got an email last week saying that the wedding party could bring a significant other...ha what SO? I have an entire sorority at my disposal, let alone the entire Bloomington campus which is at Welcome Week right now. I'm wearing a grey linen fucking suit. There will be no SO.
Aside from the name in the program and shit, I get VIP treatment all weekend. I get to ride on busses, go to special brunches and pictures and shit. I imagine there will be people just pushing champagne into my hand all week, yet I don't need to make a speech. All the perks, none of the stress. Not that I wouldn't be a good best man some day, it's just...well I can't be trusted to stay sober enough not to say 'fuck.'
That said, part of me thinks I should have made a video or something, "Hey Jake and Holly! Here is a tribute to the stuff we did in our early 20's, enjoy!"
Actually, thinking about that now, it's probably for the best that I didn't. I'm flying 2000 miles, that's more than most people will do. I'll get the newlyweds something cool and thoughtful and in exchange I'll probably get a flask engraved with my initials...maybe even get to have sex with a bridesmaid! Fair deal.
All joking aside; the weekend sounds like it's going to be absolutely lovely. The fact that the young couple was able to plan a wedding from India is incredible. What is even more heart warming is that they have people flying in from all over the world to tiny Bloomington, IN. I assure everyone, the vacation days will be worth it. This weekend is going to be fucking epic.
Speaking of epic, Jake's brother is the best man. Jake's dad once woke me up at 6am to climb the steepest mountain in Aspen after I told him that I was about a 5 out of 10 on the slopes.
"TRIAL BY FIRE MOELLER."
Later that night when Aspen was shut down because a terrorist had literally rigged the city to blow
Jake advised we should ski down the mountain to avoid a road block and go to a bar that (we thought) was free of bombs.
I climbed the back bowls of Aspen Highlands. We ski'd down the other side of Snowmass and made it to a bar before midnight. I love this family, but hanging out with them is like being in a movie trailer for Point Break.
So is it any surprise that there were 100 people invited to this fucking Bachelor party?
I don't even know 100 people, let alone people who would drive/fly/train to Southern Indiana to hang out with me on a Thursday.
It's going to be absolute madness. Allegedly, there is a bus or two that is taking us to Paynetown (a marina) where we have reserved 4 double decker boats for the day. It's going to be glorious.
Need I remind you, the majority of these 100 people are Phi Psis, many of whom haven't seen each other in years. We all live in LA, Chicago, New York, London and for the first time in probably 5 years, we will all be together. On a boat. We all have/had extreme party addictions. There will also be probably 10 other boats out there of current undergrads.
I can't imagine how uncool we will look to a boat of Junior Taus who spent the summer doing push ups. They will probably deny our attempts to tie up.
But you see...our best man is a 2014 grad. He probably has contacts that are still in college. Hell, there might be a Phi Psi boat out there.
Basically what I'm saying is, we will unabashedly board the ship of some 20 year old Alpha Phis, and before some Fiji named 'Tom' can ask us to get off his boat, Paul will already have a rousing game of flip cup going and then 'Tom' will find out that Paul works I Banking in NY and will instantly switch to networking mode.
"Wait, these former bros can get us jobs?"
Sure man, just pass Kamchatka.
I'm sure at one point I will tell a girl I can get her an internship at NBC, she'll probably even email me some day at which point I will send her the UTA job list and say good luck.
Or you know, maybe we won't be welcome to join all the meathead bros in party cove. After all, we are 100 dudes, zero chicks. Not exactly bringing along a favorable ratio. But we also will probably have more Fireball and drugs than them...so that's always a fail safe if we need to recruit chicks.
I'm sure a few guys will go too hard on boats and be done for the night, I'm also fairly confident at least one guy will take a tri delt to the oh so lovely, on boat bathroom.
After 5 hours on boats it's time for dinner, and time for our first report card.
Mid-Day report card (projected):
Undergrads bedded: 1
Thursday night we go to dinner somewhere but this is really just a precursor to Kilroy's. Kilroy's was the bar that we went to almost every night in college. For essentially $16 you could party there until you blacked out. I've been thrown out of there for countless infractions including but not limited to: being underage, passing out in the bathroom, fighting, bleeding on people, jumping behind the bar to serve myself drinks and of course, attempting to steal a wooden Indian.
A lot has changed since the spring of 2009, Kilroy's is no longer a hole in the wall dive, it is now a 2 story behemoth with a large outdoor patio. The bartenders i tipped 90% back in my hay day are long gone. The dance floor I dominated for years is now a new tiki bar. The juke box has had all Back Street Boys and N Sync replaced by Fetty Wap and MO. Honestly what the fuck is MO?
No matter. As long a they still sell bottles of Cook's for $12, we will dominate. I'm not sure if the Bachelorette party is also Thursday or what they could possibly be doing. If I were a chick having a Bachelorette party in Bloomington I would probably rent boats. But if my husband was already doing that I would probably get wrecked at a Sushi/Sake bomb place.
Hopefully that's what they're doing. I can't imagine she invited 100 girls to her Bachelorette party, but I can promise I will champagne shower the first female member of the wedding party that walks in the door to Kilroy's Thursday night. This will either lead to an extremely smooth pick-up, a slap in the face or most likely an ejection from Kilroy's...I'll add it to the list.
I don't even have a hotel yet. I should figure that out, or I could be like the good looking homeless guy in New York that just pulls away games. That's definitely a better story.
If I make it to midnight, I'll be amazed.
Final report card (Thursday)
Undergrads Bedded: 0
Bridesmaids Bedded: 1
Note, that a casualty on the final report card indicates you missed the first planned event of the day due to hangover.
The first planned event Friday is the rehearsal, which is at 4.
Someone will miss it. I don't know if they will be in jail, or just bedridden. Someone will fucking miss it. In fact, I think someone will be so wrecked after the bachelor party that they will drive home, unable to face the concept of two more nights of partying. It will happen. Trust me.
But I will not sleep all day Friday. No I will go to Runcible Spoon for breakfast. I will play the IU Golf Course in the afternoon. I will have myself a day. Do you know why? Because my life is falling apart in Los Angeles and I need constant distraction.
But at 4 o clock I will be dressed and looking somewhat presentable at the Hyatt Place Hotel. I may or may not pregame the fake ceremony. Let's be honest, I'll pregame it. If we do beer a hole for 18, I'll be nice and buzzed by 4, according to our schedule the busses won't arrive at Oliver Winery (The Rehearsal Dinner) until 6pm. I mean, I imagine there will be Fireball on the bus. I get to ride on the cool bus right? There is no chance of me having to go pee or something and then ending up on the Grandparent bus?
Whatever, I would still drink on the grandparent bus.
Once we get to Oliver, I imagine there will be a personal bottle of the Creekbend Cab. Even if this is the case, I may demand a private tour and tasting. I'll tell them I am a member at the esteemed Malibu Wines and am considering switching my membership.
The goal is to get drunk enough to give an unsolicited toast.
I'm kidding, the goal is to get drunk enough to convince a girl to jump in the Oliver Winery pond with me. Seriously, "Let's go swimming" is an effective and underused move. Experts only.
We get back to campus around 10pm at which point I imagine it will be STRONGLY advised that we all go to bed and not go out. Understandable, tomorrow is a big day.
Halftime report card (projected)
Undergrads bedded: 0
Bridesmaids bedded: 0
But of course I won't heed that advice because college.
After going back to (someone's) room to pregame and maybe recreationally do some Adderall, I will set out on my real quest for the evening...
Find out what TF happened to Lauren Spierer.
I'm just kidding, I'll probably go to Sports and dance.
Sports, (also owned by Kilroys) was the preferred bar of Jews and black people when I was in college. Now everyone goes there because it is the size of a small village. Actually, more like mid sized village. There are no less than 10 bars, 3 dance floors and 2 stages (one with stripper poll) inside. Since most people won't go out Friday night, Friday will be a great night to lie.
And by lie I mean, I'm Dave, 22 just transferred from UCLA.
See the thing about Indiana University is an overwhelming majority of the students come from somewhere boring. I come from somewhere boring, I am also 28...however, based on my current hair cut and the fact that I went through puberty at 21, I can easily pass as a Redshirt Junior from Venice Beach. I plan on doing this Friday night.
According to the official Kilroy's website, Friday night's special includes $2 Corona's. Holy fuck, I might just walk around with a goddamn bucket. What is cooler than an unemployed 28 year old masquerading as a Junior walking around with a bucket of beer? I may tell a bartender it's my birthday and try to get a free shirt.
OMG definitely getting laid.
Whatever, WORST case scenario is some little bro walks up to me and says "aren't you David Moeller?"
"Oh shit man, you're a legend in the frat...we heard you were dead!"
Well, I'm not dead, but I would love to see the new house, mind if I crash on the couch tonight?
Final Report Card (Friday)
Undergrads bedded: 1
Bridesmaids bedded: 1
Well I didn't see this coming. When I went to the hotel for breakfast this morning, I saw a bridesmaid doing the old walk of shame. Apparently she spent the night in Face Mansion. REW RAH REGA indeed!
I guess that counts as both an undergrad and a bridesmaid bedded? Cool!
Also it appears that one of my buddies got in a fight at Sports after I left and was arrested. He's not going to make the wedding as he cannot leave the county lock-up until he blows a .05 or below. Ohhh so many people are going to be pissed at him, thank God it wasn't me.
