I think the man 5 feet from me is about to die.
I have been awake for close to 60 hours, and before that it isn't quite like I was getting great sleep.
I traded in a sweaty campground for a loud 8 person ensuite. I am bunk #7, but I'm fairly certain that whoever is in bunk #5 is about to die. He has this snoring pattern that I think is what leads people to wearing that embarrassing sleep apnea mask, but honestly I think this dude is about to drop dead of SIDS. But the adult version.
Meanwhile in the bunk below me, there is a guy who has been trying to get off for close to two hours. The girl has given him the "are you almost there?" at least 5 times. I want this guy to finish both in self interest and male solidarity. Then a curveball, instead of finishing and falling asleep like a gentleman, this guy gets up to go take a shit.
All the while I've got that damn Flume song in my head and I'm wondering if I will ever get a good night's sleep again. How did we get here...
Wednesday night I boarded my Norweigian Air flight. I was seated between two elderly Finnish people whom I offered to trade seats with several times. They preferred to lean over me the entire flight and tell what I can only imagine were AMAZING stories in their native tongue.
Since I did not order the in flight dinner option, I am treated like an absolute Pariah by the flight attendants, one water and one beer in 12 hours, this is what $350 round trip to Europe gets you.
I watch The Force Awakens (9/10 would watch again) Black Mass (4/10 meh) and 2 episodes of You're the Worst (10/10 must binge) and then I land in Copenhagen. It's raining. Trip not off to a good start.
But as soon as I make it to the hostel things take a turn for the better. I am almost immediately surrounded by non-American English speakers. 2 Scots, 2 Kiwis, 3 Aussies, omg it's just like in movies, you travel alone and make friends. 12 Carlsbergs and 8 games of pool later we're best friends. Anytime I run out of something interesting to say I drop a pop culture reference or ask the group to try an American accent, it kills.
I'm definitely not the coolest one in the group, but obviously I have an ace in the hole, I'm David Moeller, party God. Once we get to the bar I'll show them.
We grab a nice pregame table at our hostel bar, right next to the DJ. They play Toto 'Africa' I am asked if I was in a frat. (duh) There are three cute Canadian girls sitting at the table next to me, I keep looking at them hoping they come say hi. They do not. I do not say hi because I am a coward. Note to self: involve Fireball tomorrow morning and talk to the Canadian girls.
Around midnight I leave the hostel for the first time all day and walk to the bar directly across the street. It is about 200 square feet, but they are playing edm and they have buckets of Jager. For 300 Danish Kroner, this bar will pour an entire bottle of Jager, 4 Red Bulls, and a two pound bag of ice into a bucket. They garnish with 12 straws and tell you to have fun.
These motherfuckers don't even know. It's my time to shine.
Halfway through the first bucket, people were dropping like flies. A gay Danish man wearing sparkles was asking me to dance to Calvin Harris tunes and I was halfway through my second pack of cigarettes.
After the third bucket I was begging the Scots to let me go home. I was trying to hide in the bathroom, but they kept dragging me back to the bucket.
'If you don't finish it mate, you're pouring it on your bloody head!'
At this point I preferred dancing with the gay man.
Mercifully, after bucket 3 we all came home but I was cornered by 3 drunken hostel employees doing their afterhours drinking.
'Hey mate, I heard you say you're on a tv show.'
Ya well, I work on one.
"You're an actor mate?! Someone famous is staying at Generators?"
It would have been very easy to just explain the situation and go to bed, but I just rolled with it.
"Ya, I'm a minor actor on a small network drama in the US."
DAVE THE ACTOR PAYS FOR NO DRINKS AT THE HOSTEL.
So now everyone is under the impression that I'm famous, I still can't sleep, and now I'm remembering that the Scot and I drank 4 buckets of Jagermeister. It's becoming increasingly understandable that he can't cum.
This is going to be a wild week.
Wednesday, April 27, 2016
'No drugs on Thursday.'
It was a pact we had all agreed upon in March, weeks before we made the 150 mile drive east from Santa Monica.
It made sense at the time.
We were, after all, a bunch of twentysomethings closer to 30 than we would like to admit. Our bodies weren't capable of the heroic feats of drinking from college. Gone were the days of week long benders during Little 5, Homecoming, Spring Break, Welcome Week...hell, every week.
At this point in my life, I personally had just enough left in the tank for 3 days and 4 nights. But of course that all went out the window when we left earlier than expected on Thursday, encountered no traffic en route to Indio and somehow pulled up in a camping spot directly next to the Silent Disco at 3pm.
I looked at our van full of beer and knew immediately I would not be able to control myself.
I came out of my first blackout on Friday at one of our patented half time parties. I was wearing a Pikachu onesie and passing around a warm handle of Prestige Vodka to a motley crew of IU bros, Canadians and of course, Masians. (Inland empire raver girls of indeterminate heritage but probably some mixture of Mexican and Asian)
I realized we had been at the festival grounds for less than 24 hours and had already gone through 300 of our 520 beers. Our table was littered with empties after an especially aggressive round of Landmines and a sawed off wiffle ball bat was leaned next to my buddy's 4Runner. Nothing attracts a group of chicks to a campsite like some Louisville Chugger.
A windstorm had destroyed most of the adjacent campsites, and since I had been on 40 mg of Addy when we were pitching camp, we could have survived an F5 tornado. I noticed that I didn't know half the names of the people that had stopped by. Some saw our IU flag, others the Chicago. Some people just heard some people listening to A$AP Rocky and thought it would be fun to say hello.
This was when I first realized, oh ya, I'm at Coachella.
As the night progressed we finally made it to the Jack U show where my main two pick up lines to chicks were "Let's have a cartwheel contest!" and "Do you think Justin Bieber will come out?" I received mixed feedback, some people just can't handle a sweaty, six foot four Pokemon asking them to dance.
Upon making it back to camp at 1am, I realized that the silent disco is not actually silent until 2am or so, and when you're sleeping in a see thru tent there isn't a lot to break the noise. I decided to head over to see if the one piece would be a hit with the after-party strung-out crowd.
Waking up is the worst part of almost any vacation. You feel like shit, you realize how destroyed your living space is and it dawns on you that you are one day closer to going home.
This is multiplied by 10 when there is a hot sun burning down on you, you're covered in a layer of dirt and you inexplicably find blood all over yourself.
It was just the top of my foot, must have tripped over a tent pole.
So I would wander the grounds, faint hints of dubstep coming from campgrounds far away.
Did they go to sleep? I would ask myself. Is there some Long Beach party gene that makes them impervious to deplorable living conditions?
I would usually walk by the shower line about 3 or 4 times before deciding to rub some drinking water on my face and call it a day.
"Just use a baby wipe on your dick if some girl wants to blow you!" Suggested our neighbor Gessica, a Sophomore at Long Beach State. Sage advice from the undergrad.
Then I would wander around the campsite kinda moving shit around, but not quite cleaning, until my buddies would arise from the Jucy Van (an old Dodge minivan converted into a Coachella optimized mini RV)
Around 10 am we would kick around the idea of playing Dodgeball or doing Yoga, some campground sponsored activity but eventually we would say fuck it and dive into a warmish beer waiting for someone to volunteer to run to the general store to buy ice.
Somehow today I'm in an IU cycling kit and people keep asking me if I ride little 5. For the first couple hours I say no, then I start saying yes. Then I get even bolder and tell them that I am a Delt and I won Little 5 LAST WEEK. Me, undergrad Dave the Delt, treated myself to Coachella after singlehandedly winning the biking race.
