Wednesday, November 25, 2015
A Thanksgiving rant...
Here's an unpopular opinion: I don't like Adele. She has a very powerful voice, but her music is depressing. The extreme hyperbolic reaction to her album release this week has been nauseating. OMG SHE'S SO BEAUTIFUL. She's not. She's like maybe a generous 5. I get it, she drunk tweets and stuff, but those isolated vocals from SNL didn't really make you believe in God. That video where she put on some disguise and sang her songs was mediocre at best. I think the popularity of people like her and Sam Smith is a reaction to PC culture. People want an average looking woman and an unfortunate looking gay man to succeed as pop stars. I just read an article that said if Pretty in Pink was remade today, Molly Ringwald would chose Duckie.
That's pathetic. At least Sam Smith and Adele have talent. Duckie was just a clown. Cheering for Duckie is like being the parent at a youth soccer game that gets mad when other parents unofficially keep score. Cheering for Andrew McCarthy? That's like cheering for the Biebs.
No one embodies white privilege more than this little Canadian cunt and I love him for it. He spent his teens fucking hookers, throwing raging parties, getting hammered, doing drugs all the while laying the pipe to the most bangable Disney Channel star and paling around with the most despicable athlete of our generation. A DUI arrest and a felony vandalism charge later he was labeled persona non grata. Bieber's heel turn was complete.
…and then a mere 6 months later, people love him! It's hilarious. He is COMPLETELY out of the woods. He closed the AMAs last night and I think every woman age 16-49 came several times during his performance. Just a year after people were calling for his deportation Justin has the number 1 album in America.
This Thanksgiving I'm thankful for Justin Bieber and Johnny Manziel, because if I had millions of dollars on the line I probably wouldn't stop boozing or doing coke either. /endrant
Thanksgiving can be a stressful time for people as it can involve tenuous travel and some awkward encounters. I've seen some holiday guides popping up on the internet and I thought I am as qualified as any other fat mouth-breathing blogger. So, without further ado, the SingleDude Thanksgiving guide.
ON BLACK WEDNESDAY
The Wednesday before Thanksgiving used to be my favorite day of the year. I would cruise into some town and cause absolute mayhem for a few hours, then evacuate the scene before someone could ask me to come pick up the pieces. Now I do my black Wednesday in LA where I will either go on a onesie bar crawl or go out in hollywood with some legitimate prostitutes. But you probably don't work in a fascist industry that forces you to work a full day today, so for those of you going home this year, here are some tips…
1. Definitely go out...
You will have 'friends' from high school that are married or have kids now. They will stay in or go see Mockingjay part 2. This is a real Hufflepuff move. The little sister gets blown up and it's somehow Gale's fault. Ending up with Peeta instead of Gale is like choosing Sam Smith over Justin Bieber. I cannot fathom it. A lot of your friends will say they are too old to go out on Wednesday night and that it will be dominated by people that were 5 classes under you in high school. This is a good thing.
2. Definitely hook up…
You will undoubtedly see someone's younger sister out at the bar but she won't be 11 anymore. She will remember watching her brother and you play All Star baseball in 6th grade. She had a crush back then, but she was still playing with Barbies and you weren't sure you were into girls yet. But 10 years later that spark is still there. You're still the cool older guy that could jack 280 foot home runs on the Skiles Test minor league diamond. IT. IS. FUCKING. ON. Buy her and her friends a few drinks and make jokes about how she's still 11, it will annoy her and she will try to prove that she's not a little kid anymore. This is a fool proof plan. Take her to a hotel, take her to your parents house…this is a personal preference based on your tolerance for awkward interactions with your parents.
If there is no little sister around to hook up with, target an ex girlfriend and tell her you still have feelings for her, if for no other reason than to fuck with her head. If you can't have her, no one can.
3. Demand a ride home from a family member…
On the rare chance you strike out (unlikely) and can't find some college buddies to go after party with (unlikely) make sure to wake your parents up at 3 in the morning for a ride home. You grew up in the suburbs, an uber home would be like $40. You flew all the way home to see your family (albeit on their dime) the least they can do is offer you a ride back home and swing you through the 24 hour McDonald's drive thru. Make sure to tell them you are not to be woken before 2pm the following day for any reason.
