Friday, August 26, 2016

How many people have you kissed?

I want to ask you a question. How many people do you think you have kissed?

A little background before we dive in...yesterday at work, myself, and the 9 other twentysomething assistants over here at The Mindy Project, were trying to decide if Taylor Swift got a boob job or not.

Of course there was extreme analysis on lots of pictures from 2014 vs now. People took pretty firm stands on both sides. 'That's a push up bra! She clearly hasn't had work done.'

'But what about the shape? Push up bras cannot change shape!'

'Different birth control. My neighbor exploded like 5 cup sizes when she changed birth control.' (Hi Monica!)

We were resigned to the fact that we would argue about this for the rest of the day until one hero uttered the comment. "Look, as a man who has seen 100 boobs in his lifetime, I can tell you those are fake."

Wait, 100 pairs or 100 total.

-100 total.

Earned or unearned?

What's an unearned boob?

Strip Club is an unearned boob.

What about like Mardi Gras boobs?

Mardi Gras boobs are earned IF you deliver the beads.

This reminds me of the how many people has a normal person kissed by 30 argument from 2 years ago...

HARD STOP. No longer worried about Taylor Swift or boobs in general. My life now revolves around determining the amount of kiss partners a normal person has by 30.

So I'll stop with the direct quoting and now go anecdotal. My workplace settled on a number around 40 for kissing partners. My USC friends at the pier had numbers closer to 100. Numbers on my Facebook wall were 200, 50ish, 40, 30, 0, 50, 1, an oddly specific 29, 151 and 4.7.

I suppose my question was wrong. I shouldn't have asked how many kissing partners you perceive an average person to have, I should have asked straight up how many people have you kissed.

And while a number like 40 might seem accurate or even on the high side, I assure you these numbers pile up quick.

Think back to every game of truth or dare and spin the bottle you played. I even had a 7th grade awkward party in my basement with my high school friends when I was 18, so all four of those count. Then think to every person you ever kissed at a concert. Yes even that time you did a three way kiss at Dave Matthews.

Add up every person you ever dated, add that time you went for it with a girl you had a crush on and it wasn't received that well. Every dance floor make out, every time you stole a kiss from a stranger in a hallway at a party and then walked away not even knowing their name. Every one night stand, every unexplained morning after hickey, that time you tried to make it work with a platonic friend and it didn't. Every coworker romance. (Oh my many)

Every barn dance, Chiomunga, Tri Delt Arrest, every formal, every person you kissed that you shouldn't have, the one that got away, the one you wish you never started, every time you were rolling and it just felt right, every black out kiss that you try to pretend never counted (it counted!)

So perhaps you are still at 40.

I am not.

If we're being honest and I'll try to say this in the least possible douchey way, I'm probably in the hundreds. Maybe 200 if I had to guess. But I also was single through ALL of college that 128 weeks of going out on average 5 times a week. That's 640 nights out in college. So as a single guy if I connect at an even 15% rate, that's 100 right there.

I've been single most of the time since college as well, barring a while when I was 24. This means two things. While I have a large distribution of kiss partners (I would peg myself in the 90th percentile) my TOTAL kisses (and sex for that matter) is relatively low. I would say probably 75% of my kisses were one and done. Maybe I knew their name? Maybe it was a friend and we had too much to drink. I'm probably only in the 10th percentile for total kisses since my Sunday-Thursday is pretty much a wash as a single dude who hates to date. I'm pretty much pigeon holed to dance floors on Friday and Saturday nights.

But I digress.

Obviously there is a very wide distribution model for this question. If you have been dating someone for 5 years you probably didn't kiss 6 people this August. Furthermore there are probably people that didn't go out 640 nights during college. Hell, some people get married at 22 and really distort the data. My cousin started dating a girl in 7th grade. They got married during college. His number is probably 1 or 2. Mine is 200. Malcolm Gladwell would call us both Outliers. I think the best way to go about this investigation is to create buckets or categories for a normalized range. This should help us to decode how many kissing partners the average person has had by 30.

