Wednesday, December 14, 2016

How to save the frats

I think it's time to acknowledge a problem with the United States Greek system, an institution near and dear to my heart.

I had a good time in my fraternity at Indiana. I still hang out with a large majority of the guys from my house in college, I have lived with one for the past five years. On Friday, I hosted my annual fifth exchange a, tradition I picked up at my fraternity chapter in college. For the uninitiated, the fifth exchange behaves as a 'secret santa' but instead of traditional gifts we exchange bottles of alcohol and proceed to get very, very drunk.

Sure it's a bit sophomoric for friends approaching 30 to celebrate the holidays by blacking out in absurd Christmas sweaters reminiscing about good times past, but as you get older you understand the importance of tradition. When guys get married, have kids and move away, it becomes much more difficult to get the gang back together and catch up.

Saturday I woke up with a headache around noon and began scrolling through some news stories, a very important part of my hangover routine on the weekends. One caught my eye "Tufts University Suspends Fraternity Activities."

I cringed, as I do when I see any of these stories. Something very bad must have happened. Alcohol poisoning, an accusation of sexual assault or worse, a hazing related death. It turned out that a former pledge had written an op-ed in the school paper proposing the abolition of fraternities. During a 'stripper night' the author claimed he had been forced to watch strippers do...well stripper things.

Instead of punishing the aforementioned fraternity in question, Tufts University decided instead to cease all fraternity activities effective immediately. Now, I do not have all of the facts so I will not pass judgement on the accuser or the fraternity but at face value it does seem to be a bit of an overreaction.

Now I do not know if Ben kesslen, the author of 'Abolish Fraternities' ever truly felt unsafe during a stripper night. I know that my fraternity had a stripper night and I was free to leave at any time. I know that as a pledge I was forced to clean, drive and do push-ups, but I was free to leave at any time. I suppose if I ever felt truly unwanted I would have left and then gone on living my life.

A quick Google search will show that nearly a dozen fraternities have been suspended in the past month for the usual infractions: offensive emails, offensive parties, displaying affection for Donald Trump, hazing allegations, drinking too much, mistreatment of women. It seems in this more sensitive political environment fraternities no longer have a home.

But notice that the suspension of chapters has done little to nothing to correct the problem. Anecdotally I can tell you that a certain chapter at my school tried to murder someone with a stop sign, aggressively sold cocaine, videotaped themselves banging strippers and yet; they were still the coolest guys on campus, just banished to some giant off campus houses that were under even less supervision.

No, the way to fix the problem with the American fraternity is to take away the ability of the dickheads to fuck hot chicks.


But this was a well reasoned article written earnestly about something the author really cares about and you just threw it all away with that last sentence.

Ya well now it's a satire piece. You good? If not, here's a safe space. Is Disney that safe? I dunno, it's just the site used to send me to if I accidentally said I was under 18.

Now, without further ado, my plan to save the frats...

To begin my story we are going to turn to the small country of Wales! Home to Sir Anthony Hopkins, Rogue One Director Gareth Evans and of course Swansea City FC.

For those that do not follow British football, Swansea City is a club that plays in the English Premier league, the only non-English team to do so. If you are unfamiliar with the English Premier league, the American equivalent would be something like major league baseball...and Swansea has long been a middle of the road team, mid market lie say the San Diego Padres.

Now in American sports if you suck balls for a season, nothing bad really happens. Your attendance may drop a bit, but nothing drastic. In fact some teams even use it as strategy to acquire a higher draft pick, this would be called tanking. However, in the Premiership and most of European soccer there is something called 'relegation and promotion' which punishes clubs in the bottom of a league and rewards others at the top.

An American example would be saying that the San Diego Padres have the worst record in major league baseball so they are booted to AAA.

Now let's get back to our friends at Swansea. in 2015, Swansea finished in the middle of the table (British for standings) and that same year, The Mirror, a British publication, ballparked their valuation as a team at 180 million pounds. That included tv deals, endorsements and ticket revenue among other things.

Flash forward to December 2016, Swansea is currently in 18th place (out of 20) in the English Premier league with 18, 19 and 20 getting relegated to the Football Championship, the next tier lower on the British ladder (AAA)

Now obviously this would be shitty for them. No one wants to go from playing in the top league to a worse league. But furthermore it impacts their bottom line aggressively. The Guardian, ran a piece saying that a club can lose up to 60 million pounds to relegation. Again, attendance is likely to drop, and some endorsements will go away but the big money is in the TV deal. How often do you see your local minor league baseball team on ESPN, not a lot, right?

Now there are parachute payments to ease the burden, but these run out eventually and according to my crude math, it appears that an eventual 60 million hit to Swansea would equate to roughly a third of Swansea's valuation.

Now let's leave our Welsh friends alone for a while and talk about frats.

People join frats for a variety of reasons: friendship, networking connections, place to live and party, athletics...but the number one reason is to have sex with hot chicks.

As difficult as it may be to read that sentence, the majority of the well off, cute, popular girls end up in sororities and the easiest way to access them is to join a fraternity.

But not just any fraternity; a top tier fraternity.

Similar to sports divisions, fraternities have an unofficial ranking structure: top tier and bottom tier. Sometimes top, middle and bottom tier. And just like the Indianapolis Indians don't play against the Chicago Cubs, Chi Phi doesn't pair with Tri Delt for parties.

Now here is where things are going to get a little weird...what if, for the sake of argument, we went ahead and made these tiers official:
Top tier frats were only allowed to pair with top tier sororities.
Bottom tier frats were only allowed to pair with bottom tier sororities.

Violation of these rules would automatically send you to the bottom of your tier.

Now it seems crass to categorize someone by a 'tier' right? But how are Greek houses ranked now? GPA? Campus involvement? Intramural success?

And of course how attractive and awesome you are.

But there ARE objective numbers we already use. There are some anomalies, but for the most part, that IS a good representation of the IU fraternities ranked socially.

People are competitive by nature, no one wants to be at the bottom, so what if instead of 'suspending fraternities and sororities' we rather knocked them down a division for their crimes.

Hazing allegations? That will hurt you.
Offensive party? You lose points.
Cyber bullying? Relegation is looming.
Alcohol abuse/inappropriate treatment of women/cheating scandal/etc. etc. etc.

You're fucked.

At the end of every semester, the bottom three top tier frats are relegated to the 'bottom tier.'

Now if we return to our soccer example, remember this cost our Swansea friends 33% of their value!

Fraternities might not have a monetary value per se, so let's call it social influence. Obviously you can't ban individual sorority members from hanging out with individual fraternity members, but one must wonder, would they want to if said frat boy had lost a third of his social influence?


Maybe not.

Is Pi kappa Phi still cool if it can ony invite a bottom tier house to their swampwater party?
Is ATO still top dog if they can't take Chi O on boats?

To take a moment to focus on the sororities, would there be as many diversity scandals with 'bottom tier' looming. Could it hep eliminate transphobia among the panhellenic council?


Maybe not.

But along with discouraging bad behavior, a system of relegation and promotion encourages GOOD behavior.