I knew I didn't need to buy the wedding suit, the chances of 1 of the 10 groomsman getting arrested was astronomical. I mean, I think it's cool that the wedding party is huge, but that's the risk you take. At my wedding, I will have one best man and like a couple dudes that don't really drink. ZERO CHANCE of upsetting my parents. Except the fact that I drink and am likely to black out at my own wedding.
Isn't that crazy though, 20 people in the wedding party, 100 people in the Bachelor party. Jake basically takes all the normal numbers in life and just multiplies them by 5. THAT'S HOW YOU MAKE A FUCKING EPIC WEDDING WEEKEND. I bet there are a thousand people at this wedding today and it cost a billion dollars. I better make my thank you note one of the hand written variety.
According to my schedule, the girls get to go to the salon at 845am. I wish I could go to the salon with them. I want mimosas and breakfast whilst I receive a mani/pedi.
"I'm sure Jake will plan some sort of lunch for you guys."
I'm sure we will all be rotting in a hotel room ordering room service until 12:55 pm. Then we take pictures! I bet it's by the sample gates. That is DAGEROUSLY close to Kilroy's.
After pictures we have a couple hours to kill...this would be a great time to try to get someone out of jail. I successfully bailed my entire senior bar crawl team out of jail in 2009, but there may still be a warrant out for my arrest in Bloomington, so I let our fallen soldier decay in lock up while I get dressed. I will of course have forgotten some critical wardrobe item. Probably shoes, I'm likely going to watch Jake get married in a linen suit and New Balances. Sorry bro.
I imagine 5 of the remaining 9 Groomsman will be sweating bullets during the ceremony.
"It was so cute, you guys looked so nervous."
Yep. Totally nervous. Never stood up at a wedding before. Really making sure not to lock those knees, wouldn't want to pass out.
He kisses the bride. Yay! They're married! Yay! I hope he does the bottle smash thing because I really want to yell Mazel Tov.
The ceremony is scheduled to begin at 430 with a cocktail hour to begin at 5. That's what I'm fucking talking about. Catholics TAKE NOTE.
After the ceremony, we are transported to some unknown location for dinner, the 10th groomsman shows up fresh from jail in the same clothes he wore last night. He sticks around for one drink until an overwhelming feeling of shame causes him to leave. He has to stick around until Monday for court.
I wonder if we are going to make some choreographed entrance into the reception. These never go well. I went to a wedding a few years ago where they did this and I can't think of anything that could possibly look cool other than a classy entrance with a wave.
Remember I am at the top of 3 tiers at this wedding.
2. You belong, but wouldn't necessarily be missed...kinda like Jason Street (6) from Friday Night Lights.
3. Forced invite/Bubble Team
Usually I find myself in tier 2, today I am tier 1...but a stupid entrance could definitely lower my stock.
That said, if I am FORCED to come up with something clever, I will have the girl give me a stone cold stunner. I would probably suffer a bruised tailbone, but that would be awesome. I imagine it would go viral.
Ok, so we eat, we drink. The best man speaks, the maid of honor speaks, maybe there will be some parent speeches, I definitely will (probably) not speak. There will be dancing, I will probably be sweaty. I will employ some wedding classics like the double dutch, I'll dance with a grand parent. It will be lots of fun, that was a gorgeous wedding. The end. Brunch tomorrow will be nice but I bet a lot of people will choose to sleep through it/get a head start on the road.
Saturday Report Card
Undergrads bedded: 0
Bridesmaids bedded: 0
10pm - send off and shuttles to Sports. Ideally the wedding party will take the same shuttle back together, but I know at this point everyone will be drunk. That said, just make sure you get on one of the busses and get to Sports. It's making a second stop at Hyatt Place if you need to pass out.
Wait a second, am I reading this right?
There is a reception to the reception...at Sports?
HOLD THE FUCKING PHONE...WEDDING RECEPTION PART 2.
Because normal weddings may be content to have one party, but this is fucking EPIC WEDDING #ALWAYSBYMYSEID #SEIDMANIA LET'S GET FUCKING SEE YA'd!!!!!!
Ok some initial thoughts on Wedding Reception 2...WR2 or as I like to call it Percy Harvin. HEYOOOO (that's a fantasy football joke)
1. I would like to apologize in advance to Teles Properties. After writing this post and realizing how expensive this weekend is going to be (even with $2 Coronas) it is now a near certainty that my September rent check will bounce.
2. I haven't written down a goal in a very long time. My goal for the week is to survive until WR2.
3. I imagine most of the relationship people will call it a weekend after WR1, but there will be some singles upstairs at Sports at 2am Sunday morning doing everything in their absolute power to get it in. Last Chance cafe, holy fuck this should be a movie script.
4. I would like to change the status of my brunch RSVP from 'yes' to 'no.'
5. Then again, I could easily see myself going for a walk around campus from 3-6am, coming back to the hotel room and drinking more...THEN going to brunch on zero sleep. Please switch me back to maybe.
Ok, what will probably happen at WR2 is a group of guys (and maybe a couple female stragglers...and probably Jake's dad because he is a legend) will stand around in their suits/dresses looking fucking awesome and take shots until the reasonable hour of 1am. At that point everyone will call it a night.
But this is not the post on what 'probably will happen' it is what 'could' happen.
We get to Sports looking fresh as fuck in our suits. There is a line wrapped around the block. Instead of hopping in line like peasants we immediately proceed to the bouncer.
"May I help you?" He asks flatly ready to crush our dreams and send us to the back.
Yes, we have a table upstairs.
"What table upstairs."
All of them.
Oh God, did you just cum a little? Can you imagine how bad ass it would feel to deliver that line? Anyway, back to fantasy.
We walk upstairs where copious bottles of Grey Goose await us. Remember when I said this wedding must have cost a billion dollars? I misspoke, it must have cost 5 billion.
Curious undergrads peak their heads up the staircase wondering what could possibly be going on upstairs.
"Private Party." Says a bored bouncer.
What kind of ballers reserve the entire upstairs of Sports...during Welcome Week no less?
We party at our tables for a bit and then head downstairs with the Plebians, that's when I see him, Mark Cuban holding court at a corner booth.
We make eye contact and he beckons me over.
"Are you the guys that rented out the top floor? Is this like a wedding reception type thing?"
"We are and it is."
"That's bold my friend."
"Fortune favors the bold Mr. Cuban."
"Where's the groom? I want to buy him a shot."
"So you and your new bride live in India. You guys live in Venice. You live in New York and you're in London? But you guys all came back here for the wedding, where you were in the same fraternity?"
"You guys are the shit! I want to party with you guy."
-Well Mark, it looks like we have 3 hours til close.
I wake up in the morning. It's 8:55a. There is a girl next to me, I don't know who she is.
There is a note on the table.
David- Thanks for the night out. Send Jake and Holly my best. Don't worry about the room, I covered it. Call me Monday for a job, I think we have something opening up on Shark Tank. That way you won't have to cancel phase 3 of FBMO.
P.S. You told me about your little 'scorecard' you were keeping this weekend. Mark me a plus 1 in the undergrad column.
Final Scorecard (Saturday WR2)
Undergrads bedded: 2
Bridesmaids bedded: 0
Ok, so it's an unlikely fantasy, but it COULD totally happen. I COULD make it to brunch.
Ha, just kidding, I know Mark Cuban probably won't offer me a job Saturday night. But I dunno, I probably won't run into Dennis Quaid cycling. Stranger shit has happened.
The Sunday scaries will be bad on Sunday. I will say goodbye to my friends Jake and Holly as they head back halfway around the world for the forseeable future. I will drop friends off at the airport knowing I may not see them for years. I'll sulk back to my parents house where the crushing reality of my future will hit me like a ton of bricks.
What am I doing? Every day the people around me are growing into responsible adults. My social media is inundated with wedding announcements, pregnancies, WE BOUGHT A HOUSE, yet I continue to just kind of skate by in a 3 bedroom/1 bath in a neighborhood where people steal bikes.
But what a blast that last week was. I love my friends so much, that was the most fun I've ever had in my life..and no one can take those memories away. I will cherish this past weekend the rest of my life. Thanks Jake and Holly, Seidman and Begle families, that truly was the most extraordinary wedding I have ever been blessed to be a part of.
And then I remember...it hasn't happened yet!
Oh my god, I just snapped out of this weird time warp, I got sad for a minute. This entire post has been bullshit. It's all been made up. I get to live it all over again, FOR REAL THIS TIME.
I get on a plane in...6 hours, and I cannot fucking wait.
(Note to anyone who may read this and be concerned about my behavior this weekend, I am 99.99% joking and will be nothing but a gentleman. This is a comedy blog written for shock value. Do not worry. I'll probably spend most of the weekend the same way I did in college, drunk in line at Jimmy John's after striking out with everyone)
Wednesday, August 19, 2015
Ok, so I dropped the ball a bit after Dublin.
It's just that it's easier to find a bit of time to write when you are traveling alone. Once you are with your friends and you say things like, "Hey I would like to blog for a moment." or "Is it possible for us to go see Wicked on the West End?" You hear responses like "Don't be a faggot we're going to the pub."
That said, let's kick it off.
Day 3: The curse of Ryan Air
"Is this weird?"