Bucket 1: The monogamous type and/or losers/and or flyover country 20% of population.
Range: >10

Maybe you live in Nebraska and had four serious girlfriends before you got married at 24. It is conceivable that you could be a good looking guy, great at sports and have a total kiss number of something like 5.

You could also be a 400 pound LARPer that lives in Tampa, FL and have a number like 3.

Of course there is also the virtuous southern belle who saved herself until marriage and only kissed a few suitors before she found Mr. Right.

This all goes to say that there are lots of reasons one could have limited kissing partners. One must understand that there aren't necessarily a lot of hopping singles bars in middle America. Whereas every night I go out on the town there is a wild card factor, a lot of guys are just happy to grab a few drinks at the local TGI Fridays.

According to the I'm Feeling Lucky button on Google, American women are now getting married at 27 and men at 29, so presumably, the average person isn't even making it to 30 still single. If I had to cut off all my kissing partners this year, it would certainly put a dent in my overall number. But a lot of people found love earlier than me and ended up in this bucket. Good for them! They will probably be the cool young parents at Little League practice.

Bucket 2: The average type 70% of the population
Range: 20-50

You're a normal person who partied a standard amount. You probably went to a 4 year state school, maybe you were Greek, maybe not. It doesn't matter. You have long term girlfriends because it's nice to have sex on a Monday night, but you also go through periods where you are single because it also feels nice to sleep in a bed by yourself.

You did most of your damage in college and if we were to plot your age and kissing partners it would look like a standardized distribution aka a bell curve. You did little damage from 13-18 then a LOT from 18-22 and now that you are a mature adult that number has plummeted back down to Earth.

Good for you. You probably have a job and pay your bills on time. You follow politics and generally have your shit together. You're probably getting engaged in the next couple years and might even buy a house, because hey real estate is an investment right? They aren't making any more of it!

Typing these three paragraphs really bummed me out. If I would have lived 10 times I probably would have been in this bucket 9 of them, but I wasn't...

Bucket 3: The Savages 10% of the population
Range: 100+

Let's have a lesson on the non-committal make out. NCMO (pronounced Nicmo) for short. The fact is, some people are make out sluts and there is nothing wrong with it. Making out is fun! Making out is a good move on a dance floor! No one gets pregnant or contracts AIDS from making out. Sure you might get mono, but mono is like a right of passage for 18 year olds and a great reason to stay home on the couch for a week watching old DVDs of the OC.

Fun fact, I got mono from my friend Quinn. From sharing chasers. At Purdue. How terrible of a mono story is that?

But I digress. The people in bucket 3 tend to be single...a lot. They tend to drink and go out... a lot. You probably describe them as 'fun' or 'a good time' and sure maybe even a tad bit immature. The truth is, most people have stopped going to the same bars they went to at 22 by 29. I have not.

I still think it's a good time to take shots and kiss strangers in the way that a lot of my friends have decided to find serious girlfriends and contemplate their future. We're both living life the way we want and that's great.

My guess is that if you ask a lot of people who went to a huge college, were socially active, moved to a large city and were still reliably single at 25, they might belong to this category. And maybe 10% is a conservative estimate. I think 40ish seems low for almost everyone I know. I think it's a combination of selective memory and societal bias. On the surface it sounds horrible to say that you have kissed 100+ people but doing some quick math let's see if it really is...

Let's presuppose that you had your first kiss at 16. The cut off for this experiment is 30. That leaves 728 weeks of life between 16 and 30. This means in order to hit that 100 number, one would have to find a new kissing partner every 7.28 weeks or every 51 days. One of my best friends (a girl) kissed 6 different guys last Halloween. I just don't think it is that difficult of a metric.


But let's stick with my conservative numbers.

10% of the population is around 100
70% of the population is around 40
20% of the population is around 10

That comes out to 40.

Really? 40?

And you're counting every closet indiscretion, every weird kiss in the Coke lot campgrounds, every post tailgate conquest, every time you thought you were in love, every time you knew you weren't...

Maybe I just need to find God or something, but 40 sounds low.