Jumping back to our baseball example...if we banish the Padres to AAA, someone has take their spot in mlb. For kicks let's use my beloved AAA Indianapolis Indians. If they were to go on a heater and finish in the top 3 of AAA they could be promoted to the show. I'm mixing metaphors here, but the reward for promotion in the epl (we're at soccer now, keep up) is about 100 million pounds, this could triple the value of a smaller lower division team.

The Greek example here is we go back to Chi Phi a middle of the road oft forgotten frat. They put up a good GPA one semester, get involved on campus, win a couple intramural events and treat their fellow students with respect, a promotion could triple their social influence.

Now are the Pi Phis automatically going to want to bang the Chi Phi dudes, maybe not, but the exposure wouldn't hurt. loo at the nfl's Rooney rule. Maybe a top-tier sorority girl will realize that they think guys that aspire to be high achievers and not just do drugs and scream racial slurs are pretty cool!

It certainly isn't a perfect solution but it might be better than just pushing the cool kids underground for 18 months every time they fuck up. At the very least I don't see anything wrong with starting a conversation about punishing people that do wrong and rewarding people that do good. If it takes gameifying the frat structure to save it, then by all means let's try it.

And as for the frat guys out there, I know you aren't a fucktards, rapists and sociopaths.

I know that Arabian Nights Parties are fun, I know that Pimps and Hoes is a great theme, I think hazing made me a better person too, but just knock that shit off for 4 years so the rest of your life you can remember college fondly as opposed to what could have been.

Tuesday, November 1, 2016

He's Still Not That Into You

My mom was tending bar at a Max and Erma's in Indianapolis. Like a lot of kids with family money she had graduated from college and was pursuing a graduate degree because she didn't really know what she wanted in life. Her late father had worked at Harvard, he had been on the team with Watson and Crick that cracked the human genome and she was a bartender. She was probably feeling a little inadequate. We are probably more similar than I like to admit.

Then some guy walked in with his softball buddies. It was a Thursday night in Indianapolis, going to a knock off TGI Friday's was probably their best bet. A young woman brought them waters and told them to phone in their order when they were ready. It was the late 70's, lots of restaurants still had gimics.

The guy picks up the phone, orders a round of beers and burgers for his buddies...and he asked for the waitress's number.

And that's how my dad met my mom.


You're not going to get that story.

 It's over.

You're going to meet your future partner on Bumble or you are going to have a one night stand after too many Jell-O shots and then look at the person in bed with you and think 'maybe we can make this work.'

That is dating in the modern world, like it or not.

If you're under 30, you've probably had these thoughts...

"Should I try to be funny?"

"What open ended question will lead to a long conversation?"

"Should I text back immediately? Play hard to get? Do I look desperate?"

"Do I sleep with him/her? Or will they lose interest?"

"What if I don't sleep with them at first and then they give me more of a chance?"


It's all bullshit.

Of course there is always going to be someone having an upper hand in a relationship, but the minute these questions start popping into your head, it's dead on arrival. I'm sorry, your Bumble relationship has miscarried.

Flash back to 2004, 'My Boo' was the number one song in the country. I still had gigantic fake diamonds in my ears and everyone was freaking the fuck out about some book called 'He's Just Not That Into You.'

The thesis of the book was essentially, 'If a guy isn't acting interested, it's because he isn't.'

It's not because he's taking a shower, or he has too much work to do, or because his phone is dead. If he cared, he would find a way to show you. The book was written as an exercise in self help by a male comedian and the chick that wrote 'How to be Single.' What followed was a wake up call by the women of America who realized for the first time to stop making excuses for shitty guys. It was somehow empowering.

5 years later the movie version came out and gave us terrible try hard Ginnifer Goodwin, but also gave us a gentle reminder that he is in fact, not that into you.

But then in 2012 an app called Tinder came out, normalized online dating and took all of the lessons that we had learned over the last 8 years and set them on fire.

It was fun for a while.

'They gays have Grindr,' the straights thought, 'why can't we fuck too?'

And fuck they did. Hook-up culture was at an all time high and swiping right became the new going out.

But then it happened.

You were at brunch or something and you heard that Vicki had actually met her boyfriend on Tinder. Furthermore you heard that they were kind of serious and thinking about moving in with each other. This information gave you hope. And as we know, hope can be a very dangerous thing.

The clones followed. Coffee Meet Bagel, Hinge, Jdate, JSwipe and finally Bumble.

Soon the same people that would have NEVER confessed to being on the dating sites OK Cupid and Match just a few years ago were relieved to find out that dating online had been destigmatized.

And now every single white girl under the age of 30 is on Bumble (an app completely based on the concept that men are too chicken shit to initiate conversation with women) looking for love. This becomes problematic because the guys on Bumble are still the guys from Tinder in 2012 that were looking to fuck.

I understand that women have a biological clock and I understand that I am a former frat guy that still does hard drugs and has one serious relationship in his belt but listen to me when I tell you, the dude you are talking to on Bumble is likely a fuck boy. Or he is kind of an overeager loser. Or at the very least you are probably going to date down.

But let's say you find the unicorn on dating apps and he gets a little flakey, or he is unresponsive, he says things like 'we should hang out' but never sets a date...I have news for you.

He's just not that into you.

It doesn't matter what joke you tell, what question you ask, what date you suggest. No amount of workshopping your response with your girlfriends or your coworkers is going to change that. He probably made a split second decision the minute he met you whether you were a one night stand, a potential girlfriend, or just someone to waste time with.

If you are in on the one night stand? Go for it, live your life. And if he thinks you guys might have a future, you will know.

If I am into a girl I will pull over to the side of the freeway to respond to her texts, I will get out of the shower to answer her call, I will profusely apologize in the morning for missing her late night text. I will be available on Gchat all day, I will send stupid ecards to their email. They will know I'm interested.

And if it's something in the middle? Well no one has time for that. The guy that periodically texts you, keeps you in that in between phase? He's doing that so he can have something to do if he is bored or needs a desperation plus one. Fuck that guy. Kick him to the curb.

I know because I have been that guy.

If you find yourself staring at a profile picture of Noah that went to UC Santa Clara and while you are staring at his surfer pic wondering if his cock is a Frank's Red Hot bottle or a standard office depot yellow highlighter that's ok. You should find out. But know that he is swiping right on hundreds of girls a night playing a number's game.

I know because I have been that guy.

If you think these guys have 'work dinners' or are actually playing on 5 softball teams or really get sick this often, you are naive and falling victim to special snowflake syndrome. He's clearly just keeping you on the bench. He's just not that into you.

People find love on the internet. It does happen, but if you're ever unsure, it's already over. Move on. Go to a pregame, meet a friend of a friend of a friend. You'll probably have something in common and won't have to evaluate your entire future based on five photographs and some intermittent texting.

It works both ways too gentlemen, if she's distant it's not because she's getting her nails done it's because she's got some other guy's dick in her mouth or because she just doesn't give a fuck about you.

I know...because I have definitely been that guy.

So let's do something, let's all make a commitment not to let ourselves be manipulated by our own expectations, let's be honest and have respect for ourselves. Don't twist the narrative to fit some magic fairy tale we've written in our own heads because it probably doesn't have a happy ending and it shouldn't take a bad Justin Long rom com to remind us of these lessons we've learned many times in the past.