I'm looking at another American sitting next to me, patiently waiting for the Jameson Factory Tour to begin. It's 8:54 in the morning.
"Is what weird?"
"We're about to go whiskey tasting at 9am."
The tour guide slaps a hand on my shoulder.
"It's not weird mate, it's Ireland."
I kept hearing that, like all there is to do in Ireland is drink. Maybe it's true?
We go on the tour, they make a strong case that Irish whiskey is the best and only whiskey, calling Scotch and Bourbon shit. I didn't mind, happy to drink in their local propaganda.
From the Jameson Tour I made my way to The Guiness Factory Tour. 'Number one tourist destination in Dublin!' Perhaps drinking IS the only thing to do.
I was placed in a group of people attending an international tire sales conference. Yes they exist. A guy named Mike from Mike's Tires somehow scored a few extra 'free pint' cards and we spend the afternoon at the gravity bar drinking Guiness and discussing run flat tire technology, it's fascinating.
From Guiness I took a stroll to Temple Bar where I picked up an Elmore Leonard novel at a used book shop and a meat pie at a corner deli. One last pint at Dublin's oldest pub and I was London bound.
I hopped the bus for the '45 minute' bus to the airport and realized I hadn't even begun to think about checking into my flight.
I fired up my phone and pulled up my reservation.
DUB to London Standsted.
Must check in 2 hours before flight or boarding will be refused.
FUCK. Totally forgot about that.
5 years ago Jack and I found ourselves in Amsterdam, doing Amsterdammy things. We had maybe one too many space cakes, one thing leads to another, we miss a flight and spend 12 hours in shame at the Brussels airport. We had no money, no food and one Vanity Fair, which I'm pretty sure we ripped in half and split. To make matters worse, it was Jack's birthday, 21st birthday. We did eventually make it to Rome and black out at a bar, so don't feel too bad for us. But that i a story that proves Karma does exist. We traveled to Amsterdam with 3 and then promptly left our roommate there after his appendix exploded. (Different story for a different day)
Anyway, traffic leaving Dublin was the worst, I figured I would check in online. I downloaded the app, checked in to get my electronic boarding pass.
'Sorry, must have EU passport to check in online. Please proceed to the gate'
FUCK. I ran to the front and told the driver of my dilemma.
'Oh you'll be fine mate, they like to bluff that Ryan Air.'
No they don't man! I showed up an hour and 55 minutes before departure one time and they told me to go fuck myself.
'Oh, then I suppose you're fucked. No way we're getting there by 6.'
I had resorted myself to the fact that I was going to have to sleep in the Dublin airport and get the first flight out in the morning, blowing 200 Euro I didn't have on the third day of the trip.
By some sort of Irish miracle, the bus pulled into the airport terminal with 2 minutes to spare. I jumped off the bus and sprinted to the departures, frantically searching for the Ryan Air gate. I found it and bypassed the massive line, drenched in sweat and ran to a woman at the desk. It's 6 o clock, I'm going to London, it's exactly 6, I made it in time please print my boarding pass.
"Are you American?"
"It figures. Proceed directly to the gate."
I boarded my plane, landed in some God forsaken airport 2 hours from London, got on another goddamn bus and finally at 11pm, I had made it to the UK. Never fly Ryan Air.
Day 4: I'm also just a girl, standing in front of a boy...
I woke up from my buddy's Chelsea flat and took a train into Kensington to meet my travel companion (who had never been to Europe) this was to be my only day of London sight seeing so we needed to squeeze a lot in.
First we went to Westminster to check out among other things Westminster Abbey where we viewed the tombs of England's old monarchs, and their old Governor Oliver Cromwell.
Fun fact, after Oliver Cromwell overthrew the monarchy and ruled for a while as a type of governor he was buried at Westminster Abbey. When the monarchy was restored, his body was dug up, dragged through the streets, hung on display for a while and then thrown in a ditch for the crows to eat. We've definitely gone soft.
After a stroll through Buckingham palace we went to Kensington Gardens to drink a few bottles of Rose. From there I made it to Notting Hill.
Now if you are unaware of Notting Hill, it is one of my favorite all time Hugh Grant movies. We made extreme attempts to recreate the scene with Julia Roberts at the book store and also the note card scene from Love Actually. But then we decided we were huge losers and decided to go drink with our friends instead. We did some more drinking in the rain in Chelsea, went back to Notting Hill for even more, and I ended the night locked out of my buddy's flat, sleeping on the steps...because London.
Day 5: Hoosiers in Paris
"I'm a bit hungover."
"Let's go look at dinosaurs."
After a brief visit to see a stegosaur at the Natural History Museum, we hopped a train to Paris.
Paris. Is. The. Shit.
In London, the open container laws are, ehhhhh. In France the open container laws are 'Fuck it!'
Upon arrival we went directly to the Eiffel Tower and pounded wine, using one of my shirts as a picnic blanket. (I should add, I wore a 30 liter backpack the whole trip and looked SUPER legit backpacker.)
For lunch, we tried a spot on Rue Cler (I'm told this is a cool spot) called Cafe du Marche, it was stellar, there was Rose involved. We went BACK to the Eiffel Tower because I cannot tell you how bad ass it is to drink in front of. There are even Algerians to sell you extra bottles of wine for like 5 euro if you sell out.
For dinner we went BACK to Rue Cler and this time met up with a real life French person. She took us to Cafe Central, there was more wine involved and this is when I start to lose memory.
After dinner, we went BACK to the Eiffel Tower because THAT MOTHERFUCKER LIGHTS UP AT MIDNIGHT AND THE FUCKING ALGERIANS SELL CHAMPAGNE.
I did a midnight champagne shower. My American friend was amused, the French girl, not so much.
Day 6: Highway to the Danger Zone
I spent the morning doing some Touristy bullshit by myself. I climbed the Tower, did a river cruise down the Seine, walked Notre Dame (most beautiful church in the world bar none) and cruised the Louvre. I even met up with my buddy Andy to crush a bottle of Bordeaux mid day as the Parisians do.
Got in an Uber late, almost missed my train (begged a woman at UK immigration to take pity on me) and I was back in London by 6.
At this point in the trip it is important that you know the tourist switch was turned off.
"Moeller get home. I got you a pair of aviators, a hat and a bottle of Tequila. We're going to the danger zone."
If you're wondering what Londoners do on Thursday nights? Well let me tell you, they dress up as their favorite characters from Top Gun and go see it in the park.
The girls from the Hilton (who were sponsoring the event) knew they were in trouble when our bag full of vodka and cigarettes split open upon entry.
"Are you lot going to behave?"
"Uhhh...TOO CLOSE FOR MISSLES I'm SWITCHING TO GUNS."
"Good god, please sit in the back."
Instead of asking for beers when we were empty we would radio the tower to request a fly by.
This why Americans are not well liked abroad.
After the movie, we threw a party at the flat and eventually went to a local pub that doubles as a hostel.
"Sorry boys. Pub is closed."
This young dick head from Latvia smugly grinned at the prospect of not serving us.
"What about that guy, you just served him?"
"He's staying at the hostel."
I fired up my phone and the next minute ordered us around of shots.
"What did I just tell you about..."
"Check your computer boss, just got us 4 beds."
Dumbfounded at how easily he had been hoodwinked, the young Latvian proceeded to pour us Jager Bombs until 3 in the morning when they ran out.
This is why Americans are not well liked abroad.
Day 7: The Gong
I woke up around 10, surprised to see that everyone in the house was still asleep. Alex, another house guest, had been scheduled to leave at 8am out of Heathrow.
"I packed my bags at 5am and then I decided I just couldn't."
I check in on Hunter upstairs.
Juan and Andrew downstairs.
4 for 4, a clean sweep of hangover days...well we can't waste those now, can we?
My old roommate Hunter proposed we go to East London for the day because you can drink beer on the streets there. It was a compelling enough reason for me.
Alex said he didn't care where we went as long as we could acquire a gong.
"Like a thing you hit?"
"Ya man, like a fucking gong."
"Are you saying bong?"
"Look we can smoke out of it if you want, I just want a goddam gong."
We rolled to Shoreditch and the quest for the gong began.
Our first stop was a small brewery called the BrewDog, the purveyor of the somewhat famous Punk IPA. I approach the bar and ask what she would do if she were taking a hangover day in Shoreditch.
"I reckon I would go on a pub crawl. Hit these 8 pubs, and that should take you nicely into the night."
She scribbled on a little list and the crawl was on. One pint and one shot per pub. We braved a (standard) rain storm and made it to the end without major incident. Any time someone would start to bob their head a bit Alex would throw an adderall in their mouth. But sadly, we came up short on a gong. Finally Alex decided we should go for Sake dinner where he allegedly has a standing reservation.
First of all, I didn't even know standing reservations were a real thing, I just thought it was some bullshit made up in mob movies, but rest assured we showed up to Mr. Kim's in China Town on the West End and walked in. The couple before us was told 2 hours. Alex walked up and demanded a table for 6.
"15 minutes sir."
"Ya, why don't you make that 15 seconds."
Mr. Kim personally opened up a closed wing of the restaurant and delivered us 5 bottles of sake he'd been keeping on ice all day. I don't remember much of dinner but I do know that as we were walking out Alex looked at me and said NOW!
There it was, a gong sitting there in the lobby. No one appeared to be looking, I grabbed it and sprinted toward the street.
