Friday, February 26, 2016

Savage


I woke up in a daze. My phone was vibrating uncontrollably. I glanced over and noticed I was in an overeager group chat. It was 7:04 in the morning, at least five of my alarms were going off.

It took me a moment to realize what was happening. My ears were still ringing from an Eric Prydz concert and I was probably on two and a half hours of sleep. There was a light knock on my bedroom door before it swung open.

"Thanks for letting me crash man."

There was a guy standing in front of me that I definitely recognized as someone I had been with the previous night, but certainly could not recall his name.

"You really saved me, first time I've ever had a bad trip."

I kinda nodded and gave him a thumbs up as he showed himself out. I searched through my phone for some clues as to how the night had ended. I remember leaving the Palladium but definitely not getting home. FUCK. $200 Uber? Not good. My phone buzzed again.

"So, are you on your way?"

Ya. 5 minutes. A classic lie when you're running late.

I was supposed to pick up a buddy on my way to our Brentwood pre game for the Northern Trust Open. A 7am pre game. I quickly open the Uber app and see an inexplicable morning 4x, I decide to drive.

I throw on a pink sweater vest and I'm in Brentwood by 730am not too bad. At this point my hangover isn't too bad. I try to remember if I actually took some shrooms from a guy I met in the bathroom or if I just dreamt that. I decide to grab a mimosa and not worry about it.

By 9am, we are inside the Riviera Country Club double fisting beers. Aside from aforementioned sweater vest I am wearing some pleated cream pants and red Sperry's. My friends are all wearing very wide leisure hats. I want to say we were doing this ironically but we fit in extremely well. I should add that the crowd was 99% white and we all looked like we had reputable fathers and "came from a good family."

I think I was on my 5th beer before we had even seen anyone tee off. Somehow we were swept away into the United tent to hit golf balls on a simulator. From 160 yards away from the pin I was able to hit a snap hook so bad that I ended 170 away from the pin. The events coordinator told me it was the single worst shot she had ever seen.

Finally we made it to the driving range to watch Dustin Johnson. We all agreed that we were going to root for him because he does cocaine and fucks other player wives.

After watching DJ hit the driver a few times we followed around a group that included Rory and Bubba Watson I think? I dunno, I was shampoo effecting really hard and don't remember specifics. Golf tournaments are weird. You can literally reach out and touch the best players in the world, people run right up to the temporary barriers with hands outstretched hoping for a fist bump. And while I choke even if the starter is watching me tee off, these guys have to do it in front of hundreds of random bros that have been drinking since 8 o clock in the morning.

We spent the day wandering around, drinking beers, pitching each other TV shows, putting on some of the impromptu mini golf courses the tournament had set up; real white guy stuff. All the while I forget that it's about 90 degrees and sunny as fuck.

After a while watching 30something white guys hit perfect shots becomes a bit of a bore, so we quickly switched to degenerate gambling. Closest to the hole, will he make this putt, shortest drive buys a round of beers. I'm sure we never intended on collecting any of these debts, but it certainly kept the Bud heavies flowing.

When we reached the 18th I was trying to text people at home where they could see me and also watch to see if Bubba was going to make in 40 foot Birdie putt. It was tough to tell as I was seeing double. Perched on a hill, I very nearly stumbled and took out an entire section of fans. Fortunately I was able to tuck and roll and only make a fool of myself.

By the time we were ready to go see ska revival band 'The English Beat' I could tell that my skin would be peeling by morning. I was having trouble standing. At some point in between my second and third cigar, I just wedged myself against a tree to prevent from falling down. It was time to leave.

On the way out, we walked by multi-million dollar Brentwood homes that I will never be able to afford, I stumbled upon a caddy and asked how much it would cost me and my friends to play a round at the Riv.

"About $50,000." He quipped.

A boy can dream.

After powering down for a couple hours I decided I was safe to drive back to Venice (I wasn't.) I made it back to the couch just in time to see Indiana smash Purdue, I was ready to call it a night at 730pm but that was not to be. My fellow golf buddies had rallied and were coming to Venice.

What followed was a bunch of stuff I'm not particularly proud of. More ecstasy, doing a nasal douche with a netti pot so I could hoover more adderall, trying and failing to make out with an Asian girl in the basement of some bar, falling on my face when she moved out of the way. I get kicked out of Townhouse so often these days, I don't even fight in anymore.

The next day was rough. I had that kind of hangover that you only get when you've been partying in the heat. It felt like the Monday after Coachella. No matter how much water I drank, my urine still came out this abhorrent dark hue of brown. My back hurt, I went down a rabbit hole on WebMD and came to the conclusion that I had Pancreatits, the same ailment that had sent one of my study abroad roommates home. The base of my skull hurt, I concluded that I had a bleeding aneurysm. Death was imminent.

Monday was worse, Tuesday was just as bad.

Wednesday I considered checking in to the Marina Del Rey Hospital for an IV.

Thursday I searched Facebook to see if I had any nurse friends that would be willing to sneak me a saline solution.

And then I made it to Friday…and all my problems just drifted away. My pending court cases, my potential physical ailments…they don't matter now.

In 7 hours I'm going to Park City for my second ski trip of the season. There will be lift beers, there will be hot tub beers, there will be pares beers, there will be general shot gunning beers. I CAN'T WAIT.

And then Monday, I'll be hungover. Tuesday will be shit. By Wednesday, I'll probably stop contemplating driving into oncoming traffic.

But then FRIDAY, nothing will matter anymore. I'll drive to San Diego with a bunch of hot chicks and live such an emotional high for 48 hours it will make up for all of the bullshit.

Then Coachella is coming and I'm going to Denmark and Germany and Sweden…LIFE IS SO EXCITING. But for the Monday headaches...

It's a vicious cycle that begs the questions…is it worth it? is this a way to live? Can you just ignore and run away from all of your problems?

The answer, at least for the moment, is yes.

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