But, hey, you can't argue with hasty generalizations and math.

Friday, August 19, 2016

Reconsidering Hufflepuff

Yesterday while I was doing the noble task of picking up kombuchas for the office (note: there was nothing noble about this, it is my job to get people kombucha) the other assistants came to the conclusion that I was a Hufflepuff.

Clearly they were unaware of the catastrophic amount of molly I had done the previous weekend. Obviously they didn’t understand that I had partied my way through Denmark in a fucking Slytherin hat. In fact they probably didn’t know anything about the extensive blogging I have done about all things Hary Potter here and here.

Perhaps it was a hazing of sorts. I am the new guy after all. They were just giving me a hard time. I’m obviously the cool guy, no one would mistake me for a lowly Hufflepuff. But amid many opportunities to walk back their rude inference, my colleagues dug in their heels. Dave is a Hufflepuff.

When I asked for an explanation it was simple: “You seem like you like to party.”

I waited for more, but that was essentially the crux of their argument. You like to party and Hufflepuff is the party house.

Wait what?

Hufflepuff is the party house? I had always assumed Hufflepuffs were the meek little losers that got picked last in Quidditch. While everyone else was jostling for magical dominance, Hufflepuff was just happy to be there. I mean their Goddamn ghost is the fat friar.

I mean a quick glance at their roster shows Cedric Diggory, a guy famous for dying and Newt Scamander, to be played this fall by the biggest Hufflepuff of them all Eddie Redmayne. (Justification: Failed to fuck Marilyn Monroe despite receiving many green lights, lost the French Revolution, died cutting his dick off and whatever the fuck he did in Jupiter Ascending...points for cheating on his wife though as an invalid, that was a pretty bro move)

But perhaps I was looking at Hufflepuff all wrong. Maybe I made the mistake of identifying their apathy as weakness instead of what it really was, brilliance.

A quick jaunt across the internet confirms that Hufflepuff is the stoner house. Hufflepuff puff pass bro. But I suppose any fat lovable stoner would be a Hufflepuff under the old definition. The question was “Is Hufflepuff really the Delta Tau Delta of the magic world?”

I had always assumed I was a Slytherin. I, a blonde haired, blue eyed, pure blood Aryan; a white protestant male of means, a supgroup of humans that have NEVER been persecuted against was CLEARLY born to be a Slytherin. I could see myself banging lines with Malfoy while we had a foursome with the Carrow twins.

Honestly I had never been more sure of something in my life.

But then I read book eight.

Book eight is not very good. Technically it’s a play, but it’s definitely canon. A little background for you if you haven’t read it…Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy both have kids that suck. Both of these kids end up in Slytherin. Not only do these kids kinda suck, all of Slytherin now sucks. Slytherin is like 2016 ATO.

Also in book eight? Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny also kinda suck…as does pretty much all of Gryfindor. Reigning House Cup Champs? Some little upstart named Hufflepuff. Ravenclaw doesn’t even earn mention in the book, a surefire sign that they have been catching some major Ls.

So in present day Hufflepuff is the Leicester City. They are the Lambda Chis finally pairing with Tri Delt.

How did pathetic Hufflepuff rise to the top? Well maybe they weren’t always that shitty.

Look, even though Cedric died, he was always a legendary face guy and he was selected as the dopest wizard at Hogwarts before some fuckery got Harry tossed in there as well. Also a Hufflepuff? My girl Nymphadora Tonks, a woman who I have masturbated to SEVERAL times. It’s a shame Ramsay jammed that knife in her neck. Her fool frontal work on Game of Thrones was unmatched. Even role players like Hannah Abbott would be worthy of a Thursday night casual bang.

The point is, Hufflepuff wasn’t always that shitty, they were moreso under the radar.  And look, it would be easy to point to Head of House Pomona Sprout, professor of herbology and make a ton of weed jokes. That’s low hanging fruit bro, what if instead I told you that Hufflepuff was maybe just a little too cool for school.