Andrew and Juan (flat mates) were hopping in an Uber, I handed the gong off to Andrew who escaped home with our prize.
Not ready to call it quits after roughly 10 bars and whatever the fuck happened at dinner we tried our luck getting into about 5 Leicester Square bars who laughed at our intoxication and sent us packing. We finally made it into one, but as soon as I slipped on the dance floor, it was over. We decided to call it a night. When we made it back to the flat, waiting for us on the front step was that fucking gong. We took it inside and rang it aloud, waking all the roommates and forcing them to drink with us until the sun rose.
Day 8: Golf Ettiquette
I've never been kicked out of more drinking establishments than when I was in London this past week, they just tend not to want to deal with any shit.
Saturday morning we kicked off the day with some beers and oysters at a farmer's market before deciding to buy a few liters of Fireball and drink them on a local putt putt course.
We get to the course and start aggressively swigging from brown bags while awaiting our tee time. Apparently this is frowned upon as we were strongly urged to take our party elsewhere.
We ended up at an outdoor bar just south of the river called the Ship. Upon sneaking in our Fireball a large bouncer grabbed me by the shoulder and spun me around.
Fuck I'm caught.
"You aren't fucking KIWIS are you? We don't allow Kiwis here!"
Uh, no man...I'm an American.
"Oh? Yanks! Come on in lads!"
Strange racial discrimination in the UK.
After a couple dozen pints and we finished off the fireball, one of our crew passed out on the table mid-cigarette, we were told to hit the road.
Not ready to begin the night, we hit an early dinner at Texarkana for 3 lobsters, a crab, 2 racks of ribs and maybe a half dozen vodkas. Alex spiked the odd rounds with half bombs of adderall. Despite this, out of the 5 that started dinner, only 2 survived. It was time to go back to the pad and regroup.
We pregamed by taking shots out of the gong Stanley Cup style. My travel companion who had decided to stay in Paris a few days (OMG I LOVE IT HERE) finally made it back and brought some friends around.
We arrived at a place named Tonteria around 8pm. The bouncers didn't look too happy to see us, but we did have attractive females in tow.
"What are you lot doing here so early, you better be eating dinner."
"Drinks and apps sir."
"The fuck does that mean?"
"Uh, small plates and beer?"
"Fine, but 10 pounds for the guys."
Whatever man, we blew by the cashier and walked straight to the bar.
When we arrived there were probably 10 people there and a small train looping the top of what appeared to be a restaurant. Within 2 hours, the place was packed to capacity with a raging dance floor, bottles and circus performers everywhere.
Between the 5 of us we did 48 Jager Bombs (I'm bringing those back stateside) and then slowly started to get kicked out one by one.
I came out of my black out around 3 I was making out with one of the fire breathing girls that would perform whenever someone bought a bottle, but I was sweating so hard you would think I took all the molly. I realized I was the last man standing and had no idea how to get home. I figured it would be a good idea to eject myself from the bar. I wandered the streets until a young American woman took pity on me and walked me home.
"You really shouldn't lose your friends in a foreign country dear, it can be dangerous."
Oh, I know.
Day 9: Football or The Curse of Ryan Air Part 2
"Does anyone want to go catch a matinee of Wicked?"
"How about we rent some city bikes and go for a cruise?"
Shut up fag, Chelsea plays Man City, we're going to the pub.
The sensible thing for an unemployed person on his last day would have been to pack up his belongings, maybe check out a couple last sights and get to the airport in plenty of time. Instead I merely said 'ok.'
We get to a sports bar, and Alex who has booked a flight every morning since Thursday and missed ALL of those flights has decided that he is FINALLY leaving today. But not before he drinks himself retarded so he can sleep the whole way.
It started with 3 of us at the Sports Bar in Marylebone. Then 4, then 5, 6, 7...then there were 8...drinking Punk IPA eating traditional Sunday roast...and of course Alex had the Jagerbombs flowing.
I look up as the game ends and holy shit...I really fucked up this time. My flight is in 3 hours, an hour and a half away. I am 30 minutes from the flat and not yet packed...with a dead phone.
One of the guys gets me an uber and a key.
"Go straight home, pack in less than 5 minutes and you might make it."
Of course I'm hammered at this point, my shit is all over the house and I am having a nervous breakdown that I am going to miss my flight to Dublin and in turn my 5am flight to the states.
I get back to the flat and furiously pack all of my shit into my backpack, cursing myself for not just going to see fucking wicked. The things that won't fit in my bag I throw away in a rubbish bin on the street while I wait for an uber. (An uber that costs $110 as opposed to the $10 bus I could have taken if I just saw fucking Wicked)
"Sir are we going to make it to Standsted by 8pm, my flight is at 10 and they won't let me check in if..."
"Eh probably not, but don't worry about that shit, they just bluff."
"No they don't man I was an hour and 55 minutes early once and they told me to go fuck myself!"
"Oh well then you're fucked."
Fortunately, this guy had a bit of urgency and sped to get me there by 8:01, I sprinted to the desk dripping wet and begged the woman to have mercy on me.
"Actually dear, your flight is at 10:05. You've arrived just in time."
Fuck, I had 4 minutes to spare, shouldn't have thrown away those shoes.
I worm my way through Standsted airport cursing myself for saving 20 bucks back in June when I booked. Always fly into Heathrow guys, it's not worth the perceived savings, they're going to get your money one way or another.
I go to a gin tasting at the duty free just to even myself out, I attempt to take a Xanax that Alex gave me for the flight, but instead it's an adderall which turns my anxiety up to a 10.
Why didn't I just go see fucking Wicked...
I say one last goodbye to London and it's off I go to Dublin for the night from hell.
Day 10: The Terminal
It seemed like a good idea at the time. Don't fly Norweigian Air, I thought. They don't do free drinks or food. I want a REAL airline, who will get me as fucked up as I want. I'll fly into Dublin so this trip can be 3 countries not 2!
Well whatever, Dublin was fine, but when I passed through Immigration at midnight I realized I had 6 hours to kill before boarding. What a nightmare. First I went to the pub until they kicked me out. Then I sought refuge at the 24 hour McDonalds where there were already 200 people sleeping in all the good nooks and crannies.
Did anyone know this was a thing? It's fucking crazy. I was out of Euro, I had a few pounds, but that shit wasn't going to help in Ireland. I also had a seeking suspicion that after my Sunday fiasco I was running extremely low on funds.
I saddled up to a trashcan and finished reading Out of Sight. Because due to the Adderall I was too wired to sleep. I catch word that my brother has broken his ankle in 3 places just before my iPhone and iPad die. (Because of course in the frenzy, I had forgotten to pack both chargers)
My plane is delayed and finally, smelling like absolute sewage I board around 8am. Because of the time zones, this 12 hour flight (which is full and I'm sitting next to an Ethiopian) basically lands at 10am local and never travels through darkness. I am awake the whole fucking time, trying to drink myself asleep but it's no use. I watch 5 shitty movies and land at LAX realizing I haven't slept now in close to 24 hours.
I schlep through customs where I'm questioned about a mysterious pill that falls out of my pocket at immigration. "It's adderall, I'm prescribed."
Nope it's the Xanax I tried to take. The guard pays little mind to it and welcomes me back to the USA. I catch a city bus back to Venice and arrive back to my apartment in Venice.
Somehow it is still fucking Monday, I realize I haven't checked my email all week because I am scared about my old boss yelling at me for something I fucked up before I left or my dad yelling at me because I'm out of money.
Instead I decide to shut it down and I sleep for 16 hours. I have some of the craziest dreams of my life. It's good to be home...I think.
Day 11: Depression
Tuesday I refuse to leave my room. I realize I have gone way over budget on this trip. Ferris Bueller's Month Off is going to be cut short.
I still don't have a flight to the midwest for the wedding. I don't have a fucking job. Oh my god, that suit I was supposed to buy for the groomsmen? I don't have it and GODDAMMIT, it's sold out. There is an angry email from my boss. I can't open it. I just can't. I think my life is over. I'm going to have to leave LA. I try watching TV or reading to take my mind off my impending doom. I'm such a fucking idiot. Why did I do this to myself? Back to bed.
|At Top Gun. Not me, but about how I felt on Tuesday.|
Day 12: It always works out
My travel buddy said to me in Paris, "I don't understand how you do it. You live so close to the edge, but you never worry about. You always just say everything will work out."
Well when you play with fire, eventually you get burned but apparently I would live to fight another day.
First thing I did when I woke up was check the e-mail from my boss and accounting, assuming I am going to be brought up on fraud charges for my liberal use of the company card.
"Hey Dave, you reimbursed us with a personal check, can you send us a cashier's check instead? It's no biggie, just company policy."
Then my boss.
"I think he's gone for a month."
"All good, whenever he gets around to it."
Score, I'm not going to jail...in fact I may even be in good standing at TNT!
Next order of business. Flights home. I should better stay in town as long as possible to try to interview...how about Tuesday.
One way to Chicago $59.
$59 are you fucking kidding me?
2 for 2.
I call J Crew's wedding department and explain the pickle I'm in.
"All good man, we've got one 44L and a pant that's 36/30 but you can get it tailored to fit. I'll overnight them to your parents in Indy."