This story is believed at a rate of 39%
Now I'm running through the beer garden and I am deeply entrenched in a dance battle with a bunch of Swedes. I bust out the exact same dance routine that Will Ferrell uses in the mail room scene in the movie Elf. It kills. They buy me a beer. This is Coachella.
I hit the meat of the festival that night with my boys dressed as absolute savages. On my left were Curious George and The Man in the Yellow Hat. Flanking to my right I had a Cookie Monster and a monkey. I am now wearing nothing but a swimsuit because in the day and a half I've been here I've lost enough weight to look good with my shirt off.
We are all covered in a half dozen flash tats by the time we make it to...Zedd, or was it Disclosure? No maybe there was some guy named Rufus something. No wait, it was Zhu. Ice Cube brought out Dr. Dre and that Grimes girl yells a lot in between songs.
That is my official Saturday recap.
As we are walking back to our camp to set out lawn chairs and smoke cigars, I am randomly offered acid by a stranger because I 'looked like I was having a good time.'
LPT: Dance like a crazy man, get offered free drugs.
Sunday is always sad because although you have a full 33% of your trip left (and the best music) the campsite will start to clear out. A few people will leave as early as 9am to get back to wherever they came from. A guy in my group had a nice 8 hour solo drive to SF waiting for him, something I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. Other people will just start to break down certain parts of their camp to make Monday morning a bit more manageable. I on the other hand, choose to double down.
No one leaves this campsite until all alcohol and drugs are gone.
A quick look of solidarity and we set up a quick game of rage cage in the 90 degree sun.
We go in earlyish today to soak up every last joyous second Indio has to offer. Thomas Jack was probably first, but somehow we ended up over at Matt and Kim, one of my favorite bands. We staged a photoshoot atop some brass lion statues. I gave the camera a thumbs up and a little rave toddler on her dad's shoulders returned my thumbs up. As I hopped off the lion he approached me.
"My daughter thinks you're awesome man."
Ha! That's great, is this her first Coachella?
A pair of girls drag us to trap master Baauer, to which I resist, but quickly accept when I become entrenched in a mid crowd mosh pit under the Sahara tent. Never have I accidentally elbowed so many girls in the face and had them be totally ok with it. In fact, I may have stuck around to try to get the rare mid mosh-pit kiss, but I heard a member of my group shout MAJOR LAZER and again I was sprinting across a polo field, an activity usually reserved for horces. Doing cartwheels like a five year old girl who just finished her first tumbling class, it's no wonder I'm 10 pounds lighter today than what I was Thursday at noon.
Day became dusk, and dusk befell night. I realized my group was starting to pair off with various girls they had met in the crowd. The old me would have taken this as a cue to find a dance partner stat, but I couldn't help just watch the faces of all the people around me and how much fun they were having, it was almost a perfect, absolute bliss.
I get back to the campsite and realize most of my group hadn't made it back. Probably chasing the night at the silent disco or hailing a ride back to some girl's hotel.
I popped over to the Canadian's tent for one more joint before I laid my head down on the Empire polo fields ground one last time.
As I took my last hit and stood to leave, Igor, a Serbian born Vancouverite, stood to shake my hand.
"So Dave, see you next year?"
I let the words echo around in my head a bit and at that moment for maybe the first time all week I was absolutely present. I had let all this #lastchella nonsense get to my head. Turning 30 is not a death sentence, in fact the best part of Coachella is the seamless blending of cultures in one big celebration. Just this week I had partied with old, young, foreign, domestic...hell, I didn't know half of my OWN camping party when I signed up for this and now we leave friends for life.
"Ya Igor...weekend two, 1003rd and Main. See ya there."
And then I laid down as the (never) silent disco, played me to sleep with one last opus.
"SOS. We're at a hotel in Indio. Plz send help."
I haphazardly shoved all of our shit into the Jucy van and hit the road. Out of my initial group of six, only two woke up at the campground the last morning. We braved the hour long traffic to the gate, all the while watching people abandon entire campgrounds in favor of a quicker trip to McDonald's and then home. Although the mood was definitely a bit more somber, there were still residual smiles stuck to everyone's face and I swear I saw at least one guy still drinking a beer.
We got to Indio to pick up the rest of the squad and swapped a few stories before dropping about 40 bucks on some McDonald's breakfast. Then there was a bit of a lull before someone said, so how about that fucking weekend? Let's blast some tunes.
Grimes (the girl that screams sometimes) and good conversation got us all the way back to LA.
I was dropped off in Venice around 3pm. Looked at my bank account and shuddered, then watched Game of Thrones on my iPhone and went to bed.
Tuesday, I drank about 3 gallons of water and showered three times, the last of my flash tats coming off at around 7pm. Then at 8, I clipped off my wristband. Coachella 2016 was officially over. I hope I go back with the exact same crew next year.
From 9-11pm I put the finishing touches on a pilot that I was supposed to send the showrunner of Rosewood. If he likes it, he'll put me in the writer's room in some capacity for season 2. Shouts to my unofficial management team Dana and Anna, you guys rock.
Then at 1130, exhausted, I tried to go to bed.
I couldn't sleep Tuesday night because I had so much anxiety over my impending trip to Copenhagen. I had decided, shamefully, to cancel. My flight was only about $400, I was physically in no shape to continue any sort of partying/adventure. I would just pull the plug just as my fellow travelers had a few days before.
But then I checked my Facebook. I forgot that I had thrown up a status right before I went for a pitifully short run asking people if I should go.
About 50 of my friends responded with some version of 'yes.'
So I got online and booked the shittiest hostel I could find, found the 4 sweaters I own and threw them in a backpack. Now in about 2 hours I'll be walking to a bus stop and heading to the airport. (Riding the bus helps me mentally prepare for Europe)
There are always going to be five reasons NOT to do something for every one reason that there is. But that doesn't mean you need to listen to logic. Life is an adventure and following my heart hasn't gotten me into too much trouble yet. So off I go on a solo adventure to Scandinavia,
It's now Wednesday at about 2pm. The #Lastchella group chat is still going strong. Someone is missing their shower kit and someone slept through work today, but 72 hours later it's apparent that everyone is still riding the wave of euphoria from the weekend. I hope this chat stays active for months...only thing is; it's going to need a new name.
Friday, April 15, 2016
I had one of my fashion forward friends visit last weekend and we went to lunch with a girl I used to date.
"How are you guys friends? He walks around in shorts and sandals and calls everyone brah?"
"Ya, that's most of my friends, I'm just the only one that cares about how they dress."
So there is some anecdotal evidence that I do not know how to dress myself. My wardrobe consists entirely of care packages and Christmas presents from my mom, mashed up with free t shirts remaining from college.
It's likely why I am wearing a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles shirt right now. LOL I have an interview today.
But that's in the real world. Festival fashion is a totally different beast. Festival fashion is like taking a frat closet and dousing it in LSD. Last year I famously did a Coachella pink out. I wore a Troop 444 boy scout uniform to Lollapalooza 2011. This past Snowglobe I acquired a blue leisure suit and my crown jewel, a Pikachu onesie.
Festival fashion is an advanced form of peacocking. You want to look cool, fun and approachable, but never too self serious. It's like a real life Bumble profile. You want to make it so women approach you and start the conversation (because obviously talking to chicks is really hard and scary.)