Friday, October 28, 2016

Be a Doctor

Don't panic.

So you waited until Wednesday to Prime a Sexy Harambe costume and it ended up in Venice, FL instead of Venice, CA. You now have seven hours to put together a costume or your Halloween will be ruined and the rest of 2016 will suck. You're probably having a worse day than Hilary Clinton.

But don't worry. I've been there and I've got your back. Listen very carefully to what I am about to say.

First you need a friend who is a doctor. If you don't have a friend that is a doctor you should get one. They can call in Z packs for you if you ever get sick or have a curable STD. But if you don't have a doctor friend, go to the Scrubs store.

That's right, when everyone is going to the Halloween outlet to pick over what's left of the overpriced shitty costumes, you are going straight to Scrubs Unlimited in Westwood where you will buy a pair of short sleeved breathy scrubs. If you work on a medical show like the Mindy Project, you can just go hit on the costume PA for 20 minutes until she gives you some rejected wardrobe.

If you haven't figured it out yet, you are going to be a doctor for Halloween. It's a simple costume really, it's comfortable, but it also opens up the world of a surprising amount of bits.

For example. One of your accessories is going to be a note pad. Any time you see a girl that you would like to have intercourse with, you walk up to her and say the following:

"What ails you my dear, I am a doctor."

No matter what she says, you will pull out your note pad and prescribe her shots.

She will love it, it's hilarious.

On every prescription you will put your phone number on it and say something like 'If you have any side effects in the morning give me a call."

There is a 23% chance you will get a text in the morning saying 'Dr. I'm having some side effects, I may need a house call."

The good thing about being a doctor though is that you can prescribe more than shots. Feeling bold? Prescribe a kiss. Did you manage to wrangle a stethoscope? Check their pulse, ask her to take a deep breath and cough, this establishes kino, the art of touch.

Be creative, be obnoxious. Preface lots of statements with 'trust me, I'm a doctor' you can even lie and pretend you ARE a real doctor. Don't break character all night.

I guarantee you will have a good time and you and everyone around you will get very drunk.

Congratulations, your Halloween has been saved.

Tuesday, October 25, 2016

Be Basic

Do you like apple orchards, spiced lattes and carving pumpkins?

Me too. Carving pumpkins is fucking dope.

Did you get excited for fall weather because you have a fantastic wardrobe full of sweaters and Patagonia fleeces that you have been dying to wear for the last six months? Me too. I ride hard for that shit.

I grew up wealthy, my parents are still together, I was in a frat and I have a traditionally sought after body type. Oh and I'm white.

I like Taylor Swift because she's catchy, I go to Starbucks because it's convenient. I watch Love Actually at Christmas. I wear collared shirts because they are flexible, I participate in wine Wednesday because WINE NOT and yes I prefer skinny blondes because I am physiologically predisposed to.

You know what I am...I'm basic.

I don't know where the term came from or why it went mainstream around the beginning of this decade.

Oh wait, ya I do. We stole it from black people just like rap, Drake and phrases I hate like 'fam' and 'woke.' (Ironically that statement makes me woke)

But whereas 'basic' was effectively used by a certain subculture previously to criticize the mainstream it has now been co-opted by people that are feeling bitter and insecure, you know who they are: haters.

In a world of microaggressions and safe spaces it seems the only thing left to go after is that which we envy.

"Look at her vacation photos. So basic."

Sure, hot dogs or legs is a little played out, but the subtext of that comment is always going to be, 'god dammit this chick is in Bali and I had a mediocre Bumble date last night at a Barney's Beanery.'

I am here to tell you today once and for all that there is nothing wrong with living in Santa Monica or going to Yoga or getting a juice. It is not a mortal sin to your individuality to go to Soul Cycle or have a Class Pass.

Carrying a few too many pounds does not make you interesting, being skinny does not make you uninteresting. It is ok to conform to societal norms, read best sellers and check in from Sugarfish on date night.

Go ahead and be a bandwagon cubs fan. Get that North Shore approved t shirt that makes your tits look fucking great. Grab the matching hat too.

Listen to Chainsmokers. Fuck it make an entire Chainsmokers playlist for your Halloween party. Dress slutty. Do your best re-enactment of SNL's 'A Girl's Halloween.'

Live your life like a fucking Pinterest board if you want to because the people that drag you down for living your life the way you want are the same people that think their self esteem issues make them hip.

Being unhappy is not hip.

Live your best life and if that life includes making pumpkin cookies for your book club. You make those fucking cookies with pride. You aren't a 'normie' you aren't a stereotype, you are you.

My name is David Moeller and I am proud to be a basic bitch.

Friday, October 21, 2016

Palm Springs 2016: Preview

I'll cut right to the chase.

I'm going to Palm Springs in two hours and I have no idea what to expect.

I have never met a few of the people that I will be living with for the following 48 hours and there is another group who has a very cursory knowledge of my existence.

Conventional wisdom would say that it would be a good idea to take it easy, fade into the background this weekend; not make it about me. It is after all a birthday party, not my birthday party and I am a guest at this house. I need to be respectful and clean. That's really the most that can be expected from me.

Conversely, I have had one hell of a week. I have heard so many Bumble horror stories at work that I'm starting to think that I am living in a Black Mirror episode. Sometimes you just need to drink whiskey out of a hot girl's collarbone to make sure you've still got it.

I agonized over the decision for days. Part of me wants to be an adult, wants to prove that I can be 'chill and low key.' I want to think that I am not Denzel Washington from Flight, stuck in a hotel room with a fully stocked mini bar.

Just to be sure, I asked my friend Ally. She's put together and often gives me sound advice.

Clavicle shots it is. I'm sorry everyone, I tried, I really tried to be different. But sometimes you gotta be you. Consider this a warning shot for the debauchery that follows.

Of course I haven't packed a bag yet. I'll probably just bring a swimsuit and 3 bro tanks as well as 3 cases of beer, 2 gallons of Fireball and of course 12 strategically hidden Smirnoff Ice.

I might bring a drone and if I can procure one, a shot luge.

I am going to use the power of persuasion to make this trip go exactly the way I want. I may buy a gong and call it the 'shot gong' and make people take a shot every time I ring the shot gong.

Do you know how fucking effective shot gongs are?


Dinner I don't want to go to? Shot gong.

Photo shoot that I want to cancel? Shot gong.

Want to rally some people that are napping? Shot gong.

Trying to get people to go to the Ace Hotel? Shot gong is now Adderall gong. GONGGGGGG!

Look I'm sure everyone on this trip would be totally content to float on swans all weekend and leisurely drink Rose.

Well I'm not.

You have been warned. It might get loud.

Friday, October 14, 2016

How to send your Bumble break up text.

We've all been there.

You matched on Bumble and there was a little spark of hope. OMG is this guy my future husband? Your pulse races a bit and then you say WHOA SLOW THE FUCK DOWN. First this guy needs a funny response to my question.

"If you were a baseball player what would your walk up song be?"

You're super proud of yourself. What a witty question!

"The Friends theme song probably."