This isn't fucking real, this is one of those dreams where everything goes right and then you wake up to realize none of it actually happened.
Tentatively 3 for 3.
I email an old boss.
"Hey, you know of any shows crewing up right now?"
I might be able to use someone for 8 weeks or so starting the 31st, let me know if you're interested. Also my husband has some shit going on this weekend if you want to work a couple days.
GAH THIS IS NOT FUCKING REAL.
I decide to take a celebratory bike ride down to the South Bay. It's my favorite ride in Los Angeles. I pull up to a stop light in Marina Del Rey. I'm wearing my standard Indiana kit.
"Hey man, are you a cutter?"
Without turning around.
"Haha, nope I was one of the villainous frat guys."
"We beat you."
I spin thinking I'll see one of the geeds that rode for the cutters and has been dominating the Greeks since 1979 since a guy in my fraternity ironically invented the team.
In front of me is a well built man in his 50s with a firm jaw line in impecable shape, he smiles at me as my jaw drops.
"Are you fucking Dennis Quaid?"
"Well my friends just call me Dennis, but ya. Look man, we're one short wanna hop on with us?"
I spent my morning riding to the south bay with Dennis Quaid and the owner of Helen's Cycles. We talked Breaking Away, Bloomington and the state of TV and film at the moment. He broke off at Manhattan and I continued south to my smoothie spot in Hermosa but before we parted he shook my hand and said "Good luck to you Dave, I have a feeling everything is going to work out for you."
I have a feeling he's right.
Monday, August 10, 2015
"We've played this song 3 or 4 times tonight, but if you guys really want to hear it, we'll have one more go."
I'm at Dublin's most famous pub, Temple Bar. I'm standing by myself drinking a Guiness and watching a folk duo play live music.
99.99% of the time when I go out, I do not magically meet the girl of my dreams. But here I am, standing in a corner, hoping that someone will approach me and ask me if I'm an American on vacation.
I am! And I'm in Dublin all alone just waiting for someone to take pity on me. We can walk around the streets of Ireland all night talking about life. She could be my Julie Deply, this could be the night that changes my life.
But alas, no one takes notice of the aging Southern California bro dancing by himself in the corner. To be fair, it's been a very long day of travel and I haven't done much but drink beer at my hostel and challenge random strangers to play Billiards. It's kind of a bust, I tell myself. But, whatever, tomorrow I'll be reunited with friends...and friends of friends. My wild European adventure is right in front of me. But still, it bums me out a bit that I couldn't manufacture a memorable night on my own.
A drunk Irishman bumps into me and spills his drink all over my shirt.
'It's cool man.'
This is the most in depth convo I've had with someone all day. He offers me some snuff because apparently that is a thing here. I politely decline and resign to head back to my hostel and get a good night's sleep before my trip really picks up in the AM.
But what fucking song was that band talking about?
That's the type of shit they say at Piano Bars when someone requests "Don't Stop Believin"
Are the Irish really into 80's power pop?
It would seem unlikely as the two songs that have garnered the biggest reaction thus far were "Valerie" by Amy Winehouse and a Johnny Cash medley.
I decide to have one more beer, a Smithwicks, I order this mainly so I can prove to the bartender that I know how to properly pronounce it 'Smitticks.'
What fucking song are they going to play?
In Pulp Fiction there was the briefcase.
In Infinite Jest there is that god damn 'entertainment.'
In Seven there was something in that fucking box that gave John Doe the upper hand.
What is the Irish Folk Duo's Freebird?
"Ok you cunts, one last time. This song comes from a movie you may know called P.S. I Love You..."
The house goes absolutely fucking bonkers.
"This is Galway Girl."
I took a stroll down the old long walk
Of the day I-ay-I-ay
I met a little girl and we stopped to talk
On a grand soft day I-ay
And I ask you friends, what's a fella to do?
Because her hair was black and her eyes were blue
And I knew right then, I'd be takin a whirl
Down the Salthill Prom with a Galway Girl
Ok, so I guess it's a somewhat catchy song, but after the anticipation the climax is extremely unsatisfying.
I finish my pint and make for the door, but my path is blocked by a man in a spandex yellow shirt, blonde handlebar mustache and red tights.
"WHERE ARE YOU GOING BROTHER?"
I'm looking at Hulk Hogan, or at least a man dressed like him.
And then from behind me...
"HULKAMANIA IS RUNNING WILD"
Wait, what the fuck? There is another Hulk...and then another, and another. Soon I realize there are 10 of them. A Hulk Hogan bar crawl.
'Sorry, not tonight boys.' A bouncer shuts down their advances into the bar.
'We're at capacity and your outfits are a little much.'
I see the devastation on their faces.
"But sir..." I meekly interject. "These are my friends from uni...I studied abroad here, I just landed, they dressed up as Hulk Hogan because they know how much I love wrestling."
The bouncer seems unimpressed, but he seems to take pity on me, the boy who has been politely bobbing his head in the corner all night...alone.
'You guys are with the American?'
"HELL YAAAA BROTHER!"
'Seriously cut the shit.'
One of the Hulk brakes character, "Sorry, yes we studied abroad with Mark."
'Fine, come in...no funny business.'
The Hulks escort me into a smaller room.
'What's your name mate?'
'Where are you from?'
'Califronia is pretty liberal, do you care that the Hulk might be racist?"
No, NWO for life.
'Well Dave, welcome to the Hulk Hogan bar crawl.'
It turned out to be a bachelor party. We were all kicked out of Temple Bar about 10 minutes in because one of the Hulks dropped a signature leg drop on a stranger that was 'acting disrespectful.'
It was my second straight booting from Temple Bar. In 2008 I was removed when I knocked over 3 tables and 17 beers in a drunken stupor.
'Plenty of bars Dave, let's get pissed."
We make an emergency run to McDonald's to get Double Cheeseburgers 'for strength' and then make our way to a pub called Quay's.
We walk in and the leader of the Hulks (Nick) smashes his pint on the ground.
What's wrong man?
'The bloody cunts are here!'
I look across the bar and I see 7 Wonder Women.
'That's my fiance mate, we weren't supposed to meet up. She's doing her Bachelorette tonight as well. She's into comic books and shit.'
The Hulks and the Wonder Women make contact. It is awkward for a bit until one of the Hulks (the black one) reaches behind the bar and steals a bottle of Jameson. This unites the group and we make quick work of the bottle. It isn't long before the dance floor is exclusively 90's WWF wrestlers, female super heroes and some awkward kid from Venice.
I find myself dancing with a shorter, jet black haired Wonder Woman.
'How did you end up with this lot?'
Umm, I really don't know.
'Well you seem nice, better than these savages. I'm Reilly by the way.'
Reilly and I dance a while. A surprising amount of N'Sync and Backstreet Boys is played, thus my dance moves are relevant.
Eventually Nick (The Bachelor) accuses a Danish guy of trying to dance with his bride to be.
Things escalate. One of the Hogans smashes the Dane with a bottle. Holy fuck.
One of the Danish guy's buddies tosses Mike through an open window onto the street.
Police sirens blast from all directions.
'Nice to meet you Dave, I think it's time for us to go.'
I follow the short girl out a back door and run two blocks toward Millenium bridge that leads me back in the direction of my hostel.
After we cross she plants a quick kiss on my lips.
What was all of that about?
'The little ruckus at the bar just now? That's a Sunday in Ireland love. If you think this is bad, you should see Galway where I'm from.'
Of course she's from Galway. She pops across the street into an empty cab and is gone.
I walk along the river back to my hostel, sirens blaring in the distance. I would live to think all of my Hulk Hogan brethren got away, but then again a yellow shirt with red tights isn't the most inconspicuous outfit.
A Spaniard at the hostel offers me a cigarette when I get back.
'You have a fun night man?'
You know what, I really did.
Sunday, August 9, 2015
I made it.
Sure I cut it a little closer than I should have. Was it really necessary to drink in Venice all day and then go to the Palisades for one more? Was it ironic that I almost missed my flight because my obviously foreign uber driver was flagged at a DUI checkpoint?
None of this is relevant, because I'm here. Coming to you live from a mid-2000s Windows XP Dell in the lobby of my hostel.
Obviously these posts are going to be a bit shorter because I'm in Europe and I should be hitting on that red head down at the bar...but instead I'm writing to you while I wait for my hair to dry.
Oh ya, totally forgot that hostels don't do the whole towel thing. Or soap, or lock. In fact I'm pretty sure I accidentally used the women's restroom and the person that saw me? Sleeping above me. Basically I look like a wet rat that showered and then through on a pair of pink shorts and a polo without drying off.
God dammit, now the Welsh guy is talking to the cute red head. Things are not off to a good start. But I will rally, the Foster's on tap is only 4 Euro, and sure it's an Australian beer. In fact after the conversion it's probably not even a good deal, but they are going down easily and my confidence is growing.
Not sure how late I'll make it out tonight, because even though I drank Ethiopia's GDP in wine last night on my flight (and watched the three shittiest movies ever made) I could not sleep a wink.
A screaming baby.
But not even a baby baby. Like a screaming 6 year old. The 6 year old was not pleased because her TV was cutting out every time she tried to watch the Fox Animation movie Home. I watched Home, it was fucking terrible. This baby is better off for having not watched it. But that did not stop her from screaming.
NO THEY WONT KICK US OFF THE PLANE.