This guide will be a masterclass in what to wear to Coachella in both a practical manner and a way to maximize your experience. I have tried some of these and others I have just cooked up after eating too many edibles, proceed with caution and remember to always go big.
I am going to write this from the point of view of a camper because if you rented a sick house in Palm Desert, chances are you've already got a group of 14, hopefully even numbers and you're probably just going to hook up with one of your housemates. But if you roll up to the campground early Thursday evening, the possibilities are endless.
Camping at Coachella is a bit like getting a random roommate in college. And while my roommate and I never talked to each other and he covered our apartment with posters of himself; I've never had bad neighbors at Coachella. In fact both years I had cute girls that actively wanted to fornicate with me, it's great.
What is important Thursday night/Friday morning is laying seeds. You want to go BIG, you want to be MEMORABLE. A Hawaiian shirt with a bucket hat isn't quite going to cut it. This is like working at Chachkies and you need at least 37 pieces of flash tat.
The group costume:
A classic standby of Halloween and Bachelor parties alike, the group costume is great for a multitude of reasons. It's easy for people to tell you have friends and it's harder to get lost. As I covered earlier, I obviously am going to lose my phone. But imagine rolling up to Major Lazer and asking a random group of chicks, 'Hey have you seen 5 other Hulk Hogans?' Ya sure, they are right over there rolling their faces off.
Of course there are a few different ways to pull this off. Like the aforementioned example and my Dublin bar crawl you could all dress like Hulk Hogan. Conversely, you could dress like the NWO or the Wolfpack. I tend to pick things from the 90's that I secretly liked but what embarrassed to enjoy.
Examples: boy bands, power rangers, pokemon, wrestling. I promise you if you dress like the blue ranger on Friday, you will get your dick sucked, there is just no way around it.
On the other hand, I am nervous about rattling off three pokemon onesies because the desert is hot as fuck and the only thing girls find more repellant than a boring outfit is sweat.
These are the risks you run when dressing like an asshole.
Anyway start strong Friday, cover every conceivable inch of your body with flash tats, if a girl wants to draw body paint on you, say yes. If you have body hair, shave it.
Day 2 is a day to improve and expand on your conquests the day before. You will wake up already drunk at 6am and hopefully you will now be fast friends with your entire campsite. It is not uncommon to have a 48 person flip cup game going by 8am.
But how do you make sure all the fly bitches inside remember you? Obviously they had fun taking pictures with you in your Charmander one piece yesterday, but if you don't keep that momentum going, it was all for not.
In improv there is a rule that once you establish a game, you roll with it the whole time. So if you decide that on Friday you guys are rolling with a group costume, you group costume every day.
OR…you rock a theme.
Let's say you're rolling with 10 people. Obviously there were not 10 original power rangers. I'm sure there is like a Silver Ranger is the 7th Japanese manga spin off, but being the silver ranger would be like painting your chest with the second exclamation point in GO TEAM!!! Everyone knows the second exclamation point was a bitch.
So you roll with something much more open and inclusive…the theme.
Something like PARTY VAMPIRES. Raved out to the max but also with fake teeth and copious amounts of fake blood. The type of Hello Kitty, cosplaying nerd chick you would attract with this theme would make a 13 year old version of you premature in your pants. But group costumes like this also allow you to get into character. Who doesn't want to strut around the polo grounds behaving exactly like Kiefer Sutherland in Lost Boys.
Obviously you don't have to go THAT far, but something other than 90's would be appreciated. Give a little effort for God's sake. My group is kicking around a weirdly specific theme for one day called 'dad casual' in which we wear open hawaiian shirts, cargo shorts, flip flops and calf high socks. (I don't know about this outfit, it seems that it would only attract girls with daddy issues, plus I'm about 8 pounds overweight at the moment)
But that's the right train of thought. Again, you want your group to be instantly recognizable. You want girls to be thinking at their pre game, I wonder what the Homestar Runner guys will be dressed up as today.
If those girls meet up with you and then they see you and say "oh what's your theme today?"
And you come up with something lame like "uh, we're all wearing black because we are all going to black out…"
Be advised: No dry hand jobs for you.
It's the last day, it's time to pull out all stops. If you don't close today you're gonna have to make some shit up like the girl you finger banged in the hot tub on spring break.
(If every middle school story is to be believed there are SO many chicks that got anonymously fingered in hot tubs in between 1999-2002)
But have no fear, you saved the best for last. You have your secret weapon you have…THE SUNDAY OUTFIT.
The Sunday outfit is the thing that will break necks. It will net you 100+ IG likes, it will be your new Facebook profile pic for the next 6 months. It is the picture that will have girls swiping right.
My friend Nick wears a black shirt every Sunday with the face of 57 year old British Soul singer Sade. He calls is Sade Sundays. Sade Sundays have been stalking Coachella for 5 years now, it's nearly an institution at this point.
Some people will run out of clothes by Sunday and wear next to nothing. Some people will just walk into the festival grounds in a swimsuit and pass out under some shade.
NOT YOU. You are prepared. You have…
The secret weapon:
Here's the thing, if you killed on Friday AND on Saturday, all 200,000 people at the festival will be wondering what you have up your sleeve. One final trick, like a band coming out for their encore to bring the house down. You will be tasked with the near impossible act of raising the bar on yourself, again.
Imagine if you dressed as a Charmander Friday, Charmaleon on Saturday and then as a GOD DAMN CHARIZARD on Sunday. My God there would be Buzzfeed articles about you. You might get a picture with Taylor Swift. 'T Swift lets her inner nerd girl show w pokemon selfie!'
Just remember, Sunday is where you cement your legacy. The Warriors can go 73-9 but if they lose to the Spurs, they won't be shit. You certainly don't want to be Jordan Speith choking on the 13th. The Coachella equivalent would probably be something like passing out at the Sahara tent.
I cannot tell you what to wear Sunday, it has to come from within. It's like the end of Angels in the Outfield, I CANNOT WIN THIS ONE FOR YOU. Come Monday morning you will inevitably feel sad because of all of the substances leaving your body but you do not want to double down on that by feeling you didn't leave it all out their on the court.
When you are scrubbing 3 days of dirt, sweat, blood, tattoos and paint off of your body Monday during your 78 minute shower I want you to know that you gave it all. Remember heroes last forever…but legends never die.
Have fun out there everyone.
Thursday, April 14, 2016
I have a full week before I head toward the desert. Like so many poor people before me, I realized I could save a couple hundred bucks going on the second weekend. It will also give me 7 days to find some sort of device that renders my phone UNLOSABLE! I'm considering a work out style armband. Or maybe just fusing it to a brick that weighs like 40 pounds.
Oh fuck it, who am I kidding? I'm going to lose my phone again. I should just build that $250 into the budget. Add a new line item right in between acid and DMT. Sunk costs.
A few weeks ago, I did a post called 'Should you go to Coachella?" Since the answer was obviously yes, now I'm going to do a music guide based entirely on my experience with these artists, if it worked for me it should work for you. Let's dive in.
What is it: EDM
Should I go? Yes
Jack U is Skrillex and Diplo. I have probably seen them both individually 30 times. The most recent time was in Lake Tahoe. The show was dope and then I woke up in a hot tub. A hot tub is a phenomenal place to come out of a black out. A hot tub is just a great place to be in general. We should all make an effort to spend more time in hot tubs. Also there is a 99% chance they will bring out the god Justin Bieber.