And I say that in the most literal way, let’s be honest Hogwarts house competitions are a little petty. As much as I enjoyed playing football in school, there were just as many cool kids in the stands drinking vodka from water bottles. I posit that the Hufflepuffs were the kids at the Quidditch games getting fucked up. Then they probably all went back to their lounge and had sex with each other. You know who never had sex in Harry Potter? Harry fucking Potter!

So that’s that. Hufflepuff was always kinda dope, we just never knew it. Maybe one day they just got sick of being shit on and decided out of boredom to start winning house cups. It’s basically like when you find out Danny Zuko was sick at track the whole time he just chose to be a Greaser for the hell of it.

I still feel like Syltherin are the villains, Gryffindors are the noble try hards and Ravenclaw are the smart kids…but Hufflepuff? Hufflepuff are the homies.

So where does that leave me, your dignified party blogger? Am I ready to admit that I am indeed a trustworthy, loyal and kind Hufflepuff?

Naw dawg…Slytherin 4 life.

LA Affairs

Recently I had a romantic epiphany.
My strategy of going to Townhouse Venice every weekend night and just ‘seeing what happens’ wasn’t working. 
Sure it was fun to work up a sweat on the dance floor of that sauna of a bar. But my closing move of asking women to come swimming with me in the ocean at 3 o clock in the morning was tired. Not only was it illegal, but taking a dip in the Pacific in the middle of the night puts one at significant risk for drowning.
Furthermore, I often would strike out and then just wake up with sand in my sheets and nothing else. This was no way for a 29 year old to live.
No, I needed to try something different, something new.
I decided it was time to do something drastic…ask a woman on an actual date.
I met her at James’ Beach, the bar I go to when the Townhouse line is too long. She was cool in that she didn’t mind when I spilled my drink on her, this told me that she was the one.
After I asked her on a date I would come to learn she lived in Orange County. Not ideal, but I was currently unemployed so it didn’t really matter. My big plan for the week? Pack for Coachella. As that included throwing four pink swimsuits and a Pikachu onesie in a bag, I figured I could squeeze in a midweek date in Newport.
We settled on a Tuesday night, I drove down from Venice and picked her up.
‘I’ve never been here before, what should we do?”
“Well I know a great place to watch the sunset and grab a drink.”
Perfect. Sunset drinks. I’m adulting so hard. I wanted to call my mom and tell her, she would be so proud.
We get to some fancy Joie de Vivre hotel in Laguna Beach and grab a glass of wine. Everything is going great. We get a second glass of wine. I’m killing it. This girl is laughing at my bad jokes; my stories are making her smile. We share similar interests and experiences. I’m loving it, dating is great.
The sun drops below the horizon, I grab the check. Holy hell. $100. I mean I knew we were at a nice place, but not that nice. As a production assistant, that’s roughly what I make in a day. But whatever, it was fun.
Twenty dollars later, after being shaken down by an aggressive valet guy, I’m thinking the date is over. Maybe I’ll get a kiss goodnight. That would be cool.
“Hey, I’m kinda hungry.”
Oh, date not over apparently. But that’s fine, I could use a night cap and maybe snack on an appetizer. I suggest we find a dive bar and grab some nachos.
“Actually there’s this great steak house right next to my house.”
I’m caught off guard.
“But it totally has a divey vibe.”
So now we’re going to a steak house I guess.
We get to this ‘divey steakhouse’ and a man in a suit comes to pours us a couple waters.
“I’ll have a Budweiser.”
“Oh, your server will be right with you, I merely pour the water.”
I’m thinking immediately that a place that makes the water guy wear a suit isn’t very divey.
My date orders a martini and a steak salad. I have a Budweiser and a soup.
Another $100 later I’m thinking that this date is mercifully coming to an end. I will now have to work two days on set to pay for this date.
I’m starting to panic about my Coachella trip looming, the Denmark trip I have planned the following week. This is $220 I didn’t have to blow on a date.
To be clear, at this moment I had no steady job and I lived in a Venice apartment I couldn’t afford. Why? I’m glad you asked! It’s because there was a joke made on Silicon Valley last year that it is impossible to get evicted in California. I suppose the alternative would be to move to the valley and live in a sensible apartment, but I would rather move back to Indiana than live north of Mulholland.
Of course after dinner we HAD to grab ice cream and this date had now cost me more than my Coachella ticket.
At the end of the night we shared a brief kiss.
“This was fun, when you get back from your travels, we should do this again.”
I thought to myself, when I get back from my travels I will have to flee the country to escape debt collectors, but I smiled and agreed.
I went to Coachella and had a blast. Afterward, I was so broke I actually considered cancelling the trip to Scandinavia, it would have been the prudent thing to do. But because I’m one of those worthless Millenials that the Trump Campaign hates I decided to say ‘fuck it’ and get on the plane.
I’m back to sweating at Townhouse now because what I’ve learned is no amount of Fireball shots in a Venice dive bar will ever be more expensive than a night in Orange County. And don’t worry, I’ll let you know how the whole ‘not paying rent’ thing works out.