IF THEY KICK US OFF THE PLANE WE WILL DIE.
We will not die.
MOM I DONT WANT TO DIE.
You're not going to die.
MAKE THE DVD WORK.
GIVE ME ATTENTION SCREEEEEEEEEEEAM.
Parents, if you dare to bring your kids on an international vacation. (I don't know why you would, they will appreciate nothing and merely cut into your fuck time with your spouse) Please drug them.
Load them up with enough Benadryl to kill a horse.
It ensures that I will have a good time on my trip.
I know you may be thinking that drugging your child might negatively effect their long term health.
It's ok. If you have the type of child that screams for attention and legit thinks that being removed from a plane means getting catapulted from the cargo hold...that child probably doesn't deserve to live.
In fact, maybe we should hold that threat over parents. If your baby cries, both of you will be shot out the emergency door. Travel at your own risk.
|God dammit that fucking Welsh kid is touching her thigh now. Doesn't that little Scottish Red Head know that Americans are inherently better than everyone.
I think I'll go tell her that. I better get another beer first. Maybe walk across the street and buy some deodorant or something. That would be a nice touch, it's really the least I can do.
Wednesday, August 5, 2015
Well it's Tuesday of Lollapalooza recovery week and many of you are back at work today and miserable. While I did not attend this year, I do have fond memories of Lollapaloozas from years passed and all festivals in general.
Today, instead of dusting off my resume or forging fake receipts for the accounting department, I've decided to finally share the story of Coachella 2015. Enjoy.
"I would go back."
I'm stuck in traffic heading east on the I-10 trying desperately to get to the Laker game.
"I mean, I missed a lot week 1."
My friend Kevin is sitting shotgun chewing on some beef jerky and covertly drinking a 40 of Coors Light. He has just returned from Coachella weekend 1 and won't stop talking about this Scandinavian kid called Kygo?
"What's a Kygo? Is it like an instrument?"
"No you dickhead, it's a dj that plays trop house. All the kids are into it."
I had made the decision not to return for a third consecutive trip. I had convinced myself that I was "over it." Coachella is typically an expensive weekend of heavy drinky, hard drug use, extreme heat and sandstorms. Sure it's fun, but I had bounced around a lot in the spring and was looking forward to a nice weekend at home.
"The bottom has fallen out of the ticket market too. I think we could probably get in for $250."
I have now parked in a lot right next to Staple's Center and cracked my 40. The Lakers are shitty this year and no one wants to go to the games. That includes my boss and his second row seats.
"And we could camp basically for free. All we would need is a tent, a wristband and beer. I think we could do the whole weekend for $400."
I check the line-up and browse it for a moment. I don't really care about who is playing, if I go it's for the party. It's so I can take pictures, it's so I can say I was there. My Facebook pic is a year old at this point, this would be an opportunity for an upgrade.
We go into the game and have a couple more brews. The Lakers get destroyed, we dip out early to go to another bar.
"Ok fuck it, let's go."
Wednesday night we decided to go, Thursday I acquired us some tickets and Friday we left my office at 6pm with the following in tow:
-Case of water
-Case of beer
-handle of whiskey
I had a backpack that I had filled with everything pink I own and I think he brought the bag he had used the week before. Four hours later we were in Indio.
My first order of business was acquiring drugs. That's the one downfall of winging it, you can't just pick up a few moonrocks at the Palm Springs 7/11 on the way in. But it's a rave right? It's a sellers market and I am flush with cash. We parked next to a shaggy haired blonde kid and I made my first attempt.
"Hey man, you got anything extra to sell?"
"Sorry man, my buddy called me to say he had an extra ticket. I quit my job at In-n-Out and drove straight here."
"No man, it's cool...I don't want to flip burgers anyway, I wanna be a cop. But, hey by the way, can I have a beer? I'm only 17."
0 for 1.
We make our way into the festival and completely bypass finding our camp or setting up a tent. Fortunately, we are able to sneak a few water bottles of whiskey in, so if I won't be able to roll I'll at least be able to drink myself into oblivion. Eventually we made our way to the Sahara tent and a Coachella miracle occurred. Laying on the ground right in front of me was a small ziplock baggy with a mysterious substance inside.
I could see the scenario play out in my head. Some amateur in swim trunks tucked his bag into a pocket not realizing how shallow they were. During an especially heavy drop he started jumping, jumping, until his bag fluttered to the ground for me to find.
It was destiny.
Sure it could have been heroin, it could have been poison. What type of idiot finds something on the ground and eats it? This idiot. I picked it off the ground and ate it...
And it was dirt.
Just a bag of dirt.
Of course it was a bag of dirt, formerly it was likely a bag of weed or ecstasy pills. But now it was litter and in the madness of a dance party, it had filled with dirt.
0 for 2.
Ok so Friday was somewhat uneventful. We managed to see AC/DC. We played Thunderstruck during Thunderstruck! That was cool!?
But the important part of Friday was this: We found our camp. We set up a tent. We would live to fight another day...
If you haven't camped at Coachella, I cannot stress how hard it is to sleep. Every night at 3am there is a silent disco that takes place in the middle of the grounds. People take acid before going to this and then dance around with headphones on for a couple hours. Afterward they go to their camp sites and blast deep house until the batteries on their iHome die.
This leads to thumping bass playing throughout the night that leads to a crescendo of car alarms around 6am. You've likely been awaken by a car alarm before, it sucks, you get over it and you go back to bed.
Once you're awake in the desert, there is no going back to bed.
At 6:01 I was awake and heading for the showers. Of course I immediately realize I had forgotten shower shoes and this point was driven home to me when the drain to my shower was clogged with condoms. This means now I have some other dudes cum on my feet and reminds me that I didn't get laid the previous evening, not the best way to start a day.
There is a peaceful silence that lasts from about 7-8 in the morning. It's as if you are actually in the desert, far removed from civilization. You take a moment to appreciate the beauty. But then some enterprising hero throws on a Thomas Jack track and reminds the entire campground that you are after all at a music festival. And like the first child awake at a slumber party the energy becomes contagious and by 8:30 a full blown party is underway, hangovers be damned.
As the campmates (whom I was yet to meet) started to wake up and cook breakfast, I quickly realized three things.
1. Everyone at my campground was in college.
2. Somehow I had already lost my phone.
3. I hadn't actually packed anything other than all of the pink clothes that I own. It was meant to be a joke, but I over committed to the bit. It would be pink all weekend, including but not limited to 2 swimsuits, a sweater vest and a pair of pink shorts that is still bloodstained from my last appearance at Little 5.
I was predictably irked about my phone and my lack of practical packing. But college. College? A PLACE WHERE I WAS KING!! You know what matters in college? Physical attractiveness. Coolness. Ability to party. So I'm like 2 for 3. It should be a good weekend.
To protect the innocent, I'll kind of glide over the crew. Everyone that we were (kinda) camping with was from San Diego. Some were undergrads, others PhD/MD candidates. I was literally with brain surgeons and sorority girls. I like to think that I'm kind of in the middle on that spectrum, but everyone was there for a similar cause, get fucked up and have a good time.
By 9am beers were being shotgunned, the undergrads were hoovering lines of cocaine and I felt like I was on some sort of gonzo MTV Spring Break, this was not my previous Coachella experience.
By 9:30 one of the sorority girls has gone too hard, the paramedics come and take her away in the golf cart ambulance. Horrible people that we are, I don't even think we stopped our game of flip cup as they strapped her to a stretcher and dragged her away. I suppose it was understood, Coachella culture, only the strong survive.
An hour passed, Fireball was consumed, UV rays absorbed, drugs ingested. By 10:30 our 18 year old friend comes bouncing back from the med tent.
"Hey guys, they said it was an allergic reaction or something and gave me a shot of adrenaline. Where's the blow?"
I guess that kind of response means it's time to head into the fest.
The most stressful 10 minutes of Coachella is the walk from your camp site to the venue. As you stroll past elaborate set-ups from the seasoned veterans; part of you wonders if you partied hard enough to go in yet. Sure there is beer inside, but it is isolated and costly. But the other part of you is ready to see some live music and dance.
It's fascinating to see all the different people that meet in the desert for this 72 hour party, strangers coming from all walks of life. Absurd fashion statements are prominently displayed everywhere. Witty tank tops, topless women with body paint "free the nipple" and an emerging trend of under butt or "ass cleavage." Myself, in all pink with my arms painted 'TEXAZ FOREVER' I fit in just fine.
We get to the gate and everyone takes a deep breath as we pray to the rave gods that all of our molly gets through security. It does. The party begins.
I still didn't have any drugs, too afraid to ask the cool girls from San Diego State, but right as we walk to the first tent our little friend with the mild overdose earlier winks at me and slips something into my pocket.
Once inside my memory melts into a mural of colors and vibes. I don't remember specific artists, I remember feelings. Even thinking of it now, it's like a certain nostalgia of something I can't remember if I dreamed or lived.
But this is what I do remember.
1. At a certain point everyone paired off with a chick. It's not a rave without a dancing partner. The 'molly wife' I ended up with was camping next door to us and unfortunately she had come with a guy, who was none too pleased to be ditched. Half of my day was trying to sneak away and make out while he wasn't looking. Also she was 21, so like half my age plus seven. I barely passed.