What is it: EDM
Should I go? Yes
Diplo, again!!! Last time I was at a Major Lazer concert this is what happened. I took a train from Culver City to USC and drank an entire liter of Jack Daniel's Honey. I then asked permission and was granted by the USC alumni association to throw an ice luge down a flight of stairs. Shortly thereafter I took a city bus to a Popeye's chicken. From there I walked to LA Center Studios for a Major Lazer concert. There was an open bar, it was also 95 degrees out. I kept trying to dance with girls but they would rebuke me on account of sweat.
When the heat rose to 98 degrees, I stopped sweating. This is a sign of heat stroke, but girls no longer refused to dance with me. Moral of the story. No half measures, either stay cool or push yourself to the limit.
Matt and Kim
What is it: Electro pop
Should I go? Fuck Yes
I am not a music blogger. I could barely be considered a travel blogger. Similar to Tyrion, I drink and know things. But after a Matt and Kim concert I felt obligated to write about how awesome it was. I went on a Monday night and had two beers, and still managed to have more fun than I have at almost any show. Matt and Kim music will increase your vertical by 2 inches on account of you jumping up and down like a pogo stick all night.
If you see one act at Coachella, go to Matt and Kim.
What is it: EDM
Should I go? No
Last time I saw Flume I was on vacation with a couple drug dealers. Do not vacation with drug dealers. I was bedridden for a week watching the movie Divergent on repeat. Anyway, I saw Flume at midnight 2014/2015 and had to be carried back to my ski cabin. We had major New Year's plans of drinking mimosas and watching college football/winter classic all day.
That did not come to pass. Instead I laid on the floor all day as people brought me water and pieces of bread. That was the 2nd time in my life I experienced symptoms of alcohol withdrawal. This past year I saw WhatSoNot at midnight at the same venue, same festival and experienced the same symptoms on January 1st.
WhatSoNot is a member of Flume. Coincidence? I think not. Go see Sia or Miike Snow instead. It seems safer.
What is it: Rap
Should I go? Yes
One time I went out with one of my black friends in LA. We were out at a bar having a decent time. Per usual, when I am uncomfortable, I drank a lot. Then the song 'Wild for the Night' came on and I knew all the words. I rapped them loudly. And then I started dancing like a mad man.
The black people were very impressed and they accepted me based on my impressive A$AP knowledge.
If you too want to ever be accepted by a group that is a little different than you, you should go to this show. Also 'Fuckin problems' is one of the best songs ever and leaves the door open for Kendrick and Drake to stop by.
Run the Jewels
What is it: EDM/Rap/Trap
Should I go? Yes
Run the Jewels has an album called 'Meow the Jewels' where they take all of their biggest songs and replace all of the words with 'meow.' If that doesn't appeal to you, I cannot help you.
What is it: EDM
Should I go? Naw
I went to a Disclosure show once and it sucked. Only one of them showed up. They played that Sam Smith song and it's not even really fun anymore. Also one of the guys I was with sat in dog shit. There is no coming back from that.
Zhu/RL Grime/Purity Ring
What is it: EDM/EDM/Electro Pop
Should I go? Uh, sure?
I have seen all three of these acts and remember nothing. Sources close to me tell me that we had fun though. So take that for what it's worth.
What is it: Let's be honest…Pop
Should I go? Ya, why not?
I saw Zedd at the Aragon ballroom and there was severe substance abuse involved. I fit 4 of my friends in a hotel room with one Queen sized bed and then we had an after party with 10 chicks. I am nostalgic for this kind of irresponsibility.
The next day, my roommate went to O'Hare and brought the wrong wallet, so I had to brave an epic hangover to drive to Rosemont at 9 o clock in the morning. I was so dejected afterward that I just decided to continue to Milwaukee. Nothing some beer and cheese can't fix.
Guns N Roses
What is it: Classic Rock
Should I go: Definitely
I have never been to a GnR show but I went to ACDC last year and they seem GNR-adjacent.
My friend Kevin and I played the Thunderstruck drinking game while the band played Thunderstruck.
That was cool.
What is it: EDM
Should I go: I guess
Two years ago Calvin Harris had the exact same slot, Sunday night closer. I was so dead that my friends Nick and Meg would carry me stage to stage and then lay me on the ground to sleep. When Calvin was on his closer a raver girl tripped over me, waking me up. I stood up, she profusely apologized and then said "hey, you're kinda cute, do you believe in fate?"
I shrugged my shoulders and then we proceeded to make out for the last song. If that isn't a Coachella meet cute, I don't know what is.
This will be my last Coachella, it may be yours too. As always, make it count!
Wednesday, April 13, 2016
The first time I ever booted up America Online 2.0 (early adopter!) and jumped into a chat room, I was hooked. It no longer mattered that I hadn't been invited outside with the neighbor kids to play Ghost in the Graveyard, because I had 39 friends to talk about the Indiana Pacers with.
Over the years, I got my first screen name, downloaded AIM, left super emo away messages, put song lyrics in my profile. I was sub-tweeting before it was a fucking thing.
"Just wish some people wouldn't break promises…"
Did you try to use any of these? Lol, they were mine.
Finally in high school I settled on TenaciousD05. A girl in my school tried to fight me for it because she claimed her nickname was 'tenacious.' I didn't even know what the word meant, I just knew that Tenacious D was a band that everyone seemed to like and that my name was David. Also i graduated in 2005. It worked on several different levels.
I spent 99% of free time on the web dropping hot lines like "Sup, not much u?" and "A/S/L/P4P" like I was a tortured teen in a Ready Player One-esque dystopian society. I remember the pang of excitement I would get in the pit of my stomach every time I heard a creaking door sound, OMG MAYBE THE GIRL I LIKE JUST LOGGED IN!
I would dabble in a few other chat based clients of the day, ICQ, MIRc and Yahoo to name a few, but then I got a cell phone and everything died out for a while in favor of texts.
I got to college and became cool and for the first time, living in the real world was preferable to hanging out online. I could pick up a bottle of vodka and invite over some chicks and discover what REAL fun is.
This of course all changed with the advent of the Smart Phone, once I got my first Blackberry curve, I was tracking down every sorority girl's PIN and BBMing the shit out of her at 2 in the morning. Hell, I wouldn't even have the common decency to say 'you up?' I just PING!!!d her straight away because I knew it would make her phone vibrate.
Blackberry died and now we are all on iMessage, Snapchat, kik, What'sAPP or some other mobile based chat client, but that's just in our personal lives. We each have 40+ hours a week that we are forced to stare at a computer screen. Obviously the thirst doesn't stop just because we are staring at spread sheets, so let's launch an investigation about office communicators and what it says about you…
-G Chat…the OG
There was a time when I thought getting a girl's PIN was the holy grail, but nothing would light my spirits on fire more than seeing the small notification hot firstname.lastname@example.org has invited you to chat.
I would say probably half the relationships I have been in since 2010 started on Gchat. The smooth interface, the illusion that you are merely checking emails, the fact that you can throw fire at multiple chicks at once NOT TO MENTION web 1.0 emojis. On Gchat I feel very comfortable. I also can say hello to friends, acquire information from people and of course hide with the classic Do Not Disturb option. Gchat is not the sexiest client on this list, but it's the most mainstream and functional. I will always fuck around with new chat clients but I will always stay loyal to Gchat.
Unless they try to force me onto hangouts again, fuck that.
-Facebook communicator…for the one who gives zero fucks.