Wednesday, August 17, 2016

No More Sundays in LA

Dear Friend,

I remember the day I left for college. I was sitting by the pool on a hot August afternoon in Indianapolis. My Motorola Razr was vibrating with text messages, people letting me know that they had arrived in Bloomington. 'When are you coming? We're going to a frat party tonight!'

School didn't start for another week and the dorms weren't officially open until the next day, but I had received an exemption to come down a day early and install my air conditioner.

"Mom, I'm ready."

My family packed up my brother's Trailblazer and a U-Haul full of all the college stuff; mini fridge, futon, TV and my entire high school wardrobe. We reached Briscoe Quad in Bloomington, IN and my family moved me in during 100 degree heat. By the time they left I couldn't tell if they were crying or just had overly sweaty faces.

Immediately two guys that I recognized from a rival high school introduced themselves as my neighbors. Then they introduced me to their secret stockpile of booze. Before long we were walking toward frat row to go to some party where one of my neighbors 'knew a guy."

This was my first Sunday on my own, and my first Sunday partying.

I met a girl from my orientation class and she ended up in my dorm room. This was the first time I had brought home a girl. The next morning at 7am I told her I had to meet with my advisor. This was the first time I had lied to a girl to get her to leave.

College progressed and Sunday would continue to be my beacon of hope. With afternoon classes there was no reason for me to spend all day at the library. I was the king of Kilroy's dollar double ups and Sunday ticket, the chief conspirator when someone tossed out the idea of a border run to get more booze. It's an hour and 23 minutes from Bloomington, Indiana to Weaver, IL. I once made it in 45 minutes.

I knew all the tricks to get around Indiana blue laws, growlers at a brewery, wine bottles to go and I always kept a stash hidden just in case. While everyone else was getting stoned and watching Planet Earth, I kept Sunday Funday alive.

After college, I moved to Chicago, got a job and I also started partying a lot harder.

I didn't handle the transition very well. Going from three hours of class a day to a real world with real responsibilities didn't suit me. I compensated by living for the weekends. I was out until 5am every Friday and Saturday and Sundays were spent at North Avenue Beach, Groundlings and Stanley's.

If I kept drinking and doing live band karaoke the prospect of Monday wasn't real. Sunday was all I had left, I would fight off the Sunday scaries as I sat on the couch for HBO TV, but I wouldn't stop partying. Once I stopped that, I was admitting defeat.

Once I got to California, things got better. I didn't hate my job anymore and I had Venice! I was doing Sunday Funday but for the right reasons! Grilling out, Bungalow, Volleyball and bottles on the beach. I was living the dream. I was still youngish. Like 25. I could drink all weekend, stop at like 9pm on Sunday, go to bed and I would feel like a 6 Monday mornings. I could give up alcohol completely and I would feel like a 6 Monday mornings.

As I got older it became a little more difficult. I REALLY started feeling it on those Monday morning flights after Vegas/Park City/NYC party weekends, I started to get a bit weary of those Sunday nights at Whaler, but I persevered. Sunday has always been the red-headed step child of the weekend, but I appreciated it. Giving up your Sunday was like giving up your soul!