2. The Do Lab is awesome. There should be more instances in life where you are sweaty and someone blasts you with a water cannon.
3. We saw Axwell and Ingrosso which is basically Swedish House Mafia. When Swedish House 'reunites' in 3 years, a ticket will be more than $250 and will not be a three day event.
4. Try the Coachella diet! You eat nothing, smoke a ton of cigs and dance like a maniac, come Monday you'll be skinny AF.
Actually don't try the Coachella diet, it will leave you hungover for a week.
Saturday night after the show, everyone retires back to camp for a little late night drinking followed by super sweaty gross hook-ups. I had work Monday, so I imagined my Coachella was over. All in all, a good time. Better than expected for sure, going to Coachella with one friend and a bunch of strangers is great, I saw exactly the music I wanted to see, was able to behave as if I would never see any of these people again, highly recommend. I took a rare hit of a joint and cashed out, tomorrow would be a rough drive back.
"Hey man, what if we stayed for Drake?"
"Isn't he last?"
"Ya, but I missed him last week and then we can see Kygo too. It will be fine, we'll leave RIGHT after. I'll stay sober, we'll get back to LA at like midnight. You can sleep on the way back."
"Ok, I guess that's fine."
Well you can imagine how well that shit worked out.
I would not be lounging on my couch all day full of alcohol poisoning and severe anxiety. With our ice long gone, our canopy blown away, I would be sitting in the desert sun, drinking warm Budweisers. Hooray.
There is an inherent sadness with the last day of any trip, but especially Coachella. Lots of people start to leave because they have adult responsibility on Monday. The campground empties out, leaving behind a wasteland of destroyed tents, broken coolers and hundreds of thousands of cigarette butts.
The best way to take your mind off of this last episode of The Real World is to distract yourself by drinking more than you should on the sabbath. Hell, I think I even drank a warm bottle of blush wine.
In anticipation of leaving the minute Drake went off stage, we completely packed up our campsite, so that all we had was an empty cooler to sit on. With no toys left for drinking games and no battery left on our speakers, we somberly passed around a near boiling bottle of vodka in contemplative silence.
By the time we entered the festival, I could barely stand, not from drunkenness but more so exhaustion. I had slept probably 7 total hours the entire weekend and put nothing in my body except for booze, I was physically shutting down.
We saw Mo do her Diplo song, Kygo played his big song. Drake kinda sucked, but whatever, I was ready to get the fuck home.
When we finally get back to the camp site we hear that as a safety precaution, no cars are permitted to leave until 3am.
I fall on the grass and fall asleep for the next 4 hours.
Kev shakes me awake at 3:15.
"You ready to get out of here man?"
"LA by midnight?"
"Oh fuck off let's go. We've gotta give this chick a ride back to Palm Springs too."
Of course we do.
The sun is rising over the Palm Desert as we finally make our way to the 10. We drop a nice Asian girl off at a house in Desert Hot Springs. The doors are locked.
"Oh, it's fine, I'll just sleep on the boat."
Why there was a 26 foot cabin boat parked on the driveway, I didn't think to ask.
The 110 mile trip took just over 4 hours and I am dropped off at my office at 7:15, coated in dirt, smelling like a sewer and still proudly sporting "TEXAZ FOREVER" on my arms from Saturday. Happy Monday.
Somehow I am the first person in my office. I go to make coffee and then immediately retreat to my office to take a nap under my desk.
At 9am, someone pokes me awake, it's one of my coworkers.
"What are you doing down there? I tried calling you this morning, my car broke down."
"I don't have a phone."
"The desert swallowed it."
Mercifully, I am sent home to take a quick shower. I manage to get most of the paint off of my face, but the Riggins endorsement stands true. I'm also able to pick up an old phone from a friend and then my situation starts to come crashing down on me.
I don't even know where to begin.
My decision making is at an all time low, my anxiety is at an all time high and I'm trolling around Venice with a fucking iPhone 4.
I don't even have any chargers for an iPhone 4.
I threw them away so that I could smugly tell iPhone 4 people that bit of news years ago when I upgrade to my 5. The joke isn't even relevant anymore, no one has asked me for a 4 charger in 18 months. Now the shoe is on the other foot.
So I get back to work and my boss is standing in my office unimpressed.
"You know, normal people can't just use the excuse that they're hungover every Monday and hope people will take pity on them."
"Did you at least have fun?"
I think so?
I'm not even sure why as I'm sure my phone is for sale in some Inland Empire kids locker, but I log onto FindMyiPhone as a formality and wouldn't you know...
My phone has been found.
In Bell Gardens!
What the fuck is Bell Gardens?
Oh! Bell Gardens is like the real life Vinci from True Detective season 2? Heavily populated by lower class Mexican Americans with a high percentage of gang affiliation.
But I had an address, so fuck it, I drive down to Bell Gardens.
I arrive on a street behind the Bell Gardens Casino (this is where they shot the Vinci Gardens Casino) at around 9pm and knock on a door. A couple pitbulls frothing at the mouth try to tear down the screen as an older gentlemen approaches.
"Hi. Um...my iPhone was found here. Do you have like a son or something?"
"Did you leave it here? Were you at the casino?"
"No, I uh, lost it 2 hours away from here at a concert in the desert."
"Well then why are you looking here?"
"I don't know, I got this email."
I show him the email, he thinks it over.
"I have a nephew who listens to music. But you don't want to talk to him. He's bad news."
I think it over and come to the conclusion that the nephew turned my phone on his uncle's house, found that it was locked and likely destroyed it. Probably for the best that he didn't answer the door.
"You shouldn't come around here late at night my friend, it's not safe for you."
"I apologize, this was a mistake, thank you for your time sir."
I race home, certain that I'm being tailed by a '76 Cadillac with Latin King affiliation. I don't stop to breathe until I've crossed Lincoln Blvd in Venice. The Crips here like me. We have a truce. They will protect me from the Bell Gardens gangsters.
I get to the Verizon store Tuesday morning. I'm clean. I've shaved. My arms have no writing on them. If you squinted a little, I might actually resemble a normal human. I've got $800 in my pocket for a new phone.
We'll do this trip for like $400, $500 tops.
Ya $1500 later here I am.
"Hey man I need a new iPhone 6."
"Cool, do you have insurance?"
Holy fuck, I haven't lost a phone since college. What is this insurance you speak of.
"Uh, maybe? Can you look it up?"
"Ya, you've got it. Go to this website, it's like $100 they'll overnight you a new phone."
Another Coachella miracle! I take a moment to laugh at myself that I had endangered my life by potentially storming the house of a thief in the ghetto (alone) for a hundred dollars.
I take a deep breath, as I walk out of the store. Today is a new day, my depression rinses away and I realize that everything is going to be ok.
The sun is out, I'm young and single living in the greatest place on Earth. Only 51 more weeks until next year's Coachella.
Monday, August 3, 2015
"How's the marathon training going?"
From age 13-17 my dad and I didn't really see eye to eye, we didn't have a lot in common. He doesn't like to travel, party, watch movies, read or write. A while back though we found common ground on our distaste for fat people and an enjoyment of staying physically fit, now we talk almost every day.
"Well it hit a little snag, I, um injured myself."
In the past year I broke both my wrists, caught a bad case of runner's knee and I also get blacked out and wake up with mystery ailments all the time. This time though, I was pretty sure I knew what had happened.
Flashback to the previous Thursday, after softball I had gone straight to a party downtown. I had packed a change of skinny jeans, fun socks and probably a plaid shirt or some bullshit (east of Lincoln) what I had forgotten was an extra pair of boxers. 'Fuck it' I thought, 'I'll just freeball it.'
Well this was all good and well until someone spilled a drink on my crotch (which I ignored) and proceeded to dance all night, rubbing my dick up against wet denim and a zipper.
This is bad. This hurts. I'll spare you the details, but in the morning when the booze wore off, I thought my dick was going to fall off.
"What happened? Are you ok?"
"Well it's kind of a man problem, you know below the belt? Did you ever see There's Something About Mary? Similar."
"Oh Jeez, better take a few days off."
So there I was, taking a few days off, walking was painful, riding a bike was out of the question, but then other shit started happening. Again, I won't get too graphic but a few days of panic later I convinced myself I had Chlamydia and took the following steps.
1. Called an old friend and demanded a Z pack, no questions asked.
2. Took the Z pack.
3. Went on with my life.
You may say, "Why wouldn't you just go get tested?"
Have you seen the fucking degenerates at Planned Parenthood? They're one meth bender away from the grave. I am white. I have sex with white girls who have a dad in one of the two top tax brackets, surely I couldn't have an STD. Z pack is a cure all, why waste a Saturday afternoon at a clinic when I could go do coke in the bathroom at bungalow? Plus I'm an out of sight out of mind guy.
A week goes by and my problems have not gone away, I start to panic that it must be something far worse. There was that Coachella girl, there was that Townhouse girl, I don't know how much money their dads were worth. My God, what if I had AIDS.
I finally crawl into a clinic and bathe in the shame of my actions, ready to accept my sentence, ready to write a long letter to my parents apologizing for them having to live with the shame of a son that died of AIDS.
"You have a urinary tract infection. Take this and drink a lot of water."
It was a miracle. I wasn't grinding too hard in ill fitting jeans, I wasn't having sex with someone of poor breeding. Some bullshit bacteria was to blame for this whole mess.