OMG HE'S PERFECT. He probably thinks his life is a tv show too!

That amazing reply obviously grants him a first date and it goes...ok?

He drank a little too much on the date, he accepted your offer to split the meal. He led on that he MIGHT be a Trump supporter and oh he totally has put on 10 pounds since his photo was taken.

But like he's funny right? Remember the Friends thing? He's such a Joey!

You kiss and it's a little awkward.

The night ends.

Life goes on for you. Maybe you get drunk at a bar and go home with an ex-fling the following weekend. Joey from Friends fades from your mind...

Until 10 days later he brings up some obscure fucking 'inside joke' you guys had.

'Hey remember when we talked about getting drunk at Dave and Busters? We should do that soon!'

You say something non-committal like 'Haha, YES that sounds so fun.'

But then after cancelling on him twice, you find yourself drinking an IPA and playing Big Buck Hunter at Hollywood and Highland on a Tuesday night.

He says something about how he wants his wife to be a stay at home mom and it's not because he's a sexist or anything, it's just his mom was a stay at home mom and he turned out great!

Ok, you're totally out on this guy. He needs to fucking go. You don't even want to count all your Skee Ball tickets to see what kind of rainbow slinky you can get from the prize store, you want to go home and never see this guy again.

He drives you home, plays a horrible song that he thinks you like and then tries to kiss you in your driveway. He even has the audacity to say 'I think that was a pretty good second date!' You flee up yo your apartment and no sooner have you locked the door when a few charming texts come in from Mr. Wrong.

"Hey I had so much fun with you tonight, you're the best, sweet dreams. Smiling party emoji."

Fuck. I guess he is kind of a nice guy. Just a bit of an idiot that you are NOT into. But you must break it off. Sure it will crush him, but don't worry. I got your back on this. I will show you how to break this man's heart with (some) compassion.

STEP 1: It has to be preemptive.
 Look, I love to put things off until the last minute because dealing with things is hard. But just like an unpaid parking ticket, leading on a Bumble boy will just increase the pain exponentially with time.

The day after the date is when you need to cut it off. Do not wait for him to ask for another date, do not seek advice from your mother. Do not draft 17 versions of what to send. Time is of the essence.

STEP 2: Show some heart (but not too much)
I understand the want to say something like: While I was kissing you I felt like one of Bill Clinton's rape victims or I literally had to swallow a bottle of shampoo to get your gross taste out of my mouth. But obviously you have some degree of tact or you would just ghost this motherfucker into oblivion.

Conversely, you do not want to butter this guy up too much with emojis and compliments. The only thing worse than sending a Bumble break up text is the follow up questions?

Was it something I said? Did you not like my shirt? Was my Khloe is actually the best Kardashian take too hot? COME ON ONE MORE CHANCE PLEASE!!!

This fuckboy has to do know that you had a generally nice time but there is absolutely no chance of getting back together.

STEP 3: Cease communication
Knowing when to walk away is a skill that is almost universal to all walks of life. Clayton Kershaw after the 6th inning? WALK AWAY. Having an argument with a person of color about white male privilege? WALK AWAY. In fact the only time in life when you should NOT walk away is when you are enjoying a Diplo song. (Four people that read this will catch that reference)

As much as you will want to keep pumping this guy's tires and saying shit like 'No, I think you're great, it's just..." and "It's just a personality fit type thing" or the dreaded "It's not you, it's me..."


In fact after you send the text. Hand your phone to a friend and don't let them give it back for an hour. Or turn your phone off and throw it at a wall and don't look at it for a few days. It's a real Schrodinger's Cat situation. If your phone is not on to receive a scary text message, did it really happen?

STEP 4: Straight and to the point

Ok, without further ado. Your text should read something like this.

'Hey, I had a good time last night, but I'm not really feeling a spark. Good luck!'

The end.

Does that leave an opening? No.

Is it mean? No!

You're saying, I had a nice time but this chapter is closed. No nudes for you.


There is also a world in which this guy really won't give a fuck. Maybe you are one of 12 girls this dude is dating. Maybe he sends every chick 'I had a really good time tonight crazy party emoji.' Maybe, JUST MAYBE he's not that into you.

If all goes according to plan, seeing this guy in public shouldn't make you want to kill yourself. And really that's the best one can hope for with a Bumble break up.

Or you could just get flaky with your text messages and wait for it to work itself out. Whatever you want

Tuesday, October 11, 2016

American Fuckboy

'Oh he's just some fuckboy.'

I originally heard the term probably a couple years ago while listening to a couple girls talking about one of their boys on the side. I didn't really understand at the time what the phrase meant. I assumed said 'fuckboy' was just some guy that this chick had sex with, but it didn't really mean anything. Maybe he was hot, maybe his dad had money. But this dude was probably not 'the one.'

Under that definition being a 'fuckboy' would seem to be a positive. After all, there are very few men in their mid 20's that have an aversion to no strings sex. Unless of course a 'fuckboy' were to fall in love and WANT there to be strings. In fact they made two movies about this in 2011 so perhaps fuckboy had deeper origins.

As it turned out, I was wrong. A fuckboy is not some hot piece of ass a single chick calls when she is in heat and needs to tie one off. It is in fact an attempted perjorative term for somewhat of a flakey manwhore.

In fact, I stumbled upon a checklist on Betches about how to determine if you are dating a fuckboy.

After strong examination of the list it seems like a 'fuckboy' is the dude that doesn't want to date you, but will definitely send a 'you up?' text once he's drunk. Also every single person in Los Angeles.

It was at this exact moment that I realized that I am a fuckboy.

Not satisfied with my findings I decided to do a deeper internet dive, Huffpo defined it as such.

In essence, a fuckboy (sometimes stylized “fuckboi” or “fuccboi”) is a (usually straight, white) dude embodying something akin to the “man whore” label, mashed up with some “basic” qualities and a light-to-heavy sprinkling of misogyny.
Vanity Fair went slightly darker.

A “fuckboy” is a young man who sleeps with women without any intention of having a relationship with them or perhaps even walking them to the door post-sex. He’s a womanizer, an especially callous one, as well as kind of a loser.

And then Jezebel came it to say 'naw it's actually a word black dudes call each other to question their masculinity something something culture appropriation.'

To call someone a fuckboy is to insult them. It falls into a similar category of terms like bitch-ass or scrub. A fuckboy is a man who is lame, who sucks, who ain’t shit.
 Jez goes on to talk about hipster hip hop act Run the Jewels and probably some hot takes about why pads are better than tampons, but the evidence remains that there are multiple interpretations of the word.

I began using the word recently to dismiss the guys that my female friends dated that I didn't like.

'Can I bring Jonas to the pregame?'

'Ugh, that fuckboy? He'll never be one of us.'

I feel like that insult runs contrary to either Jezebel or Huff Po's definition and is more akin to just blaring Avril Lavigne's 'Hey hey you you I don't like your girlfriend!'

Furthermore there are even more sites that claim calling someone a 'fuckboy is to question their manhood.' As in you are not a man, you are a boy. Which is strange.