This goes for Thursday morning too. If you happen to bang an old high school ex at her parents house, don't you dare hail a taxi. Tell your mom to come pick you up in Carmel or wherever you end up. You know what? Invite her in for breakfast when she gets there, it would be the polite thing to do. We're adults, casual sex between consenting former high school friends is something that should be celebrated.
If you're a pro like me, you will wait until Thanksgiving Day to fly. One, it's substantially less crowded at the airport. Two, Southwest gives you a free cocktail when you fly on holidays. But let's start the morning of…
1. Get to the airport 30 minutes before your flight...
I know what you're thinking. Shouldn't I show up super early to avoid the lines? Don't be foolish. If you're running through the terminal about to miss your flight, just roll up to the TSA pre-check line. It's a colossal pain in the dick for your airline when you miss a flight, so they will typically bend over backwards to accommodate you.
Here are a few phrases to remember.
"My father has status!"
"The shift supervisor sent me here!"
"I was upgraded!"
None of this really means anything, but most TSA agents didn't graduate high school, leverage this information and you should breeze through LAX/O'Hare or any other major airport in 15 minutes or less. NOTE: This will probably only work if you are white.
2. Start drinking at the airport/on the plane…
A great way to alleviate the potentially uncomfortable beginning of Thanksgiving dinner is to be halfway in the bag when you already get there. For this reason I suggest pounding at least 3 cocktails at the airport before boarding a flight. I know the Terminal 3 Gladstone's at LAX offers beer and a shot for $10. Also, if you are flying Delta you can upgrade to comfort plus for at little as $19. That $19 includes unlimited free booze. My cock could drink $19 worth of booze in its sleep. Not only will you be allowed to imbibe the entire flight, there is no chance you will sit next to a fat/smelly/poor/baby person…because fat smelly poor babies typically don't pay for upgrades. LPT!
3. Bring liquor and Adderall to dinner…
Obviously someone that flies on Thanksgiving day can't be expected to cook for the dinner. In fact, you want to time your landing so that you arrive at dinner like 10 minutes early. Not so early that you can be expected to help with meal prep at all, but not late enough that you get a shitty seat. Give all of your family members and friends non-committal answers when they ask personal questions "When are you getting married?" I'm not, I'm gay. Shit like that. That will shut up your conservative relatives. But here is where you get the chance to be a holiday hero. When dinner is done and the tryptophan is kicking in, pull out a bottle of fireball and a vial of Adderall (which is basically socially acceptable cocaine) Then the men can go downstairs for a marathon ping pong tournament or some shit while the women clean and gossip. Women LOVE to clean and gossip.
4. Have all your buddies over and throw a raging party…
I mean MY Thanksgiving tradition involves a 3 hour pre game in a Granite Bay garage, followed by a game of capture the flag that we call 'The Vietnam War,' followed by us getting yelled at for setting multiple couches on fire and chokeslamming someone through a table while we eat Thanksgiving leftovers. But that's just my tradition. Feel free to follow the more conventional route of playing flip cup and trying to bang chicks.
If you get up at 5am to go get some shitty TV or a $9 Adele cd I don't have anything in common with you and I can't believe you made it this far. If your Friday plan is to go see The Good Dinosaur with your little nieces and nephews, I ain't mad at cha, let me know how it is. But if you are with a bunch of your homies in the shitty town you grew up in there is only one thing to do…Road Trip.
1. Leave your house early and leave the carnage from the night before. Remember, women love to clean and gossip.
2. Check into a hotel…
But definitely only 1 hotel room. You may be in your late 20's but there will never be an age where it isn't fun to squeeze 8 guys into a 2 double bed room at the Hyatt.
3. Start drinking…
If you're on the west coast there should be college football on by now. Go to a bar and start playing shot hat. Shot hat is like Russian Roulette but without the messy brain matter on the walls. Nothing is more attractive than a group of cocky out-of-towners peacocking at a bar.
4. Go buy a piñata…
Pinatas are fucking dope. Have you ever had a bad time with a piñata? Do you know what would happen if you were spending like $300 at a bar and then you busted out a piñata under the guise of it being someone's birthday? The bar will probably be cool with it and ~3.8 of you are going to be given blow jobs immediately.
5. Host a hotel pre game…
Think back to every time you have partied in a hotel room.