Facebook communicator is essentially the same as Gchat but it runs through Facebook and syncs with most phones. In a bind, it is a surefire way to get a message to someone whether they are at their computer or on the go. Also, every single one of your 2,000 Facebook friends is on it in some capacity. You can share photos, create groups, it's great…
…but for the fact that your employer may not love you just hanging out on Facebook all day. Obviously stalking your ex girlfriend's 'adult spring break' photos is more exciting than staring at emails from Rob in IT begging you to change your password in light of the Sony hack, but some degree of subtlety is always key in the chat game.
I am not into video chat. I have probably done in three times total in my life; once to talk to my family when I was abroad, twice when girls had agreed to chat with me topless. Skype definitely had a moment late in college, and it still might be used for people abroad, but with the advent of FaceTime it really has become a dinosaur. That said, according to the 3 people I surveyed at my dinner party last week, it is a thing that people use for general chat still. I think using Skype is essentially like using What'sAPP domestically, you want people to know you travel internationally a lot and you're just like used to using this.
Oh…good for you. Also while on the subject of video chat, recently a lot of my slightly younger friends started FaceTiming me instead of calling (ew) or texting. Do not do this. I do not want to see your face, I do not want you to see mine. If you are trying to get me to come somewhere and I don't seem to want to go just send me a picture of drugs. It will work.
-Desktop enabled iMessage..no separation of church and state
There is a difference between texting someone and the stream of conscious ramblings of chat. The problem with people that do desktop iMessage is that it blurs this line. Let's say you are trying to fuck someone. You would never in a million years send more than 2 texts in a row. That rule doesn't apply on chat, I will fire off 17 lines in a row, I will tell fucking novels, because I treat it more like us hanging out than I do me pursuing you.
I also don't feel the need to always respond to a chat, yet if you don't respond to a text you're SUCH A DICK. THese worlds play by different rules and when you mash them up, it confuses me. Sure, maybe it's easy for you to have a fluid account of our entire correspondence but I didn't agree to this shit.
-Proprietary work communicator/office communicator…dummies
This is going to shock you, but one time when I still had a corporate job in Chicago, I hooked up with a coworker. Sometimes when I was bored I would say things to her on out OCS like 'hey want to do a bunch of X at a Deadmau5 concert tonight?' Or 'Can i have a bj in the copy room really quick please?'
Now at the time I think twice about whether an IT guy was monitoring all of this. But the day HR sat me down and read over 200 passages from this blog to me and then basically said 'Plato o plomo' I knew that they had probably seen those chats.
Do not have sex with coworkers. Do not do drugs. If you are going to do either (or both!) don't talk about it on work software!
-Slack…the new champion
When I was 15, I fixed up an old Windows 95 laptop and snuck out to the electronics store to buy a 40 foot phone cord. Every night I would wait up until midnight when everyone was asleep, run the 56k phone line from my room to the office, and log online. I built a crazy silencing system (essentially four pillows smothering the modem) so no one could hear me log on. I would then spend 3 hours talking to this chick from New Palestine, IN and we would talk about secretly meeting up and getting to second base. It was about the most thrilling thing in my life.
Then I discovered Slack….and holy shit is it cool. Slack is just a great place to hang out with friends, make fun of each other, drop silly gifs and obviously program the SlackBot to talk shit about everyone. It's A+ time waster.
Seriously, in my slack the other day we got into a heated discussion on what is the proper way of rating girls.
(Area code system…0-9 for body, 0-9 for face, and 0 or 1 for yes or no…a good number would be like 881)
(job interview scale…hard pass, soft pass, soft yes, hard yes…obviously a soft pass can turn into a soft yes with enough alcohol. Comments like that are why people think rape culture exists.)
Slack makes me feel cool, it makes me feel ahead of the curve. Start ups use slack! I bet most Apple users are on it.
So there we got, I crown thee Slack champion of the daytime communicator software, the place where I can countdown the seconds until the /giphy weekend!
Friday, April 8, 2016
Privilege Warning: Do not read on if your dad makes less than a $100,000 a year. Or do, I really don't give a fuck.
"Do you guys want to go to Aspen?"
It was the winter of 2010, a few days before President's day weekend. I was working a dead end job in IT sales. Hunter and Jake were working for a bank that was failing in North America, every day inching closer and closer to getting shipped abroad.
I checked my bank account and say that I had roughly $500 to my name, but I had other assets. I had some Nike stock left over from high school, a government savings bond left over from my brother's birth. (The older sibling is often forgotten when a new baby is born, don't forget them!) I also had about $60 in crumpled up bills on my dresser and $138 in my HSA account. This is money that you are supposed to use for prescriptions and over the counter health expenditures. I typically used it for cigarettes when I was broke.
This was certainly a trip that would positively effect my mental health.
Through all of this I was able to amass $937. This was good enough for a $250 round trip flight on Frontier, 3 days of lift tickets, beer money and cash for like one nice dinner.
Hunter and Jake were able to take a reputable airline like American because they had real jobs that paid above minimum wage. When I got to the Snowmass club, they told me about this Czech guy they had sat next to on the plane. He had been nervous because he had snuck on something illegal onto the plane. He wouldn't tell them what it was, but invited them and their entire party to dinner the following night.
Strange as it may sound, this isn't exactly rare. Older rich white people love to talk to younger rich white people on vacation and invite them to do things. I was invited to fly a helicopter one time in South Padre, Texas. I was invited to go spear fishing in Fort Lauderdale once.
Of course, you never go. It's the alcohol talking, the guy doesn't really want to teach me to spear fish.
But Jake is nuts and decided to take this guy up on his offer. So we go to Matsuhisa with this strange Czech man and his wife, along with Jake's parents, brother, sister and her 3 friends.
We're all having a good time when the Czech man summons the chef over to our table and hands him an envelope. I didn't know if it was a wad of cash, drugs or something even more sinister.
When it's time for desert the chef brings out 10 mugs of tea.
"Now wait. Before you drink this, I need you to know what it is. This tea has been infused with pufferfish fins, it's one of the strongest hallucinogens in the world. An improper dosage can prove fatal, but this chef is one of 14 men in the world certified to make this infused tea."
Most of our party passed, but Jake, Hunter and I had finished our cup before our host had stopped speaking. He and his wife laughed and drank their tea as well.
"Now my friends, I am going to take you for a night of good drinks and good company at the Caribou Club."
I didn't know what to expect. The whole night was starting to have a Eyes Wide Shut vibe to it. I knew the Caribou Club was some sort of Member's Only social club, but I was unsure if some sort of orgy or sacrificial cult awaited me. All I knew was that if asked for a password, I was rolling with 'Fidelio.'
We got to the club and sat with our benefactor. Turns out, he was old money and just kind of spent his life traveling around the world, investing in restaurants and hanging out. We drank some expensive cocktails, pranced around the dance floor under a light ecstasy-esque euphoria until we decided that we would leave to go to Eric's the dive bar next door. Caribou Club was fine, but Eric's was where we belonged, ripping shots, cheap cigars and sweaty bar make outs with Australian girls.
The moral of the story is, the forbidden fruit isn't always that great, but I'm sure the Czech dude and his wife fucking love it. Conversely, they probably wouldn't excel at a dive bar. I'm perfectly fine with them hanging out at their member's only club that refuses the likes of slobs like me, I certainly would never protest their right to have fun with the people they want to.
And that's why I just don't understand what the fuck happened at Dartmouth today…
Apparently, a Dartmouth sorority used to throw a Kentucky Derby themed rager every year. I imagine their were mint juleps, horse racing themed drinking games, big hats, hell they might have even done the port o potty run thing.