Right now we are living in parallel subcultures in which many people are worried about triggering warnings and safe spaces, while another half are yelling 'Saturdays are for the boys' while doing lines of cocaine out of skinny girls' clavicle gaps.

 Were a Silverlake male feminist to call a former frat guy a 'fuckboy' the reaction would likely be, 'Hell ya man, Dicks out for Harambe!' thus creating a subculture paradox where one side is calling the other horrible and the other side embracing it.

My conclusion is that a 'fuckboy' is whatever you want it to be. It's also an aesthetically pleasing thing to say which is why it must be so popular in our current lexicon.'Fuckgirl' didn't pop off because frankly it doesn't roll off the tongue as well.

We're overrun by fuckboys at this specific moment in time. Donald Trump, Lena Dunham, Kanye West, Season 4 JD McCoy in Friday Night Lights. But just remember before you judge too harshly, there is a little fuckboy in all of us.

That in mind, I've created a fun and quick quiz to determine if you, in 2016, are a fuckboy.

1. Do you do use drugs?

2. Do you wear your hats backwards?

3. Have you unironically Sent a snapchat with the caption 'Saturdays are for the boys?'

4. Have you ghosted someone in the last three months?

5. Are you on at least 2 dating apps (Bumble, Tinder, Jdate, etc.)

6. Are you voting for someone other than Hillary?

7. Would you cancel all pre existing plans if you were invited on a boat?

8. Do you have a cleaning lady (or guy) that you pay to clean your apartment?

9. Do you own more than 5 articles of clothing that could be considered pastels?

10.  Do you judge people for saying things like 'Mercury is in retrograde?'

11. Have you participated in a fad diet in the last year?

Now give yourself 1 point for every 'Yes.' If you're over 7, congratulations. You're a fuck boy. Come on over on Saturday we'll start drinking Smirnoff Ices around noon.

Friday, October 7, 2016

The United States of Frat: Wisconsin

On today's episode of the United States of Frat we discuss the birth of the road trip scavenger hunt, Pennsylvania fake IDs and the merits of hooking up on a couch. If you are into that kinda thing, read on. If not, have fun folding laundry this weekend.

University of Wisconsin*: The Red Shed

*You don't have to indicate Madison because anyone that went to a satellite school should be ashamed and not reading this blog.

Yelp Score: 3 stars!

Scathing reviews:

Joe W has this to say.

Terrible Bar.  Smells like a dirty locker room.  The bar tenders are rude.  The drinks are terrible and when you ask for a new one they call you a drunk and argue with you about it.  Bathrooms are the most disgusting room I have ever been in.  If you go there do not use them.  Only good thing is that music isn't overly loud.
Hey at least you get to leave the ear plugs at home!

Chris W thinks they hate the gays!

Ugh. Cesspool of a college bar, the only place at which I was ever, as far as I can tell, overtly discriminated against on the basis of (perceived) sexual orientation.
I stopped in for a quick happy hour drink with two friends, one a lesbian, one bisexual; all three of us "look" non-heterosexual to a certain extent. Anyway, we paid for this; the old guy tending bar pointedly ignored us, at one point literally ignoring our polite "Excuse me"s to wait on a cute blonde in the OTHERWISE EMPTY BAR. 
I am not eager to ever return. 
I for one do not find it rude to wait on a cute blonde, it certainly isn't her fault that she was born that way.

Rachel has thoughts on the straw allotment...

Worst customer service ever! My fiance took 2 straws to put in my drink and this dumb bartender kicks him out for no reason! Worst customer service and bartender with the bald head and glasses ever! I highly do not recommend this place. There's better places that can gladly take your business 

Perhaps they just don't like dudes that drink from straws, I was once kicked out of a Dublin Bar for that very infraction.

A truly confounding review from Dana

Ok, I warned you.  Good thing you blacked out for the broken glass in the toilets, the sinks that turn into urinals, etc etc.
But wasn't the foosball game you played at 1 am a lot of fun?
And aren't you still trying to figure out what were in those mason jars?  No, they were definitely bigger than pints jars.  Those were quart jars....  And your hangover is bad enough that you may never go near those tomatoes you canned last summer.
There is a covered wagon, oregon-trail-style, over the door.  Real Western.  Ever seen hbo's deadwood?   You're lucky to leave deadwood's tavern alive.  Same goes for the red shed.
(I can't wait to go back) 

And lastly JR wants to comment on some air flow issues.

The entire place smells like a bathroom. If they could remedy that with a constant flow of fresh oxygen, then one's mind could open to discover the joys of bar games and mason jar long islands. 

My review...

Let me take you back to a simpler time. October 27, 2007. A Republican was in the White House, Crank That Souljah Boy was the number one song in America and I was yet to have sex with a person of color.

Apparently at some point the previous evening I had agreed to road trip to Madison with some Delts, so when they pulled up to my fraternity house the next morning, the only 'Halloween' costume I could come up with was some pink pants and a pink sweater vest. I called it 'a golfer' but really that's just what I wore every day.

Somewhere along I39 (the world's worst freeway) we decided to pull over and get some 40's for the road as this was a pre Four Loko world. About two 40's in we decided that seating in the car on the way home would be determined by weekend performance. As a sort of measuring stick we developed an extremely complicated scavenger hunt, awarding points for feats of fratitude such as having sex with a hot chick or leaving an upper decker deuce in a stranger's toilet.

It was a magical weekend insomuch as it was the only time I have talked so much shit at a sporting event that it led to management moving me to a better section 'for my safety.' IU was massacred that day 33-3 but instead of calling it a day, I decided to triple down on my partying. It was the Saturday night of Halloween and I was down in the standings.

After a few hours of bar crawling I realized I had been separated from my friends. I had already lost two fake IDs that weekend and was down to one atrocious Pennsylvania ID. I stopped a stranger on the street and asked...

'Hey man, I've already had two IDs jacked this weekend, where can I absolutely get in and get shit faced?'

He did a double take on me and I felt like I recognized him.

'Are you staying at Brian's place? Come with us, we're going to Red Shed it's going to be great.'

I follow this guy and we march straight into a frat boy's wet dream. People are chugging pitchers of Long Island Iced Tea and there are at least 5 white dudes doing the Souljah Boy dance (I told you it was the number one song!) We walk toward the bar and order 5 Long Island pitchers. I realize there are only four of us present.

'Who is the fifth for?'

'The loser. This is a horse race, we are going to chug these and whoever finishes last has to chug this one AND get our next round.'


I finish second in that race and about three more. By the time I have explained the rules of the scavenger hunt to the guys, I can barely stand.

'Ok, we're going to play one game of foosball and then we're going to walk over to that dance floor and get you some points.'

I don't remember how sticky the floor was that night, I don't remember if I won or lost the foosball, but I definitely remember how I woke up.


"What do we have here?"

I'm laying on a couch in full costume, I am spooning with a girl and my hand is precariously up her shirt. Somehow I have made it back to where I am supposed to be. I am still in full 'golf' costume, my hand is up the shirt of a sexy nurse. (Sexy costumes were still cool in 2007) I am looking up at my three comrades from the road trip.

I realize aforementioned nurse is awake now and staring at me and my hand. Horrified, I recoil my hand.