Formals, vacations, homecoming, prom, that time you ordered a lot of molly and got a room at the W just for the fuck of it…all those nights were epic. Hotel pre games are epic.
6. Take turns in the shower…
I'm kidding we're not in college anymore. You guys should probably just spring for a second boom boom room.
7. Go out and bring home an Asian…
I'm being too SF specific. Go out to some shitty club, get a bottle and bring home someone that isn't American. You'll have a good story and it will save you $200 bucks from the rub and tub joint in the Mission.
I don't know man…it's a big football weekend. Go tailgate somewhere, or go see The Good Dinosaur. Go to a fucking casino, this post is running long and I want to start drinking. In all seriousness, I used to love my Thanksgivings in St. Louis with my family. There was almost no partying, but our hotel had a basketball court and the zoo was across the street. Thanksgiving is the shit, so wherever you are, whoever you're with this weekend, have a good time and stay safe. When you wake up Sunday morning, it will time to dust off that old Christmas sweater. December is aggressive. We've made it through the bullshit part of winter. Buckle in, it might get loud.
Thursday, November 19, 2015
"It's happening tonight. You in?"
That was the text I received from my roommate yesterday around 5pm. The who, what, where, when and why was simple. Australian trop house DJ Thomas Jack was playing a secret frat party tonight at USC as part of a publicity stunt and through some shady dealings somehow I had ended up on the list.
5pm yesterday was also approximately the same time I realized I was having a third-life crisis or tertiary life crisis (whatever you call the thing between quarter life and midlife crisis) I don't know what you do when you have a life crisis at 28. You're too old to move to Denver and you're too broke to buy a sports car. I decided I would just go do something I used to be really good at and frat the fuck out.
I arrive to some divey bar downtown at 1030. My two friends are already saddled up in the corner with a pitcher. As I walk to join them I pass large groups of coeds chugging champagne, playing new and exciting drinking games. There are curious phrases scrolled on the wall "$20 all you can drink!" "Wine down Wednesday = every glass gets $1 cheaper" My God…I remember this place, this is a college bar. I'm home.
My roommate has a backpack on because he has a 1am flight. An uber will collect him at 1145 so he's living on borrowed time. I have to stay sober enough to potentially drive down to Anaheim because someone on set has had a stroke and I may need to pick them up from the emergency room. Somehow the risk of what we're doing makes the entire process all the more thrilling. I am 28 years old. I am about to go to a 19 year old's house party on a Wednesday, this is awesome.
We roll up to this house at the corner of 23rd and Union in downtown(isn) LA. Thomas Jack played Cocahella six months ago so I'm surprised that this house doesn't have a line around the block, it's actually fairly dead. Two cute girls look at me and say '$5 please, there's an open bar in the back.' I reach into my wallet but I see a piece of paper in front of her. My name is on it.
"Oh, that's the VIP list."
"That's me, I'm David Moeller."
"Oh my God, I'm so sorry. Here."
She grabs my wrist and throws on a yellow VIP wristband and refuses my $5.
"You get to go inside and drink with the artists!"
I step inside and there are a couple opening acts sitting on couches draped with slutty arm candy.
"Hey man, want a line? It's almost gone but another 8 ball is on the way."
'I'm good, thanks guys.'
Oh my god, I've been here 30 seconds and I've already been offered cocaine by someone 10 years younger than me, this will be the best night of my life. After accidentally walking out a door and onto the stage I am diverted to the bar which is inside a make shift garage. There are two pledges behind a folding table offering shots of Gran Legacy vodka (plastic bottle) or jungle juice out of a trash can.
"Are you from FUCKING Chicago man?" One of the pledges barks at me.
I remember I'm wearing a Blackhawks hat and instead of explaining that I lived in Chicago for a time but hail from Indiana I channel my inner improv.
"Fuck ya man."
'NICE, I'M FROM HINSDALE HOW ABOUT YOU?"
"HOLY SHIT!!! THE ACTUAL CITY? NICE. TOMMY GET THIS GUY THE GOOD STUFF!"
Pledge Tommy pulls out a fifth of Smirnoff and pours me two shots.
"Here's to fucking PATTY KANE, the goal leader, the point leader and DEFINITELY not a rapist!"
I take the shots and high five Tommy.
"Hey man, all night, me and Billy got you. Don't wait in this line, 630 forever!"