In my estimation this is just kids having good clean fun. Sure it was invite only, as are all dances. Yet some liberal fucktards felt the need to protest this event because of 'elitism.'
As if the Greek System needed any help in dying a quicker death, now people have run out of acceptable excuses to boycott them and are just making shit up.
If having a dance is 'elite,' what the fuck is next I ask you? No high school prom? Everyone gets a date? The participation trophy generation has taken this shit too far.
I will never be a member of Augusta, because I'm not good enough. And you know what? That's ok. I would like to be. I aspire to be. But I won't be.
But I sure as shit won't be the butthurt SJW that spoils everyone else's fun. Do you know why?
Because I aspire to be great one day and when I am, I don't want everyone to be invited. Elitism is aspirational, elitism is attainable. I am a middle class kid, but I could conceivably become the next great American novelist or perhaps invent a crazy start up.
So too could these shit heads befriend a girl in KDE and score an invite to their Derby party. True confession I always wanted to go to Kappa Kapture but it never happened. I did not protest the event. I tried harder to befriend Kappas.
The great irony of the situation is that Dartmouth is an Ivy League school, which is by definition surrounded by Elitist fucks, so the people protesting are the dreaded self-loathing upper class.
GAHHHH WHITE GUILT WAHHHHHHHHH.
Just go ahead and shut it down now guys. In the future, playdates will be banned. Facebook Friends will be outlawed. We'll be living in a dystopian society where everyone loves everyone and we're all winners.
Unfortunately, that is a fantasy in which everyone loses.
Go fuck yourself Dartmouth students! And if anyone wants to hang out later I'll be appropriating Arab culture and throwing an Arabian Nights party to memorialize the death of my own fraternity.
Thursday, April 7, 2016
Elissa's hair was purple today. It varied on a weekly basis. She was the real life embodiment of Kate Winslet's character from Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Elissa had started the season as a PA but now she had somehow ascended the ranks to Key Costumer. David was sure the fact that her dad was a big time television director had nothing to do with the promotion.
"I don't know, it looks like a pretty common water bottle or maybe I just saw another one of your signs."
Dejected, David slumped his shoulders.
"Wait a minute, what are you doing up here? You never come to the writer's office!"
"I came to get you for your fitting silly!"
David had completely forgotten, in his water bottle panic, it had slipped his mind that he had agreed to appear on camera on the show's season finale. He was ironically going to be playing a DJ. Well a cop that was DJ'ing the policemen's ball.
"Oh, right that."
David had insisted that he thought his regular Earth tones would be sufficient for the role. Elissa thought he would look better in a policeman's dress uniform.
"And why don't you shave your beard and leave the mustache? Then you'll look like a real life cop!"
A real life cop, ha, the thought amused David. At 6 foot 1 160 pounds, he would not oft be mistaken as a man in blue. Perhaps as a Silverlake hipster going to a costume party but never an actual police officer.
David walked into the costume dressing room. The costume PA, Alex was belting out the chorus of "Music of the Night" from Andrew Lloyd Weber's The Phantom of the Opera. He didn't notice David come in for over a minute.
"Floating, falling, sweet intoxication. Tocuh me Trust me. Savour each SSENSA- Oh shit. Sorry. You're here for your fitting?"
"Uh, ya. You a big fan of musicals?" David asked.
"I have seen Phantom of the Opera 74 times."
"Cool, I was in Les Mis once."
"Were you Marius? You would be SUCH a good Marius."
"Oh." Alex couldn't mask his disappointment, "Here throw this on."
David put on his outfit, he looked ridiculous. Why had he agreed to go on camera? That was quality office time he was missing out on. Time that could be better spent looking for his goddam water bottle.
David walked upstairs now in a policeman's uniform. He was looking in drawers, snooping through offices. Crawford, the writers' PA saw David dressed as a cop and started to wonder if he was truly losing his mind.
Thursday started with auspicious news. The office dog Rita had caught her toe on an escalator. There were rumors that she would lose the paw. Everyone was devastated. Due to the rain, it took longer than usual for David to get downtown to the set.
It was the last day of shooting on season 1. It was cause for celebration. Around lunchtime news came of a season 2 renewal. David knew he was up for a staff writer job and should be really excited, but he kept coming back to the water bottle.
At wrap, all the cast and crew were hugging and celebrating the end of their long 9 month journey together. People kept approaching David to make sure they would see him at the wrap party.
"Ya, sure…I'll be there probably."
David walked back to his car and drove back toward Venice when he received a text.
"Is this it?" It was a text from Katie.
David nearly drove off the side of the road.
On the screen staring back at him in all of it's glory was a stainless steel water bottle with a very significant chip of paint missing.
Katie had been walking to the kitchen to get her daily bag of White Cheddar Cheez-its and noticed a water bottle on the drying rack. It had DEFINITELY not been there when she stopped by earlier to make a ginger tea.
She retrieved the water bottle and walked briskly to her desk to take a photo and send it to her distressed friend David.
"It is! It is! Where did you find it? What happened?"
So much for not asking questions…
Word spread quickly around the office that the water bottle had been found. Nate, the line producer's assistant was especially upset.
"My girlfriend knows Starlee Kine, the host of the Mystery Show podcast. It would've made for a great episode."
The general mood around the office though was relief.
"Does that mean those stupid signs are finally coming down?" Inquired 2nd Assistant Accountant Emily.
David diverted his path from Venice toward the Manhattan Beach offices. He wasn't taking any chances.
Katie took one last glance at the bottle before calling it a night. Post Ranch Inn Big Sur. "Huh, I wonder what was so sentimental about that water bottle…"
The Post Ranch Inn is a five star hotel located on the bluffs of Big Bear. If you wanted a room on the night of April 18th it would cost you $980. One Yelper said "The Tree Houses were separate enough from each other to allow more maximum privacy and seclusion." Another said "I don't even know where to begin."
On Monday, March 28th, Emmy Award winning television director Eric Launeville was hungover. He had just finished directing episode 21, his second of the season. He had planned some time off for himself, he was on a vacation of sorts, but he had forgotten that he wanted to go in Monday and review some dailies.
He thought about canceling, but that would be unprofessional. He couldn't believe how late he had stayed up the night before, watching zombie movies and drinking whiskey. It had seemed fun at the time, fun that he was paying for dearly now.
He showed up to the editing bay at around 10am. Jimmy was waiting for him with a very rough editor's cut. Eric excused himself to the kitchen before they screened it. Eric looked at the water cooler. It was full, but next to it were those pesky 6 ounce dixie cups. He filled one up and drank it quickly. He filled it again.
This simply would not do. Eric scanned the room for something larger that he could fill with water. There was a small coffee mug by the sink, a plastic cup and then out of the corner of his eye on the drying rack he saw a gold, stainless steel water bottle.
'Is it weird to borrow a water bottle?' Eric thought to himself. Nah, plus whomever the water bottle belonged to would understand. Everyone has been hungover before. Eric filled the water bottle with ice cold water and returned to the editing bay.
After the screening Eric excused himself to the rest room. While Jimmy was cleaning out partially in the dark he noticed Eric's now empty water bottle and went ahead and tossed it in his bag. Eric didn't realize he had accidentally stolen the water bottle until he got home.
Whatever, it's a cheap water bottle from the hotel gift shop. No one will miss it. He tossed the water bottle in his back seat and thought nothing of it.