"It's fine."

"What happened here?" I sheepishly ask the nurse.

"Well you were blacked out and we were cuddling on this couch and we made out a little bit. At some point in the night you must have put your hand up my shirt. I didn't mind so I just kinda rolled with it."

"Get up Moeller, fourth place. You're driving."

Keys are tossed in my direction, I still don't know the nurse's name.

'Wait a second.' It's another one of my buddies. 'Miss nurse, would you consider what transpired last night a 'hook up?'

There is a tense silence surrounding the room.

'I mean we didn't have sex, but I'll probably write his name down in my hook up journal. (To me) what's your name?'

The person that tossed me the keys throws his hands up in the air.

'It doesn't matter, a hook up is only 20 points, Dave is still in last.'

'But she's in her costume, that's a 2x multiplier.'

'Ok fine, 40 points. He gets to ride in the back.'

I look at the nurse and I look at a picture on the wall.

'Wait, do you live here?'

'Ya, I live on this floor and your buddy Brian lives in the basement. Why?'

I look at my buddies, 'Go back to her place, an additional 3x multiplier. 20*2*3 is 120. I win.'

I grab the unnamed nurse by the face and kissed her on the lips.

"Thank you, my name is David Moeller, and I owe the next 7 hours of my life to you."

I rode shotgun the whole way back to Bloomington and slept the whole time, it is still the greatest fourth quarter comeback in my life to date. I never found out her name.

Thursday, October 6, 2016

The United States of Frat: Michigan


Welcome to the United States of Frat, a new recurring segment on SingledudeinLA. A coworker recently pointed out to me that I have an uncanny knowledge of bro bars in college towns, that's because my chief mission in undergrad was to drink beers and gun chicks. As it is college football aka road trip season I decided that it might be helpful to point out a few bars that you might want to check out on your visit to campus. Every single one of these bars will have good drink specials and probably a 20 year old trust fund girl who will go home with you. You're welcome!

University of Michigan: Scorekeepers

Yelp Score: 2.5 Stars

Scathing reviews:

From Erin G who gave it one star:
I've been to Skeeps several times, but last night was a combination of frat boys and sorostitutes celebrating St. Patty's and some kind of business school event I think, since a whole busload of guys in suits was there. I am neither a sorostitute nor a b-school attendee, but I know some people who work there and can get me cheap drinks, so there I was. I'm pretty sure there were about 500 people there, and I'm really not exaggerating. It was so crowded and hot, you had to push through people to get anywhere, and it definitely made me claustrophobic, big-time. With all the stairs and levels in the place, my drunken self kept thinking if there was a fire, we'd all be goners. At about 1:15, I frantically escaped, desperately needing fresh air and NYPD bbq chicken pizza. They have cheap personal pitchers and good specials, though my personal pitcher gin-and-tonic seemed to have a very high ratio of tonic water and ice to the gin. This points to a key aspect of Skeeps: don't go here if drinking an entire pitcher of alcohol by yourself seems odd or maybe unsafe. Do go if you like to get puking-drunk, like to feel cheap, or like to watch UM Greek's finest do what they do best.
 You hear that you cunts? You better make Erin's personal pitcher a fucking half and half. She likes to be hammered when she makes fun of the Greeks. I do want to know more about this NYPD BBQ Chicken pizza though...

From Jen G who gave it two stars:
1 star for friendly waitstaff and for a tasty burger.

Another star for watching ridiculously drunk girls in ridiculously short dresses dance awkwardly on the dance floor.
I would give the drunk girls in short dresses at least an additional two stars Jen.

David M (Not me!) checks in to give it one star:
Gross and scary, as the other reviews have outlined.  If you're underage (or into underage individuals) this is your place, though, since they are notorious for letting people slide.  I, however, am 22, and would go to any other bar instead.
Whoooa you hear that shit? David is a Senior, he's 22! Practically retired, he can't be fucking with the sloppy underagers at Skeeps.

And finally Crystal tosses in her two cents:
This place needs to be gutted and burned down. There were flies and gnats at the bar and on the TV s and trash behind the bar on the floor from the night before. It felt like we were in a dungeon. The food was NASTY! Just..ewwww. Cold chicken wings, gross nachos. I noticed the bartender didn't ask the little girl next to me for her ID. I actually told the bartender all of this and he gave me 15% should have been 100% free.
My review...

I went to Skeeps (only loser GEEDS call it Scorekeepers) Labor Day weekend of 2010. I had already graduated and I was 23, so what did I do? Drive to Michigan to hook up with my roommate's sister's Sophomore friends. Yay! I was staying at a Phi Psi live out and literally traded a guy drugs for tickets in the Big House parking lot. It was a bender of a weekend, I did body shots off of no fewer than four Tri Delts during tailgate and I was generally feeling great about myself.

I didn't think the day could get much better until I headed to the bars after the game. My buddy took me to this place called Skeeps, the local frat bar. I knew immediately when I walked in that I had found my Ann Arbor home. What sat before me was a multi level dive bar masquerading as a dance club. Freshman Sorority girls fell all over themselves on a slippery dance floor. Chanting bros stood on tables Viking chugging pitchers of beer. Braylon Edwards sat in a corner with no less than seven blondes pouring bottles of vodka directly on their faces.

I equated myself to the bar and ordered 8 Jager Bombs for the completely reasonable price of $30. I then found the dance floor and used my white male privilege to just dance with whoever I felt like. It paid off and hours later I found myself in a U of M off campus apartment hooking up.

30 minutes or so into the ordeal I heard some rustling upstairs.


"What? Do you have a roommate or something?'

"NO! THAT'S MY BOYFRIEND. He wasn't supposed to come back until tomorrow. Also he's black.'

With that I am flung from the bed and shoved out an open window. My jeans and shirt are thrown through the window as well as a profuse apology. What happened next, I didn't expect as I was hit in the face with a wadded up piece of paper. I looked to the ground and saw a 20 dollar bill.

'20 bucks can get you a cab anywhere on campus!'

A wink and then the window slammed shut. I'm pretty sure this is the exact moment feminism was born.

I made it back to the apartment where I was supposed to be staying. I found my roommate sitting on the curb with all of our belongings. Apparently he had been on the Skeeps dance floor, kissing the girlfriend of one of the guys we were staying with. It was frowned upon. We got in the car and drove back to Chicago at 4 in the morning...

But ya, Skeeps gets a solid 5 stars

Tuesday, October 4, 2016

Bangers Only

 It's a few minutes before midnight on a Saturday night in LA. I'm so far east of Lincoln I might as well be in a different state. There is a transvestite DJ on stage playing a mash up of Justin Bieber's 'Where are U now' and Cher's 'Believe.' I'm on a dance floor surrounded by competitive Ultimate Frisbee players and a bunch of girls that look like Barb from Stranger Things. I desperately want to make out with someone, but what I want more is for the DJ to play something loud with a monumental drop. How did I get here?

The last time we spoke I was on a flight back to Los Angeles from Austin, TX stuck in that in between half sleep you endure so many times in the air. I kind of think I'm sleeping, but I'm conscious of the fact that I could wake up at any moment accidentally cuddling with the stranger next to me.