I rejoin my friends who are sipping jungle juice. I inform them of how they can get 'the good stuff' at the bar. The party has really filled up. Uber XLs dropping drunk frat boys off by the dozen, I see guys getting out of trunks, girls rolling up in costumes. I haven't seen a drunken hoard descend on a house lie this since Bogey Lowenstein's banger in '99. We take a walk around the backyard, people watching and the such, waiting for the main dj to take the stage. A girl bumps into me and asks if I know what room the ecstasy is being done in.
'I think they're upstairs.'
This is the millennial experience.
At around a quarter to 12 one of my friends grabs an uber to the airport, the other is in some deep philosophical discussion with a very cute half Asian girl and I find myself alone.
"COPS COPS COPS!!!!!!"
Mass chaos. People running everywhere, jumping over fences and what not, it takes me a minute to remember that half of these kids are underage. I try to get back inside the house, but the door is locked. I felt like a third class passenger being locked inside the sinking Titanic. I flash my wristband.
"HE'S GOOD, HE HAS A WRISTBAND!!!"
The door opens and I'm quickly whisked inside and into some strange bedroom. Oh my god, this is a frat shut down. I remember these. In this bedroom I am sequestered with two girls and one of the pledges from the bar, I believe it's Tommy.
"Hey, Chicago bro! I brought the Smirnoff!"
Tommy hands me the bottle and then leaves the room to go help with the shutdown process. One of the girls looks at me and says 'Wait you're from Chicago?'
I think long and hard, because I haven't pulled this routine in maybe eight years. I thought I might be a little rusty, but fuck it.
"Ya, I'm from Winnetka."
"OMG I'm from Wilmette We probably know all the same people!'
Fuck. What are the chances?
"I dunno, I'm probably a little older that you, when did you graduate?"
Ok so, I'm like 5 years older than this chick. That's not horrendous.
"Ya, I just turned 19 last night."
Oh God, she graduated New Trier in 2014.
"Where do you live in Winnetka?"
Ummm…shit I don't even remember the street names anymore.
"On Green Bay, by Captain Emo's"
"You mean Captain Nemo's?"
"Ya, Captain Nemo's in Hubbert Woods."
"You mean Hubbard Woods?"
"You're not really from Winnetka…"
I try to think of the youngest Trevian I can name drop. But even my friends' younger brothers and sisters are 5 years older than this chick. I decide to go scorched Earth.
"Of course I am, and you probably live in some split level bullshit west of the highway. You're lucky they didn't send you to GBS."
I see it in her eyes, my elitist assault has won her over.
"Actually I live on Sheridan, but you're hilarious."
"So uh…what are you doing in LA?"
"I go to UCLA, I'm a Kappa."
"Oh UCLA? I love Diddy Reise"
"OMG ME TOO!"
And then it happens. I'm making out with a girl who is almost 10 years younger than me. I am violating half your age plus seven…and I lied a lot to make this happen.
Before I can really process what's happening, Pledge Tommy swings the door open and announces that the cops are gone and the party is back on. I lose little miss Kappa but I find my buddy smoking a joint in a corner with a couple people.
"Are you David Moeller? Like the one from Holly's wedding?"
"Oh I was there too, you were pretty fucked up the whole time, what are you doing here?"
Good question. What am I doing here? With my buzzed head and my day old scruff (lol it's actually like 5 days I just haven't gone through puberty yet) I do look 19, but I'm not.
"Um, I work in music."
"Cool me too."
Another crisis averted.
The party is shut down yet again, the police are back and they're pissed. More kids flee, I guess it is 1am on a Wednesday and we are in a heavily residential area with thumping bass, outrageous strobe lights and a bunch of fucked up kids doing heavy drugs. Thomas Jack still hasn't taken the stage and it is becoming more and more apparent that this isn't going to happen. A drunk girl takes the stage and grabs a mic.
"Listen up you motherfuckers, if we can shut the fuck up for like 5 minutes, these cops will leave and then we can rage our faces off!!! Ok???"
There is a brief period of silence and then I hear a cop mutter, 'Uh, we heard that."
The drunk girl grabs the mic again. "Oops, looks like I fucked up again, get the fuck out of here bitches."