The next week Eric was brought in for some reshoots of his episode. He was feeling good now. Everyone was feeling good. Word on the street was that Rosewood was likely to get picked up for a second season. That probably meant a couple more paychecks for Eric. He could use them too. The renovation bill on his house was starting to add up quite a bit.
He was all smiles walking through the writer's office. He wanted to have a quick word with his editor when he saw the sign. All the color drained from his face.
"I won't ask questions just please return it."
Eric had stolen an assistant's water bottle. My god, the Post Ranch Inn, it's one of the nicest hotels in the world. OF COURSE HE WANTS IT BACK.
Eric was on edge the rest of the day. How could he tell David he had taken the water bottle. Of course it was an honest mistake. But would he be judged? A grown man can't get away with 'I was hungover so I stole your water bottle.' No, he needed a plan.
The next day the show was renewed officially for season 2 and Eric knew what he had to do.
"Eric, what are you doing here? Working on your cut of 121? Sorry, Todd is on set but Jimmy is probably back there." Katie was alone in the office the only one to greet him.
"No, I uh…did you know I own a restaurant?"
"Well I just wanted to bring y'all a little Louisiana gumbo to congratulate everyone on season 2."
Katie found a place for the red beans and rice that Eric had brought by. While she did this he slipped into the kitchen, opened his bag and returned the water bottle to the drying rack he had found in 10 days previous.
With that he was gone.
Katie looked for Eric to thank him one more time for the food, but decided to just grab a bag of her White Cheddar Cheez its instead. She walked into the kitchen and saw a water bottle staring her in the face.
Eric peeled out past the gate of Manhattan Beach Studios and smirked. "He will never know."
But now, at this very moment, it was looking like Dave might be the key to finding David's water bottle.
"Who was here on Monday?"
The details of Dave's origin story were murky. He had showed up around episode 6, David didn't know a lot about him other than he also lived in Venice. They had once waited for carry-out together at Mao's, a Chinese establishment off of Pacific. He thought he had heard Dave say that he was from Indiana. Did David know anyone that went there? Maybe. Maybe Purdue.
He couldn't remember much of what they had talked about. Coachella, they discussed Coachella. Maybe Dave mentioned he also wanted to be a writer.
In reality Dave had taken this job in a pinch after he had gone on a month long vacation through Europe and then spent his last dollar at a wedding in Bloomington. He had expected to work on Rosewood for a couple days before starting as a writer's assistant on another show that had been cancelled before he could start.
His 'couple of days' had turned into six months.
"Harmony's kid was here on Monday."
Harmony was the post production coordinator and she had a 6 year old first grader. LA schools had been out the previous week for Spring Break but that Spring Break had inexplicably spilled into the next Monday causing a child care problem for lots of working adults. Harmony had brought her daughter to work with her and set her up in an unoccupied office…of the third floor.
"So you think Harmony's child stole my water bottle?"
"I dunno man, stealing a water bottle seems fairly inconsiderate and kids are dicks."
The burn out surfer bro had a point. Children ARE dicks. That said, one could not go accusing children of misdemeanors and David didn't have much of a relationship with Harmony in the first place. He decided to do what any self conscious 32 year old would do; make a passive aggressive sign.
Someone "borrowed" my water bottle from the writer's kitchen on the 3rd floor this past Monday.
It has sentimental value to me. It'd really like it back.
I won't ask questions, just please return it.
Sincerely, David (Writer's Assistant)
Pleased with his snarky tone and obviously unaware of his horrible grammatical error, David printed dozens of these signs. He posted them all over the third floor, second floor, hell he even took a few to set. He would tell anyone who would listen about the crime that had been committed against him.
This was all a ruse though, he had his suspect and hoped this would flush her out.
Three more days passed though and nothing happened. The production office had started playing darts on his sign, clearly they were not appreciating the severity of the situation.
David started more aggressively interrogating the editors, hoping word would get to Harmony's daughter or at least Harmony about how much he loved this water bottle.
No one knew where the water bottle was and people were starting to think David was a little emotionally unstable.
"If I just buy you a new water bottle will you shut the fuck up?" Asked cool Victor with the socks.
"It's not the money man, it's the sentimental value…"
David wondered if he should offer a reward. Kids are dicks, but also five dollars is a King's ransom to a child.
Everyone was starting to look guilty to him. David would walk into a room and see people whispering, only to stop upon his entrance.
What about Dave downstairs? Why was he so quick to throw a toddler under the bus? Maybe to distract from the obvious assailant? Dave did also live in Venice by the way, maybe he was the culprit of the package theft too! The motive…maybe bitter at David's writing success or possibly their name similarity? Who knows, Dave did look like an 80's bully. That should be proof enough!
David's phone buzzed. It was Joel Kinnaman asking about basketball on Saturday. How does one tell Robocop that he can't think about Saturday when his precious water bottle is missing.
Just then Katie walked by, "Hey David is Dj Cutty Snark still playing the wrap party?"
"GOD DAMMIT, NO KATIE I TOLD YOU MAC EL CAPITAN IS NOT COMPATIBLE WITH MY OLD VERSION OF PRO TOOLS!"
Katie, 7 months pregnant, was extremely taken aback.
David realized what he had just done.
"Sorry Katie, I mean, I can't do it because my laptop isn't backed up, I arranged for someone else to play."
The water bottle thing was getting out of control. He was beginning to lash out at coworkers, assess blame and even invent evidence. Maybe the water bottle had just fallen off the drying rack into the trash can. They were right next to each other. Maybe David hadn't properly positioned the water bottle in the drying rack.
He began to realize he would never see the water bottle again as he began pulling down the first of his hundred signs.
"I could swear I saw that earlier…"
David spun around and he was standing face to face withe Elissa, a costumer from the first floor.
STAY TUNED FOR THE EPIC CONCLUSION OF THE WATER BOTTLE IN PART 3: A NEW DAY.
David went to Starbucks and picked up his usual double macchiato latte and returned to find something curious. He returned to the third floor kitchen intent on filling his water bottle for the afternoon (he had made a 2016 resolution to stay more hydrated) but the water bottle was gone.
He searched the sink, the dishwasher. Nothing. He walked to his desk thinking perhaps a good samaritan had seen it in the kitchen and erroneously returned it. It was not there.
"Have you seen my water bottle?" David asked Katie who was grabbing a bag of White Cheddar cheez-its from the kitchen. I left it in here to dry before I went to Starbucks and now it's gone.
"No, sorry. Maybe someone mistook for their own water bottle?"
Possibly, David thought to himself, yet unlikely. Water bottles are quite personal, how could one mistake it? Sure it was a rather plain, indistinguishable stainless steel water bottle.
But that chip. He kept coming back to that chip…
It wasn't a small chip, David had been looking at his watch, tracking his heart rate when he slipped on some rocks. David fell hard, but the water bottle took the brunt of the trauma. As his sherpa helped him up, David cursed himself for losing focus. He saw the now one inch indentation on his water bottle, it hadn't punctured fortunately. The water bottle would survive, just a new scar, a new story.
So if someone didn't mistake it for their own…maybe they just borrowed it?
It was after all a 'shared' kitchen. There were plates and bowls in the kitchen that were for use by everybody. Hell, David himself used Megan's coffee mug sometimes when he was working late. But a water bottle just struck him as an odd thing to borrow. They're so personal, right? Maybe he was just being weird, the water bottle will show up.
