I'm laying on a pile of clothes with my hand in an empty quart of ice cream. Sheer panic sets in when I realize an alarm is going off. How long has it been going off? Am I late for work? Why am I sleeping on a pile of clothes?
I take a deep breath and realize it's Saturday. Nothing I did last night can get me fired, if I'm late for something, it's probably just brunch or something.
I stand and realize I am wearing one sock and a t shirt. Nothing else.
It all comes back. I went to a party at Buffalo Club last night. I probably came home and wanted a midnight snack. When I walked into my room, I tripped over a four foot pile of clothes. Drunk, I decided just to stay there.
Now my alarm is going off because I'm supposed to meet people for volleyball.
Everything makes sense.
One glance at my phone shows that I have 61 new text messages.
Why? Why am I in so many god damn group chats? Why do people feel the need to chirp on them 24/7 like it's a bullshit office Slack room.
The conversation in SKWAAAAAD this morning is concerning the location of my neighbor's muscle milk. Thank God I sleep with my phone on Do Not Disturb. If I woke up every Saturday to Viagara jokes and veiled references to semen, I would murder people.
No matter though, I throw on a t shirt and swimsuit, hop on a bike and head to the volleyball courts.
'9am NO FLAKES, show up on time!'
That was the last text sent Friday. Of course I get there at 9:20, no one is around. I decide to lay out and start drinking a bottle of Sangria that my boss game the previous evening. This was probably my first mistake.
By 9:45 we have a good game going. Everyone is having a good time, except my neighbor and his friend. I don't think they've slept, that or they woke up and aggressively pregamed this match. They keep yelling 'RITCHIE FINESTROOOOOO' and laughing. I'm not quite sure why.
Mark dives for a ball and gruesomely breaks his finger. He snaps it back in place and laughs maniacally. He's certainly on something.
After a quick lunch at Firestone Brewery and a pregame at a still too early 1145am, it's time for the day's main event, a trek to The Bungalow.
If you are a white person or have ever been to Los Angeles before, you know what The Bungalow is. I've written about it many times. I even produced a guide about how to drink there without going broke. (Order Coronas or Torpedo IPA) Going to the Bungalow also rings violently against almost everything I believe in.
-Never go somewhere you are merely tolerated.
-It's impossible to close without a dance floor.
-The pregame is always better than the bar.
Welllll...here's the thing. Bungalow certainly doesn't give a fuck about you. I literally shout at people about what they are wearing before we leave the house. Furthermore, if someone is acting like a douche in line, I smack them and tell them to be quiet. Bungalow is a stupid hotel bar, but I treat it like that famous place in East Berlin that won't let you in if you speak.
Also, not only is there a dance floor, but the bar is notorious for not playing a single song made after 1970 expressly to discourage minorities from coming.
Lastly, you have to be at this place at 2pm or you're never getting in. This place brings back a desperation of acceptance I haven't felt since middle school when I really wanted to be invited to the 'cool kid parties.' I thought I was past that, but no matter how high you climb up the social ladder there will always be some hot bitch with a clipboard silently judging your value.
Fortunately on this day, we walk right in. Perhaps it's because we showed up on time, perhaps it's because my roommate works there or maybe it's because it's 100 degrees outside. But we walk in. Every time that bouncer gives me back my ID, I feel like I'm an underage kid walking into Kilroy's for the first time.
Of course the place is already juiced. Trust fund USC bros are sitting at lavish tables while a coktail waitress making low six figures pours the first Red Bull vodka.
There are already fidgety guys standing in line for the single stall bathroom. Bottle rat types are already cozying up to men they perceive as wealthy, hoping for a free glass of wine.
I take a right and head immediately to the garden, or the secret bar as I call it. I sit down on the edge of an unused fire pit as I make eyes with my roommate. I know that if I sit here a few minutes she'll bring me a couple beers, but what happens next is why this place keeps me coming back.
"Ok, who should buy us a few glasses of rose?"
There are two girls sitting a few feet away from me. Maybe they're broke, maybe that just appreciate the game. I see them scouring the patio for a target. Of course they settle on my buddy Mark, who is already on his 7th cigarette of the day.
I see this girl stand up and casually ask him for a cigarette. She starts working him, immediately. Giving toothy smiles, rubbing on his bicep, posing for selfies. This girl is a pro. But Mark holds strong, see this isn't his first rodeo either.
I chime in to the other girl as we're both watching this unfold.
"I dunno, I think your girl is going to strike out."
"She never strikes out. This guy will; be eating out of her hand by the time she's done with him.I bet she can convince him to get us a bottle."
After a few minutes my roommate comes out and hands me two buckets of beer. Laughing I approach Mark with two bottles, one for him and one for the girl, just to put her out of her misery.
A plate of shots follows, the girl I've been talking to is suddenly interested. Who is this young man sitting next to me getting all this stuff. I hand her a shot and tell her I work on a tv show.
Suddenly she perks up, maybe I'm important. Maybe I can help her.
She goes on about how she just shot a pilot for comedy central and she's trying to transition from strictly acting to acting AND writing. My roommate walks by and does a double take at this girl. She recognizes her from a bar they used to work at together.
This girl is horrified. She's been outed. She's not a real actress, she's a slash. (actress / bartender) As soon as Sarah leaves the girl turns to me.
"I gave up bartending last year. I'm a full time actress now. I'm starring in a Universal film right now, it's my break out role."
Two days later I would see that she's 12th billed and the movie has a $100,000 budget.
The beer buckets keep coming. I keep drinking. My nose keeps burning.
Some hours later a girl approaches me.
"Hey can I have one of those beers?"
"Why should I give you a beer?"
"Because you're wearing plaid on plaid and the only asshole that would do that here is an asshole that has plenty of money."
Fair point. I hand her a Corona.
I do a lap around the bar, I find a girl puking in some bushes, I see a girl passed out in a booth. I'm starting to get tired. I see a Persian guy dig into his pocket and pull out a massive key bump.
"Do you see that guy over there? I think that's Aaron Rodgers' brother?"
"The one on the Bachelorette?"
"No the THIRD brother. Let's go talk to him."
Two bimbos rush past me to go talk to maybe Aaron Rodgers' non-famous brother. I hate this place/I love this place.
It's 5 o clock, I go home to my house and throw a bunch of shit on a frying pan, grill it up and eat it. There should be a cooking show where a drunk guy is forced to make meals based entirely what is in his fridge. I pound an Adderall to keep going, then Lyft over to a friend's house. I can't handle the 4x Uber surge.
I get to my pal's house and we start fucking around with a BB gun. We light a can of gas on fire and then shoot it, causing a massive explosion in his backyard.
It's awesome.
Neighbors are not pleased.
Drinks ensue, I eventually make it back to Venice for a glorified night cap at James' Beach. I wake up on the pile of clothes again the next morning and there are a bunch of photos in my phone of me doing things I don't remember with people I don't recognize.
I'm tired as fuck, but fortunately I still have 8 hours before Battle of the Bastards and Game 7. I crawl to the couch and eat a pound of lunch meat plain. I fill up two gallon bottles of water and flop down on the couch to watch the US Open.
I close my eyes and they won't open again for a very long time.
I love LA.
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