Recently, my Sundays were hit or miss. Some days I would wake up and keep the bender going, others I would make a full commitment to recovery. You know the drill, three meals ordered in, watch an entire season of Bojack Horseman or restart The OC for the 7th time this year. In fact, I was about to have one of those such Sundays a few days ago.

I had gone on a boat all day Saturday and then stayed up until 6am doing drugs in Laurel Canyon with famous people. It was awesome. That is a good weekend. I could have stopped there and had a successful weekend. But then Sunday at noon, I got invited next door for brunch.

You know what happens next, Champagne, wine, liquor, beer, other stuff (off of body parts.) I find myself halfway in the bag around 5pm at Bungalow, a place I've been a million times and then something happens that has never happened to me before.

I just didn't have it.

I was too hot.

I didn't feel like drinking anymore.

I just really wanted to go home and relax.

Monday came and it was predictably horrible, but by Tuesday I was fully recovered. And Wednesday I am fully prepared to hit the town tonight. But something has changed within me. Looking to the future, I have lost the desire to party on Sundays. After an 11 year career, I'm hanging it up. I'm announcing here on my blog, my Sunday Funday retirement.

I'll still have a glass of wine at dinner, hell I'm up for a beer during the game. But Sundays from here on out are primarily for relaxation and recovery. I'd like to thank the people that made it happen; unemployed friends, leftover drugs and most importantly personal anxiety. We had a good run, but most of the greats know when it's time to hang it up. And today is that time.

Goodbye Sundays, I'll miss you.

Friday, August 12, 2016

The Bicycle Bang

During the summer people like to take advantage of the good weather by spending time outdoors. Activities may include visiting a park, hanging out at a beach or even grabbing a drink or two on a patio. In metro areas people may even choose to bike to their destination. Why not? Biking is fun! It's a light work out and it's faster than walking. This brings us to today's quandary...

Let's create a totally 100% hypothetical situation.

Say it's a Thursday night in, oh I don't know, Venice Beach and there is a free concert in Santa Monica. Now there are like a million different ways I could get to said concert, I could walk, roller blade even Uber if I'm feeling really lazy.

But just for argument's sake, let's assume I got off work late and I want to get there quickly because I have three bottles of wine in my backpack that are not going to drink themselves. So I decide to bike.

I bike to the Santa Monica Pier, drink 3 liters of wine, steal a box of Goldfish from the neighboring picnic and even hit on a 65 year old Mexican mother.

Then for whatever reason I decide to go to the bar under the pier for some Goose Island IPA's...

Let's just assume ALLLL of that happens...and then I meet a girl.

For whatever reason this girl finds me charming and invites me back to her Brentwood apartment with the offer of a blowjob and possible butt stuff.

Holy hell, that took a turn! Of course, let's go I'll get the Ub--- oh fuck.

That's right.

The bike.

Outside sits your $1000 road bike that you should have definitely not ridden to the pier. It's locked to a handrail next to the public restroom that at least five meth addicted homeless folks call home. This is quite the pickle.

Well friends, let's work through this scenario and see what our options are.

1. Fuck it

This option consists of the most risk because it involves of just finishing the previous sentence. Let's go, I'll get the Uber. You go back to this chick's Brentwood apartment and parlay her offer of a blowjob into some butt stuff. You set an alarm for 5am and Uber BACK to your bike, ride it home, sleep for another hour, go to work, tell everyone and get lots of high fives.


The blowjob offer turns into a dry hand job, you wake up late for work and have to Uber there straight from this chick's house. When you Uber back to the Pier at the end of the day you find that where once your bike was locked is now a naked woman taking a shit and laughing at you.

Option 1 has a 50% chance of your bike being stolen, never to be seen from again. Your course of action will be to file a police report that will lead to no action and you will feel an overwhelming amount of shame. Hope it was worth it dude! The thing is, I once locked my bike up outside a popular bar with a 50 dollar lock at 2 o clock in the afternoon. For 20 minutes. When I got back, they had cut my lock like it was made out of paper, and of course since it's Venice. NO ONE SAW ANYTHING. Resist the urge to choose option one, it's the easiest but often the costliest. I mean unless she's a 10. Then fuck that bike.