24 hours passed and the water bottle did not show up. David did his due diligence by asking all of the writers on his floor.
"Have you seen my water bottle?" He asked a passing producer.
"Sorry man, I haven't."
It started to dawn on him that maybe someone was playing a prank on him. He was a cool guy, but certainly not the kind of cool that would absolve one from office hijinks.
Who would play a prank on David the writers assistant? Maybe Victor in post, the assistant editor with the cool socks. He seemed like the type of guy that would love to punk an angsty thirtysomething. Just like the jokester that was stealing packages off of his patio in Venice. He had started having his fresh fruit boxes sent to the office. Sure he caught a few friendly jabs for having organic fruit sent to work, but still it was better than some Los Angeles bandit making off with his juicy pluots.
David decided to ask Hannah, the Post PA is anyone in the editorial department had been seen with a stainless steel water bottle.
"Sorry David, the only person in our department that uses a water bottle is Kurt, and his is plastic."
He returned to his desk dejected. It would be very odd for someone to STEAL his water bottle. Nearly everyone on this floor made well over $3000 a week. Why would a wealthy person take a used water bottle with a notable one inch chip in it?
Perhaps he ought to check downstairs. Maybe one of the office PAs would know something…
While walking down the stairs he had a thought, fleeting, but embarrassing. Would it have been the maid? Of course not, she doesn't work during the day.
David walked into the production office, home of Jennifer Nate and Dave. Jennifer was playing Haim Pandora, David rolled his eyes.
"Have you guys seen a stainless steel water bottle?"
Dave didn't look up from his computer. He was likely blogging about cocaine and hookers.
"It disappeared on Monday, I've asked all of the writers and editors…"
Dave dramatically stopped typing.
"Did you say Monday?"
"I know someone who was upstairs on Monday…"
THE STORY WILL CONTINUE WITH PART 2: The Suspects.
Friday, April 1, 2016
It's 4pm on a Friday and you start to get that sinking feeling.
Am I going to have a shitty weekend?
One of your roommates is out of town and your main slay piece is back home visiting her niece.
Why the fuck is everyone always going to visit their niece? I dare my brother to have a daughter so he can see how often I do NOT visit her.
You start to get doubly concerned because you're already working late tonight and tomorrow's forecast is quasi shitty. Netflix just dropped a fuck ton of content and there are rumblings of one of those 'relaxing weekends.'
But those people don't get it. When you live for the weekends, you can't afford to take one off. The release of partying your face off for 48 hours is the only thing that will get you through the next 5 days. You're falling behind, you're professionally unsatisfied, you lack a significant other. You can't also have a boring social life. That was the one thing you and going for you…
So you pick up your phone and dial up a Hail Mary…two letters.
No, not your friend Taylor Jackson. You're not requesting a specific spin-off of a foot job. You're suggesting a border run to Tijuana, Mexico.
Despite what the US State Department would tell you, Tijuana is relatively safe if you stick to the city center. There are real hotels, Marriotts and Hyatts and such. Of course there are also sketchy guys in alleys that will offer you cocaine and also try to take you to a donkey show.
But you're not down there to pull a Marissa Cooper. No, TJ exists to give you and your bros a brief respite from the oppressions of Los Angeles, while allowing some good bonding time. Follow this brief travel guide on how to make a border run and live to tell about it.
SingleDude Travel Advisory 1: Don't Drive
Let's step away from the immediate fact that the line at the border can often last hours and you don't want your ass to get Sicario'd…What do you think you look like when you're driving across the border Sunday morning back into the US?
You look like a bunch of strung out bros that drove to Mexico on your quarterly drug run. The customs agents will tear your Chevy Tahoe to shreds and take all of your smuggled tequila while they're at it.
No friends, there is a much easier way to do this. Exit one clearly marked THE LAST FUCKING EXIT IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA has parking lots for $6 a day. There is then a simple bridge you walk across and boom you're in Mexico. From there, merely hop in any cab and offer the driver $10 to take you to the Hyatt Place. With you, you should have a swimsuit and an outfit. This is plenty for your trip. This leads to…
SingleDude Travel Advisory 2: Stay at a Goddam American Chain
There are independent 5 star hotels in TJ. There are luxury Mexican chains too. But you know what? Stay at the fucking Hyatt. This is going to sound xenophobic, but I just want you to ask yourself this…"Is Jay Pritzker going to let something bad happen to me?"
The answer is no. If there is a cartel in Mexico, they have no interest in fucking with American interests, because they know what will happen if they do. I know this because I watched about 70% of a two hour Netflix documentary on the subject.
The Hyatt/Marriott/Hilton/Holiday Inn will have a pool, it will have a bar, it will also have other Americans. Don't be a hero. Settle for your upper middle class family hotel.
SingleDude Travel Advisory 3: Do not seek out hard drugs
Why would you go to Mexico to do drugs? You can do them in LA and there is a much greater chance of you NOT getting your head chopped off. This is not the reason for the TJ trip. If you want a big drug weekend, plan a night at the Avalon. You can even get a room at The Roosevelt. Do not under any circumstances go on a Bacchanalian Odyssey to seek out drugs. Party in congested areas, eat the worm, have some Mexican food and NEVER deviate off the beaten path. After Lollapalooza, I got into a cab with a homeless man with sinister intentions. He took me to the South Side of Chicago under the guise of giving me something I should not have been seeking. When we got there I realized I was just about to robbed and possibly shot. I stayed in the cab. Always remember, if you find yourself in a cab in the middle of nowhere, do not get out.
SingleDude Travel Advisory 4: Do not black out
Ordinarily, I love to black out. Blacking out is life's roulette wheel. If you drink yourself retarded you never know what will happen. Perhaps You wake up in bed with a chick, perhaps you wake up on your kitchen floor. In Venice, I always have a reasonable expectation that no matter how drunk I get, nothing too terrible will happen to me.
This is not the case south of the border. If you fall asleep in an alley in Mexico, you won't wake up in bed with 2 bottles of water and a silly note from your roommate who carried you there.
SingleDude Travel Advisory 5: Pill up son
Ok aside from bagging some rays at the pool and taking in some culture at the street markets, there is one legitimately nefarious reason to go TJ: Pharmaceuticals.
If you walk into any pharmacy in Mexico, they will offer you any narcotic under the rainbow. Uppers, downers, screamers, laughers. But the main three will be Xanax, Vicodin and Viagara. You can buy an unlimited amount in Mexico and use. Crossing the border is a bit of a stickier situation as if the pills are discovered, the customs guard could ask you for a prescription. While crossing through security as you walk back Sunday morning, treat it like TSA if you had a bunch of someone else's ambien for flying. You're a white American, customs won't bust your balls too much, but don't flaunt it either.
And there you go, you've made an investment in your future hangovers, Sunday Scaries anxiety attacks, and drunken one night stands!
You did a day in Mexico and didn't even get chopped up by the likes of Tuco Salamanca. Congrats!
SingleDude Travel Advisory 6: Be a Tourist
TJ is pretty dope. There are lots of street markets where you can buy literally anything, and it's all up for negotiation. This is fun! The bars are cool, Coronas and Tequilas are like a buck each. Liga MX is dope soccer and Tijuana has a team.
Just remember, don't follow those sleazy club promoters trying to take you to the REAL party. You're just fine drinking on the main strip until midnight and heading back to your mainstream hotel. Other American girls will be impressed by your safety first mentality. Who knows, you may even be able to Beta test one of those Mexican Viagara before you even return to America.