People stamp out their cigarettes/blunts/vape pens and start to stumble toward the front. Dozens of rich white kids pull out their smart phones and call Ubers or demand pledges bring them back to the row. I start to walk down the street and I see my Wilmette girl again. She's making out with some other dude. He must like Diddy Reise too, go green go blue. Pledge Tommy runs up to me and hands me a handle of cheap warm vodka.
"You know man, if you need one for the road. GO HAWKS!"
I continue toward my car and hand the bottle to a homeless man posted up outside an ARCO station. I get to my car and take off toward Santa Monica wondering what kind of misadventures my homeless friend has in store for himself the rest of the evening. Kev and I lament over how much fun we had and how ridiculous it was that we were even there. Sometimes the forbidden fruit tastes damn good.
I woke up this morning very aware that someone my age should not do such things. Growing up should include a shred of responsibility. Instead of making out with someone that was born the same year as the Atlanta olympic bombing, I should focus on finding a new job, exploring a relationship, thinking about my future. But at the same time, I see this happening in the world around me and that doesn't necessarily look like a good time. So the people that will read this and roll their eyes, well they can go fuck themselves. I'm still skinny and can run a 6 minute mile, and I will go to all the goddam college parties I please thank you very much.
If you want to get fat and start a 401k that's cool too, but I prefer staying out until 2am to (not) see Thomas Jack play frat parties.
Wednesday, November 4, 2015
Believe it or not I have had a few real life pitch meetings with Hollywood producers that have the ability to buy my script. The phrase 'soft pass' has been thrown my direction more than once. For those of you not in the biz 'soft pass' is essentially like asking a girl to come home with you from the bar and she says 'lol nope but here's my number if you wanna be friends.'
Typically the reason given to me for the pass is I'm a bit too niche. There are only so many people who want to watch a raunchy show about a bunch of white kids that party too hard and bitch about their first world problems. That said, I'm trying to broaden my appeal a bit.
If you have followed the trades at all, you know that 90's nostalgia is high right now. Reboots are already in the works for Full House, Twin Peaks, X Files and Boy Meets World. Yesterday it was announced that a new Star Trek series in the works and today a Fresh Prince reboot was announced. (I imagine it will feature a fresh faced Michael B Jordan moving in with Will Smith, the uncle he never knew! Something something, scientology, HILARITY ENSUES. Working title: FRESHER PRINCE)
The money is there, the opportunity is there. Who am I not to jump in on an easy cash grab? Here are a few titles that are ripe for a reboot right now.
Saved by the Bell (Working Title: Mr. Morris)
Plot synopsis: After being expelled from college in the wake of a fraternity hazing scandal, disgraced twenty something Zack Morris (Mark-Paul Gosselaar) returns home to Bayside High as a substitute teacher only to realize he is no longer the big man on campus. Now finding himself on the other side of the coin, Zack teams up with Principal Belding and friends from his past to teach a new generation of teens valuable life lessons.
Original Cast Availability: High. MPG's new sitcom just had the lowest network scripted premiere in the history of television. Dennis Haskins will now appear at a bar in character for $50. The highlight of Elizabeth Berkely's post SBTB career is probably getting railed by Kyle MacClaughlin in Showgirls. Lark Vorhees made headlines this week after getting black out married in Vegas and Dustin Diamond is maybe in jail? Or just celebrity boxing. I can't keep track. Anyway, they are all VERY available. I'm sure AC Slater can take a half day away from The Insider in order to shoot a cameo in the pilot.
Potential to be a hit: Extreme. Casting 41 year old MPG as 24 year old Zack Morris may sound a bit over the top, but Brad Pitt played 90 so I think it will be fine. Put this bitch on Netflix and finally give fans the Zack Morris/Kelly Kapowski sex scene they deserve. Come on Tiffani, if full frontal was good enough for straight laced Jessie Spano, it's good enough for you.
Are You Afraid of the Dark (Working Title: Midnight)
Plot Synopsis: The Canadian teens from the 'Midnight Society' are now working in Montreal as paranormal bloggers in this gritty reboot of the 90's teen sensation. Things seem to be going fine until the monsters from the tales of their youth begin hunting them down one by one.
Cast Availability: Out of the original midnight society, none of the cast is really doing much. One of them is married to Nick Swisher, one is a weatherman and one provides the voice of Francine, the Jewish monkey from the children's show Arthur. Fun fact: Elisha Cuthbert appeared in a couple episodes in 1999.