I survived that day and vowed to stay in all weekend. Luke Cage was on Netflix and there was an Amanda Knox documentary out. Nothing makes me happier than loading up a bong and trying to play armchair detective. Tuesday-Thursday I found myself in bed by 9 o clock. Even Friday, after briefly attending a stand up comedy show, I was home and in bed by 10. I was good.

And then Saturday hit and I just couldn't take it anymore. I found a Mad Decent Block Party ticket on Craigslist for $20 and the next thing I knew I was on a train heading east wearing a bro tank that features a tidal wave wearing sunglasses. I was back.

Mad Decent Block Party is essentially a miniature festival on the grounds of LA Center Studios, the home of hit tv shows such as 'The People V. OJ Simpson' and 'Mad Men.' When not cranking out prestige dramas LACS leases out space to things such as 'Beerfest' and small raves. Hence, I have a fair amount of experience walking around hammered outside the offices of Sterling Cooper.

The exciting warm up act for Diplo was a fully bat shit Ke$ha. I had never seen her in concert, but I remember chain smoking and listening to her songs on the way to work in 2010 blaring the music on full blast so not to fall asleep at the wheel after a random Wednesday night bender. Whereas I have pulled myself out of that spiral, I am happy to report that Kesha is still living her life like she expects to die young. And good for her, she played the hits, I jumped up and down. I got sweaty. Hell I even found a girl a full foot and a half shorter than me and trade shirts with her for 15 minutes, which led to Saturday's Facebook post/what I will ever use if I decide to try an online dating app.

There is something magical about a music festival, about the little connections you make. You realize you might be dancing with someone who is 15 feet away and didn't even realize it, but then you make eye contact and realize that you are in complete lockstep. Perhaps this is the greatest contribution electronic music has made to the world.

Diplo ends, I find myself at the Echoplex with aforementioned transvestite DJ. Now they are performing a mash up of 'Sweet Dreams' and 'Tainted Love.' I'm coming down, I need to get home.

I wake up on Sunday to my usual hangover, only this time I have to google 'Brain Tumor or Hangover' because it's particularly bad. There are still flash tats all over my face including an auspicious Star of David, Happy Rosh Hashanah. I move to the couch and watch 12 hours of football. During the Sunday night game those dark thoughts begin to creep in. Why is our staff writer 26? I'm almost 30? Am I ever going to make it? What am I doing wrong, or conversely am I doing everything right? Maybe I'm just one lucky break away.

I stand up, make myself a water, take a deep breath and relax. Everything is fine, I live in paradise, my roommate just brought me ice cream. I will go to work five days next week, make enough money to survive and party. It will be a generally pleasant time.

So I guess my question this enough? I come to work and all my piers are in the midst of full blown panic attacks about what the future holds.  Meanwhile I am perfectly content to keep writing and living for the weekends. Sure I would like to blow up, get famous, make an absurd amount of money and float through life like the trust fund kids I always emulated, but if I don't? Eh, it could be worse. I don't feel the pressure to find a partner, to procreate. I think there is value in living for the moment and seeking a good time.

Sure I get worried about money, about growing up, about where I will be 10 years from now...but those are tomorrow problems. If I can't find a job in LA I can always go pick berries in Australia for a few years, right? And sure, there will be people that say 'what a waste of talent, had he just applied himself he could have-'

Could have what? Seen the world? Made a positive impact? I'm pretty sure that if I were struck down by a errant lightning bolt right now I have lived a more exciting life in 29+ years that most people will their whole lives. And I did it on my terms. So for now, I'm going to keep seeking the thrill, living for the story, telling the DJ to turn the music and play the bangers, because life is too short to worry about tomorrow, especially when today is so rad.

Wednesday, September 28, 2016

Texas Forever


'Get to Trophy Club you fucking pussy, you're 12 drinks behind.'

I'm on a text chain with 20 numbers listed. I don't have any of them stored in my phone anymore. But it's an 847, so it's certainly a North shore kid who was in my frat.

"We're taking PG bombs. You're now 13 drinks behind. That's 13 fantasy points bitch.'

There is a subset of people who won't find that phrase endearing because, well maybe they just don't remember what it was like to live with 100 guys when you were at the peak of your irresponsibility. I knew that the second I walked into that bar that I was stepping into a time portal, to a time 10 years ago when nothing mattered and we certainly behaved like that was the case. A time when we would build cannons and launch potatoes at the house across the street, a time when we accidentally shut down water to the city of Bloomington because of our doomed attempt at a hockey rink in our courtyard.

I left Chicago in 2011. Even before I left, college friends were starting to drift apart. When we first graduated people had gone out together four nights a week. There was a constant text chain relaying pregame locations and late night bars to meet up at. We all lived within a mile of each other and spent every waking moment not at work trying to pretend we were still in college.

But over time that would fade, guys would start to get serious with their girlfriends, people moved away, people grew up. I lost touch with a lot of guys after I moved but I would still follow their journey on social media. I would like their engagement photos, I would read about the wedding.

This weekend proved an interesting opportunity to bring me back into the fold. The groom and I moved to Los Angeles within a few weeks of each other. John and I had always been close in college. Even though I was a year older, we would spend summers in Chicago and terrorize Kilroy's together on the reg. When he first heard I was moving to LA he immediately offered up his bedroom to me as he was out of town. Then when he got back he told me to stay on the couch for a while.

Even when I finally moved into a hippie commune in Encino, I was a frequent guest at 8811 Burton Way. We didn't have a ton on friends in LA. Many nights I would end up on the Versaille rooftop, drinking beers in the hot tub with John, Joey and Eric talking about nothing until 5 o clock in the morning.

We all eventually caught our LA footing and at the same time John found a perfect girl, also a Hoosier, also from the Greek System. Unfortunately they were not long for this world as work called them both away to Texas.

Their last month here they lived on the beach in what is now SnapChat's offices and I think we partied every night to send them off properly. And somehow I must have forgotten this, because it wasn't until I walked into that bar and saw them nearing blackout riding a mechanical bull in tandem that I realized...

Oh, this is going to be a frat wedding.

FRAT WEDDING - noun - A wedding in which the majority of the groom's friends and bride's friends were in the same Greek Organization. It can lead to excessive drinking, loud chanting and poor life decisions.

Friday morning I woke up with a larger hangover than I imagined. I hadn't even arrived at the bar until 1am but I found out right around 230am that the bar closing times in Texas are more of suggestions. Naturally I rolled out of bed and had a beer.

Already my phone was buzzing with notifications from the text chain.

"When do Austin bars open?"

"How many fantasy points for a black eye?"

"Someone bring an IV to my hotel room."

"Did anyone fuck last night?"

I felt the best way to quell my hangover was to take a trip to Barton Creek and find a rope swing. It didn't help, so naturally my next stop was to a liquor store to grab a six pack, hoping a little hair of the dog could bring me back to life.

By lunch time, I found myself at a bar called Searsucker, aptly named for the type of people that hang out there. Our table of 12 was ordering tequila shots by the dozen and beer by the pitcher at the ripe hour of noon. Catching up with guys I hadn't seen in four years, you would think we had been living together for the past few years. I guess that's just how it is when you get back together with the guys.