Jesus Christ that was stressful...I need a vacation.
When I graduated college, I asked my dad what my graduation gift was.
"Your gift is that you graduated debt free, now go find a job."
Looking back, that is a pretty kick ass gift. Most of my friends make a mortgage sized payment every month and they don't own shit. Predictably though, I was upset. All of my friends were planning this epic trip from Vegas to San Diego, all the way up the coast to SF and eventually finishing up at Lake Tahoe. The trip was going to last 29 days and they were calling it Ferris Bueller's month off. I still hear fucking stories from that trip and I was pissed I didn't go.
If I knew then what I know now about personal finance I would have opened a credit card, maxed it out on that trip and declared personal bankruptcy as soon as I hit my $10,000. By 29 I would be reset and you know what? You don't really need good credit before age 29.
Regardless, I had my own adventures that summer, desperately looking for work in New York and LA before finally settling for Chicago.
The next May, a new group did Ferris Bueller's Month Off...this crew even got matching tattoos that said FBMO, GOD I was so fucking pissed. 29 days of FOMO had me literally clawing my eyes out whilst watching the clock at a job I hated.
In the 6 or so years that have passed, I've taken lots of fun vacations, I've moved to LA, made new friends, a lot has changed. One thing has never left me though; the burning desire to unplug and go off the fucking grid for a whole god damn month.
I had missed my window, I never thought it would be possible...until now.
August 7th at 6:30pm my current television show will end and I will be "laid off." At 6:31pm I will be eligible to apply for unemployment to 'keep me on my feet while I look for another job.' August 8th I am going off the fucking grid for a month and because I know how to game the system there will be $2000 waiting for me when I get back. Hey guys, I didn't make the rules...
Knowing this, there is really no motivation for me to worry about leaving at such a pivotal moment in my life. Sure that money is probably intended to buy baby food for struggling families, but I don't see it anywhere in the rules that I can't blow all of my savings and then use what they give me for rent when I get back. Ah yes, I know I am a piece of shit, but I am a piece of shit who is about to have the best goddam 29 days of his life.
August 8th I fly (on Ethiopian Airlines, this should be exciting) to Dublin, Ireland. My plane leaves at 1130pm in the evening. Prior to booking I corresponded with the Ethiopian Government about in-flight amenities. (EA is wholly owned by the government) They assured me that an unlimited supply of beer and wine would be complimentary.
Norwegian Airlines (a cheaper flight by $200) did not make me this guarantee. Thus, I do not fly Norwegian Air.
Sunday August 9th, at 630pm, after drinking what I imagine will amount to 14 glasses of wine on an African Dreamliner, I will be set loose in Dublin for 24 hours. I have a shitty hostel, I have a reservation at the Guiness Storehouse and the Jameson Factory. I also imagine there will be ample time for crushing Smithwick's at Temple Bar. There isn't much to do in Dublin, 24 hours of drinking should be sufficient.
Monday August 10th, if I am able to stand after drinking whiskey and stouts all morning, I will board a plane for London. It's Ryan Air. There will not be free booze. A glass of ice water will likely cost 15 pounds. It is also a 50 minute flight. These are the only 50 minutes of the trip I do not plan to have a drink of some type in my hand. Monday night I will check in with a couple friends from IU/Chicago. While most of you have been growing up, these two are living the life you wish you had. They're at Yacht Week right now. They were in Hong Kong the week before that. I think they went to Casablanca a couple months ago just for the fuck of it.
I am terrified. When we lived together, our partying was on equal footing. I fear I have been surpassed.
Also arriving Monday night is a friend of mine who booked her trip on a whim after reading one of my Facebook statuses. She will be my primary partner in crime during this trip. Our social media updates will be obnoxious. You're going to love it. I'll be blogging the whole time, it will be like when I blogged from abroad in college, it's going to be awesome.
After doing a bunch of touristy bullshit in London Tuesday, we board a train for Paris on Wednesday afternoon.
I have never been. I reckon I can knock out Frog-ville in 24 hours. That is plenty of time to see a tower, an art museum and consume 4-7 bottles of Rose. Once in Paris, I leave my lady friend behind so she can shop and eat French bread or whatever the fuck people do there after their Eiffel Tower tour is over. I head back to London and that's when the party starts.
Thursday-Sunday in London I plan on doing nothing cultural unless you consider screaming insults at a Tottenham match to be 'culture.' I will be breaking into the Soho House pool, I will be chugging Fireball. I will basically be reverting to a Sophomore in college, if anyone has any advice on local spots where this type of behavior is encouraged, please let me know.
Sunday night I take a midnight flight back to the Dublin airport where depending on my hangover anxiety I will either take a cab into town to keep partying or go sleep it off at Baggage claim. Monday morning I head back stateside.
I actually do fly back to LA for a couple days after Europe. Will I unpack? Will I search for a job? Nay! A couple days is just long enough to get down to Tijuana and pick up a fat stack of Viagara for my trip to the midwest, so I can drink myself into a grave without worrying if I can perform for some of my old flings. Will I get busted at TSA? Maybe, would it be a legendary story if I did? Definitely.
At some point, the week of the 22nd I will fly somewhere in the midwest that is in the general vicinity of Indianapolis...probably Chicago. I don't have a flight. I don't have a place to stay. I'm sure it will work out. I would like to go on a boat. I would like to get drunk on a rooftop. If you or someone close to you can make this happen, let me know! I will probably not be back in Chicago for at least a year and I haven't been back in the summer since I moved away in 2011.
Eventually, I will have to figure out a way from Chicago to Indianapolis so I can raid my parents fridge and potentially do some laundry, but this is where the fun begins, because Thursday, August 27th I have a bachelor party...in Bloomington...on Lake Monroe.
Ah yes, the whole reason for the trip to the midwest is for a good friend's wedding. I'm in it! That's a first! What a mistake by him! And it's in Bloomington? During fucking WELCOME WEEK?
My God, I will be at Kilroy's ordering Cooks I don't give a fuck how old I am, I WILL shack in the dorms.
So on the off chance I survive Thursday's Bachelor Party, Friday's Rehearsal Dinner and Saturday's wedding...
Side note: I wrote a while back about post traumatic party disorder. I had banned myself from partying in Bloomington at least for more than 24 hours or so for a game. This is going to be a full fledged 3 day bender and I fear for my life and the lives of everyone else involved. This is a frat wedding. I'm pretty sure there are about 100 dudes from the house going...meanwhile the bride was a DZ, and well they know how to party.
Ah yes, If I survive. If I survive, then
The first week of September is going to be rough. I will have been out of work for three weeks, partying my dick off the entire time. I will likely be running low on funds and have extreme anxiety if not flat out depression creeping in. I don't know where I'll spend the week between the wedding and the 2nd bachelor party. At my parent's house in Indy? Too stressful. In rehab? Maybe. Or perhaps I'll crash on someone's couch in River North and since Chicago summer is ending we'll go out every night to squeeze the last bit of sun out before the 312 reverts to the arctic tundra that is so often is.
Oh that sounds terrible. How about a nice quiet house in the suburbs. With a pool? Anyone in Wilmette live at home still? Can we share a basement for a few days and just play video games or something? Lock ourselves in the dark and just watch the entire series of The Wire in like three days?
Wherever I am, I know Friday that I'll likely be picked up by someone and we'll head north to Wisconsin for a lake house bachelor party.
I'm only CC'd on like half the emails, so quite frankly, I don't even know where it is. I don't know what we're going to do. Boat around? Pick up townies at a bowling alley? Drink? Drugs? Ya, probably a clean sweep on that.
I don't know what to expect, I just imagine that by the time Breakfast is served on Labor Day 2015, I will be a shell of a human being. I'll probably cobble together the remaining $300 or so to my name and take an Airtran flight back to LA. I'll be so broke when I land that I'll have to take a city bus back to Venice and then I will sleep for 3 days straight. I won't be able to process to stupidity of taking a month off of life.
I'll check my email for the first time in a month. There will be rants from my old boss about something I fucked up on my last week and how unprofessional it was for me to have an out of office that said.
"Hey I'm backpacking through Europe right now and am completely unreachable, looking forward to reconnecting with everyone upon my return."
My room will be messy because obviously I waited to pack until the very last minute. The girl I have a crush on will be dating a new guy.
Everything will be in shambles.
But then a few days later, out of the blue I will get called about a job starting in Mid-September. I'll take an Adderall and clean my room. I'll get back into the swing of life. And some day, months down the road, I'll open up a folder of the 2000 pictures I took on my world road trip and I will smile from ear to ear because then I'll know it was worth it; those memories are mine and no one can take them away from me.
I'll be fat for a while because I will eat like shit all month. But eventually everything will be back to normal, I'll even finish that half marathon with a respectable time for a beginner, and then come mid-November I'll be ready to do it again. Where are we going for Christmas and New Year?
It always works out.
Dublin, London, Paris, Mexico, Chicago, Indianapolis, Bloomington, Unspecified Town in Wisconsin
I'm coming for you, I'm up for whatever. I'm bringing a positive attitude, a backwards hat and a flask of whiskey. I'm bringing my laptop along so I can write and I always protect the names of the innocent (or guilty) that come along for the ride.
It's been a long time coming, but I'm finally taking my Ferris Bueller's Month Off. Hope to see you out there.