Potential to be a hit: Medium. In tone, the show would feel somewhere between the NBC show Grimm and the recent Goosebumps movie. But this is the type of series that could quietly run on a Friday night forever and make some people very rich. Also, if my four years in TV have taught me anything, it's that it is essentially free to film in Canada.
After washing out of Duke law school, Dawson Leery returns home to Capeside only to find that gentrification is forcing out his parents and neighbors. He recruits old pals Pacey and Joey to organize an occupy movement.
Eh, that's too political…how about
Haha just kidding!
They Taylor boys become slumlords in Detroit, buying up homes on the cheap using residuals from their father's wildly popular public access television show from the 90's.
That's not much better…let's try some crossovers.
Larisa Explains it All
Following the events in Paradise Valley, 18 year old Alex Mack moves in with her adult cousin Clarissa Darling in Orlando, Florida where she navigates senior year of high school while trying to conceal her special powers. Little does she know her cousin is a witch.
Salute Your Dude
The former campers and counselors from Camp Anawanna seek employment at the famous dude ranch, Bar None.
My So Called Friends
Ten years after losing his fortune in a Ponzi Scheme, former professor Dr. Ross Geller moves back into the Manhattan apartment building he once shared with his sister, brother in law and estranged wife. In the pilot episode Ross posts a Craigslist ad seeking a roommate and finds one in angsty thirty year old Angela Chase.
Ok most of those are too meta…how about this, THIS is a home run.
Seven years after the mysterious death of her mother, Samantha Summers travels to New York City to pursue her dream of becoming a Broadway Actress only to find that the city is overrun with vampires. Can Samantha balance a buzzing social life in Williamsburg, a strenuous audition schedule, all the while clearing the five boroughs of the creatures of the night? Find out this season on Sammy the Vampire Slayer.
I know, pure gold. Hit me up direct or call my agent.
Monday, November 2, 2015
Don't be sad it's over, be happy it happened.
Did you have a good weekend? Did you close with that chick dressed up as a ghostbuster? Did you finally shack with that girl who is moving away? Or did you just blow massive quantities of coke all night and spend Sunday vomitting?
Summer is over. Halloween is over. Daylight savings time is over. Your costume is slumped over in the corner covered in fake blood and glitter.
The darkness is upon us.
But before we dive into the doldrums of November and 4pm sunsets, let's do one last reflection on the good times that we had, because remember it is better to have loved and lost then never loved at all.
Chapter 1: The Gin Bucket
As filming was scheduled to commence until 2am on Friday night, I did what any self respecting television assistant would do, I left. There was just no way I was going to spend my entire weekend doing anything other than pouring toxic liquids down my throat. The first stop would be an igloo in West LA, a curious neighborhood nestled up against the 405.
I arrived with the first of two gallons of Fireball I had procured from a Fresh & Easy going out of business sale. The party was already well in hand. I was greeted by various members of the Babysitters Club as well as Bayside High. Add some Pokemon to the mix and it was clear that 90's nostalgia was quite high.
But nothing quite took me back like the plastic cauldron sitting on the outdoor wet bar. I knew immediately that I was in trouble when I saw a half dozen turkey basters emerging from a strange liquid. Of course there would be a gin bucket here. The last time I had partied with a gin bucket was the infamous Barcelona blackout of '08.
As you will remember, from that story I woke up wearing no pants on a park bench at Bogatell Beach and had to walk two hours back to where I was supposed to be sleeping. I am weary of the dangers of gin buckets. Being the prudent Pikachu I am, I started with a couple beers. It would't last.
The first person to invite me to sample the gin bucket was acclaimed street artist Banksy. Then it was Jonah Takalua enjoying his gap year after graduating from Summer Heights High. Right when I'm about to leave the hot corner of gin I am accosted by Kristy, Claudia, Stacey and Mary Anne from the Babysitter's Club who want to take TWO not one baster of gin. I am so totally fucked.
I am able to briefly escape the gin bucket when the police arrive, but somehow I end up in a shot circle with Super Girl, a skeleton and Ted. I retreat inside and AC Slater hands me a Jell-o shot. Where the fuck did these Jell-o shots come from, I've been at this party 30 minutes and consumed enough alcohol for an entire weekend. This is supposed to be the warm up night.