2. I'll meet you there

This option consists of a different type of risk. In a perfect world it goes down like this. 'Hey, here's my key. Let's go back to MY house. I live a 10 minute bike ride away. I've ordered you an Uber and I will be two minutes behind you. Let yourself in, pour us cocktails and light a scented candle. Then we'll fuck on my couch watching Simone compete in the all around. She's totally into it. You get home, bang on said couch, USA wins Gold!


She gets in the cab, you get a flat tire and it takes you longer to cycle home than expected. By the time you get home she's either not in the mood, asleep or she's gone home. You forgot to DVR gymnastics, you jerk off with your tears and go to sleep.

Anyone that ever lost out on a sure thing due to a late pledge ride or a gaggle of jealous fat friends that 'just want some Qdoba' knows that the green light has a time constraint. Just like Billy Bean says 'Hang up as soon as you get the answer you want,' one should close as soon as they get the go ahead. Adding time and steps can only screw up your success rate. Here's the deal. This may or may not work but it's cheap and responsible-ish. Use this when you're not too worried about her getting away, like throwing a regular pokeball at a pidgey. OMG I hate myself for making that comparison. Shoot me. Use Option 2 for fives and sixes.

3. Ride my handlebars
Option 3 is fun in a 1950's Grease nostalgia kinda way. I'm not even sure people do this anymore, except latina women, I see them on handlebars of their boyfriend's bike all the time but I figured it's because they could only afford one bike between the two of them. (I'm a terrible human) But for real this COULD work and it COULD be fun. In a perfect world you ride both of you back to your house and she figures out a way to blow you on the way...ok that's wishful thinking. You make it home in one piece, that's about as good as you can hope for. Maybe a fun Instagram photo as well.


Since you are both shitfaced, you crash your bike, she hits her head and bleeds out. Her family sues you for millions and you are charged with involuntary manslaughter. You become Michael K Williams' prison bitch and are forced to swallow eight balls of cocaine that have been in an old woman's vagina. This is a reference to The Night Of for those of you not watching.

Only use option 3 if you are traveling a stupidly short distance. Even then, it might be best to just walk your bike home.

4. Just go home without her Hahaha ya right

4. Uber XL
Dawg it's just that easy. Blow up some Persian dude with a Suburban and throw that bitch in the trunk. The bike not the woman. You can even make out on the way to Brentwood and you can either ride your bike home in the morning or run it back with the XL. Now of course there is a cost associated with this as even a 2x surge will likely make this whole encounter cost roughly the size of a kidney, but hey people pay for sex all the time right? Unless you are living in abject poverty option 4 is usually the way to go if you want to make sure that you close AND have a ride to the Pier for next Thursday, in which this entire situation will repeat itself again.

Cool! Glad we got to the bottom of that. Have a great weekend.

Thursday, August 11, 2016

How to (really) deal with a hangover at work

I really wasn't planning on blogging today. I don't feel great and I have a planned black out tonight. I thought that expending as little effort as possible and consuming 3000% the daily recommended dosage of Emergen-C was my best bet. But then a little Deadspin article dropped out of the heavens into my email inbox.

How to deal with a hangover at work.

How topical! I will undoubtedly be hungover tomorrow, maybe I can learn some pro tips.

As I read on, I quickly realized that these were tips for a JV drinker, maybe someone with a mild headache after having 2.5 glasses of wine.

Deadspin's advice: Get it together before you leave the house, eat something, act natural, fly under the radar, take breaks, don't try to drink it away, keep it to yourself.

Clearly the author of this article had never had a debilitating hangover on a Friday morning. Moreover, what is this fucking fantasy land where people wake up more than 2 minutes before they have to be in their car driving to work? It's like an episode of Gossip Girl where the kids have a full day before school.