Lunch ended and I decided to pop by the new Chive offices in Austin. Behold the power of a photo blog dedicated to bad behavior.

A house with a name means one of two things: You are either going to a college live out populated by 10 bros and 40 handles of flavored Kamchatka.

Example 1:

That is my Senior live out house. We called it Shingles because it had a funky looking roof. I once broke into a CVS and stole a sign that said FREE SHINGLES SHOTS HERE. I thought it was hilarious.

The other thing a house with a name might mean is that you are going to a multi million dollar mansion...

Behold Gatsby West.

We arrived at Gatsby West on a party bus and were handed glasses of champagne upon entry. There were three separate bars set up and manned by models. This was not the first rehearsal dinner I had been to that had beautiful women working the bar, but it was the first time I had ever been to a rehearsal dinner that was sponsored by a vodka company.

What do you think happens when you put a bunch of former frat guys in a giant house with unlimited alcohol? Toss in a rowdy country band just for good measure and it's an all time banger.

A cigar roller had camped out in the Billiards room. There were passed out bodies in the movie theater. I heard that a married woman got banged in the pool house in the middle of the party.

Her husband was not in attendance.

I spent the majority of my evening ripping cigars and doing the aforementioned PG bombs in the Parlor. It turns out a PG bomb is just when you fill a wine glass to the top with Pinot Grigio and drink it in one gulp. This might explain why I still feel like shit today.

I blacked out around 1 in the morning so I missed the skinny dipping after party. I missed the group that tore down Maggie Mae's on dirty 6th street. My roommate brought home a girl for the second night in a row. I woke up in my clothes with nothing more than a tinge of regret.

This is the exact content of the text chain I saw when I woke up Saturday morning:

12am: Just landed how long is the party going?

'We're still going'

'Daddy's home.'


'Wine Chug'

'On my way!'

'Hurry the fuck up'

'15 minutes'

'BD Riley's'

'Moving Bars'



'Suck my balls!'

'Come downtown I had to put my wife to bed'


'Next stop Chugging Monkey'

'I just took 18 shots, not all heroes wear capes'

'How many fantasy points for passing out with your head out the window?'

'Moeller you pussy.'

'Guys, don't forget golf is in four hours.'


I didn't make it to golf.

I swore to myself that I would make it for a full night on Saturday. I was only halfway through the trip and we were just about to arrive at the main course. I've still got it baby. I can make this happen. I will bring home a chick tonight.

Saturday's lunch was full of more arguing about fantasy points. I had no idea my power to influence a weekend could be so great.

'You should lose points for pissing the bed.'

'It wasn't mentioned in the article, that's bullshit.'

'Well puking in an Uber should be double negative points. I heard John had to give the driver 100 bucks.'

'Isn't double negative a positive?'

'Shut up!'

I ended up drinking two Shiner Bocks at lunch because my head was throbbing. I also managed to put down $40 worth of barbecue yet still I felt like shit. It didn't help that the Austin heat was cooking up a full 99 degrees and something like 110 percent humidity. I was dreading how sweaty I would become on the dance floor later that night.

I realized while I was getting ready that I had accidentally brought an incredibly dark navy sport coat to pair with black pants, what a fucking loser. No matter, it's not about me, I thought. People will be focused on the bride and groom.

Well that was patently untrue since the first thing I heard from five guys after I entered the ceremony 30 seconds before the bride walked down the aisle was how much of an idiot I looked like.

During the ceremony I found myself crying, though it's unclear if I was overcome with emotion or my endorphine balance was just too fucked up. Sometimes I tear up in the midst of a bender. Fortunately for me the actual wedding itself was short and no one commented on the fact that I was shaking.

The fact that it rained on the brief walk to the reception was a Godsend because no one would be able to tell if I was sweating or just wet.

I walked in and found the bridal party already lining up an obnoxious row of PG bombs.

'Come on Moeller, all the frat guys are going to do one.'

We had all done three by the time that I made my way to Table 4.

7:00  The first groomsman has taken his shirt off. Speeches are still an hour away.

7:30 I am asked to settle a dispute of whether a dance floor make out actually has to be on a dance floor.

8:00 A member at my table is assured that the bar will be open all night and it is unnecessary to steal wine bottles.

And then it was time for speeches.

During the speeches I cried for the second time of the day. The speeches made me want to get married, have a daughter, have a son. But the best man's speech really brought the house down. It reminded me the real reason we all come together for these weekends. It's not to see how many times we can scream 'Saturdays are for the boys!' It's not to tell Johnny that we are doing collarbone shots off of him because all the girls said no.

It's because John and Meg are incredible people. Their families are incredible. And this is the moment that they will remember the rest of their lives.

But ya also so we can rip our shirts off and party.

The Spazmatics start playing and we are treated to two hours of lunacy.

The bride and groom do an interpretive dance on how they first met.

And at some point we decide to do the Jewish chair thing even though the bride and groom weren't Jewish.

Sorry, that video won't load.

And here is a picture of Jon Vender.

Of course there was limbo, there was double dutch, and yes eventually even yours truly took his shirt off. Everyone was doing it, why not?

After the reception we were taken to an after party in downtown Austin. Maybe it was on 6th, I don't know. One of the groomsman jumped over the bar and started serving everyone free shots. The last thing I remember hearing was PROSECO BOMBS!!!!

I imagine it is just a PG bomb with proseco.

*Buzz Buzz*

I roll over, I'm passed out in my bed, this time naked but no girls are to be found. I grab my phone.

'Who made it to the pool party last night?'

'Extremely disappointed I wasn't invited...'

'I heard there was some significant female nudity'

'It has been described to me as an orgy'

'MVP [REDACTED] was there.'

'Female nudity is my favorite kind of nudity'

'Johnny's least favorite.'

'All clothes were removed post pizza. Things were seen. Actions were taken.'

'I highly advise against playing Marco Polo when everyone is naked. Never know what you're going to grab.'

'Dicks out for Harambe.'

'Any injuries?'


'I'm heading to the bar for Irish Car Bombs.'

'How many fantasy points did [redacted] end up with?'

'All of them. All hail [redacted] your weekend MVP'

It was Sunday, the day the depression usually sets in.

I still had another full day in Austin. We were supposed to float the Guadalupe but decided to just go hang at the W hotel, drink fruity beverages and rot by the pool.

So ends a wonderful weekend full of good friends and memories I will never forget. We will all go back to our lives and possibly go years without seeing each other. If we are ever in the same town maybe we'll meet for a drink or maybe not. But it's ok, because those four years in college bonded us forever and the next time I see you it will be as if we never left one another's side.

I got back to work the next Monday after waking up at 2am to catch a lift back to LAX and I wanted to die. I rode the wave until Wednesday and probably spent four hours trying to figure out how to write this post.

Should I give out awards?

Should I rank everyone's performance?

Or should I just tell everyone what happened and see how much they believe.

I decided to pick the latter. And a lot of people won't understand half of what I've written, but it's not for them, it's for the people that do.

Until next time, rest up boys. I fully expect for there to be a sequel.