Mercifully, after I escape the kitchen (oh hey there Donald Trump) and the dance floor (my god is that Justin Bieber with Cruella De Vil [I just realized that her name is essentially cruel devil]) I land on a game of Ride the Bus in the family room with three of the four ninja turtles as well as Ralph Macchio and Billy Zabka finally getting along together.
I am enjoying my brief respite from hard liquor when Babydoll from Sucker Punch (which is an incredibly deep cut costume but also sexy AF) legitimately set the SECOND cauldron of gin directly in front of me. There was coke being done in the bathroom, molly on the dance floor, but directly in front of Pikachu there was nothing but gin and fresco cocktails being consumed 3 ounces at a time, but if the Klobb in Goldeneye taught us anything, it's that enough of anything can kill you. There was definitely stuff that happened at the party afterward. I think I challenged Luigi to one on one basketball. I may have asked Satan if she wanted to come home with me. I definitely didn't hit a single cup in beer pong and I may have let Stone Cold Steve Austin stun me through a plastic table. All I know is that I woke up on the floor of my apartment Saturday morning, naked and afraid, covered in Doritos crumbs.
Chapter 2: Puke and Rally
I knew signing up for a 2:30 Saturday improv class was dicey. People often look at me like I'm insane when I tell them about my inability to function the day after a bender, but I know my body. The entire time I was at Indiana University I never took a class before noon, because I knew I would never go. Actually, I rarely had a class that started before 2:30. That said, there were a couple times I nearly missed that 2:30. Sure a normal hangover should be out of your system by noon, but when you party like me it takes a little longer.
I dragged myself to improv and managed to get through the first half of my class thanks to a quadruple shot latte and an iced cappuccino. I was like someone on life support, technically alive but with zero brain activity. All of my jokes went into the darkest depths of my brain. "What's a tender moment you recently received from a family member?" My mother told me that I was the result of a botched abortion. "What is the cure for cancer?" Full blown AIDS. I'm really a delight to have in UCB. At the halftime break when all the cool kids smoke cigarettes or talk about their weekend plans, I made a beeline to the restroom. It turns out that when you party until 5am the night before, eat nothing all day and then directly ingest 6 shots of espresso, your stomach can have some issues.
I fully expected my vomit to be either red (the color of blood) or black (the color of my soul) but it was neither. It was this neon green nuclear fallout color, presumably from gin and jello shots. Part of me thought about pulling the eject lever but I remembered that 1. I had not driven to class and that 2. The hot chick from last week was dressed up as slutty Beetlejuice and her cleavage was out of control. This was enough to get me back to the classroom for the final hour. My last scene of the day was about having sex with one legged hookers in Amsterdam and using babies to clear out a meat grinder. If the police show up next week to arrest me on suspicion of some unsolved murder ring I won't be the least bit surprised.
I get home from class around 7pm and my roommate is already pouring shots of tequila for me, there is a short Mexican man there who is dressed as a drug dealer and the new Zhu album is playing. I open a beer and suffer through a few tequila shots before throwing on my Pikachu costume. I go to open the front gate to let two black cats into the pre game. Meanwhile there is a ninja party happening in my alley. We go to investigate. When I return inside I notice the small Mexican man is gone. Turns out he was a real drug dealer.
Chapter 3: Water and Lightning
The Saturday night party is at a bungalow adjacent to the beach in Venice hosted by Cleopatra, the Corpse Bride and Lady Gaga from the 'Telephone' music video. I was relieved to see that no such Gin Bucket/Crack Juice/Jungle Juice had been prepared. There were 2 coolers of beer and a bar set up with various liquors. Lots of effort had been put into decorating the house. This party would seem to be a bit classier than the previous night's affair, which was nice since I was far from 100%.
But because I am a savage with no will power it was only a matter of time before I was chugging Fireball and smoking cigs with Cheech and Chong. I then shotgunned back to back beers with Tim Riggins and proceeded to spend 30 minutes running around the house screaming 'Texas Forever.'
The only thing that possibly saved me was the fact that my yellow jumpsuit was so hot and uncomfortable that even 30 seconds on the dance floor would render me sweaty, so much sweat, like some of it had to be the alcohol right?
At the beginning of the party there were probably 30, by midnight there were probably 100, every group bringing a seemingly unlimited amount of booze. People were bonging whiskey, flip cup was played with shots, this was not the classy affair I had been expecting. Glass was breaking, A giant panda was passed out in the corner, someone threw up in the bath tub and I realized I was at a full blown frat party.
Halloween in itself is an excuse for everyone to cut loose in bacchanalian debauchery. For one night, you hide behind a mask and nothing seems to count. Your behavior is excused because you are playing a character, a character that drinks, does drugs and maybe even has a one night stand, but when it's over and the dust settles you are granted a life mulligan. The real you wouldn't have gone home with that guy, but throw on a pink wig and all that shit goes out the window.
I spent a large chunk of the night talking (talking is generous, probably more like drunklenly shouting questions at is more appropriate) to an IRL news reporter who is leaving LA to do on camera work in the midwest. "Isn't it weird that you won't be able to do this anymore?" I asked. Because surely local celebrities cannot be celebrating daylight savings by chugging warm whiskey out of a plastic bottle. One does not see Ginger Chan of KTLA facing Fireball shots while dressed as Kim Kardashian.
In the social media age we live in, even normal people can't have fun…Halloween seems to be the one exception.
At one point in the evening, a grass roots movement urged people to take the party to the ocean, because what is safer than taking 100 people nearing black out and in costume into deep water?
Never one to shy away from poor decisions, I helped lead a charge of about 3 dozen people to the water's edge and eventually charged in Pikachu suit and all.
As it turns out, a onesie is not a great swimming garment. As soon as I attempted to body surf the first wave I sank like a rock and eventually got caught in a riptide. It took a herculean effort for me to crawl ashore, I suppose one should not swim when lightning is present.
Because I am inconsiderate, I trudged back to the party and proceeded to lock the door of the one remaining bathroom and shower all of the sand off of myself. Finally I unlocked the door and a naughty nurse charged in and puked…this time in the toilet, yay!
Epilogue: Things to do in Venice when you're Dead
I woke up on a random couch still at the party. There were various other bodies draped in random corners. I fled the scene when I heard people begin to wake up. I grabbed some eggs (and a pitcher) on the way home because you can't shut a 747's engines off mid flight. I trudged home in my still wet Pikachu costume, resembling Cameron Poe's stuffed bunny at the end of Con Air. I passed joggers and real humans walking their dogs every couple hundred meters; they mocked me in silent judgment as the alcohol escaped from my gasping pours.
I finally collapsed in a pile of regret on my couch and threw my costume in a pile of 'things to burn.' I 'watched' football all day through intermittent periods of unconsciousness. My crowning achievement was making it the two blocks to the grocery store to buy a big ass bag of chips and some popcorn. For the third night in a row, I wouldn't make it back to my bed as I passed out in the fetal position on the couch attempting to watch the Mets choke away the World Series.
Whatever you were holding on to, it's gone now. There is no more good weather (except us LA peeps) for you to look forward to. There are no more fun wedding weekends. No more summer, no more Indian summer, November is here and but for a couple paid days off for Thanksgiving there is nothing on the horizon to inspire joy. It's time to quit that job you hate, it's time to move on from your ex, it's time to look to the future.
Hell, I'm retiring the flow some time this week. It just doesn't feel right anymore. I may even go a couple weeks without drinking just to recalibrate the system a little bit. I'm going to have a salad for dinner tonight.
But if you can survive November there are reasons to maintain the faintest semblance of hope. Christmas is in December, fifth exchanges are in December, ski trips and raves and bar crawls are in December. Will I get kicked off the Big Ten Bar Crawl for a fifth consecutive year? Will I get a medal for setting such a record? Who knows?
It's probably a good idea to spend the next 30 days looking in, maybe deal with some of the shit that I've been letting go all summer. No more masks, it's time to be a real adult. I know it's hard because the first day back after a long party weekend always blows, especially when your favorite sports blog has been murdered, but we'll get through it.
Tonight I will do laundry, I will clean my room. Tonight I will go to the gym and get my haircut. I will lay out a business casual outfit to wear into the office tomorrow. I will buy a new pair of shoes and make a pile of things to donate to Goodwill.
Tonight I will watch Monday Night Football and the Walking Dead, afterward I will cruise Facebook pics of girls from my past in slutty Halloween costumes and likely jerk off.
But tomorrow, the diet begins tomorrow.