My Friday hangovers look like this...I wake up 30 minutes late. I scream OH FUCK. I sprint to the shower, realize I don't have time for a shower, look for my keys, keep yelling fuck fuck fuck, and drive off in my car drunk and hope I don't get pulled over for a morning after DUI.

So if you had one too many glasses of wine last night, by all means, please click here.

But if you like really get after it, read on my friends.

Before we proceed, I would just like to pour some out for Deadspin who will be sold at auction this weekend. I'm really going to miss hot takes from the comment section such as...

Pro tip: Don’t drink if you have to go to work next morning.

And people wonder why they can’t get, or hold, jobs? It’s shit like this. Be a fucking responsible grown up and don’t get piss drunk on a worknight. You’ve got a job to do, and you’re getting paid to do it, so show up at work in the right mental and physical state. This isn’t college anymore, it’s time to grow the fuck up.

if you need this article to know how to get by, you’re a fucking amateur.

If you’re still that stinking drunk the next day, you should not be at work, period. Especially if you have to drive for your commute. Maybe this is only geared towards fancy city dwellers though. For the most part, being drunk or smelling of alcohol at work is grounds for termination.   

Haha, die in a fucking fire Deadspin you righteous piece of shit. Welcome to the judgment free zone, where I will tell you what I think you should do to make your day as pleasant as possible.

Ok, like ONE piece of advice before we get started. Do the following right now. Hold down your iPhone button for 2 seconds. Siri will say 'What up homie?' Set an appointment for tomorrow morning at 1am that says 'Order a pitcher of water.' Now maybe your drunk ass will ignore this notification or maybe you will already be asleep, but I promise you if you drink like 5 waters before bed, it will be better.

I used to empty an entire case of water bottles onto my bed before I would go out on a school night because that way when I jumped in bed drunk later I would be like "what the fuck is this, oh water, yum I'll drink some." Other times I rolled out of bed and just sleep on the floor, it's like 50/50.

Where were we? Ah yes, you need to vomit, you smell like a brewery, your head feels like a small explosive just detonated inside of it, just not enough to kill you. Unfortunate.

So what is one to do? There is no time to take a 75 minute shower. There is no time to 'get dressed' or 'eat breakfast.' The first thing you do, is text your best work homie and tell them the situation.

"Hey man, I'm running late...cover for me, details to follow." Find the strongest thing you (or your roommates have.) Morphine or Oxy would be best. Advil and Tylenol probably won't do anything, but take some anyway. Tylenol won't kill you, if your liver can't handle acetaminophen you probably don't deserve to live.

Then you drive to work ignoring all traffic laws. Police understand, they drink too.

When you get into the office, make sure people see you but from a distance. You know how sometimes a girl looks super hot from a distance, but then up close you realize she is wearing two pounds of make-up and has meth teeth? The same goes for a hungover person. Think about it. You probably wore out clothes the night before that someone would conceivably make someone want to fuck you, and from a distance no one can see the enormous bags under your eyes.

Find an abandoned conference room and have your buddy meet you with emergency supplies. Full bottle of Pedialyte, 2 Gatorades, 2 Smart Waters, a pack of gum, some deodarant and a coffee...or as close to this as possible. You will then tell your work best friend what possessed you to get so fucked up on a Thursday. (Free concert, blowjob on the beach, etc. etc.) He will then give you a high five and tell you the severity of the situation. This will range from no one gives a fuck to...the boss was asking about you. Usually it will be 'no one gives a fuck' because people by nature are self centered.

Don't tell lies about car trouble or illness, don't talk to people, in fact be seen as little as possible. If your office has a cafeteria now is the time to go spend $20 upstairs. No one will try to talk to you if your mouth is full. Also now is the time to fill your calendar with bullshit. 2 hr lunch meeting, dentist appointment, cancel all appointments, blame your kitten. People love kittens. If you have to bounce out a little early to rush your cat to the vet, people won't question it. Again, your goal for the day is get no closer than 10 feet to anyone who might judge you for drinking. And again eat all day, keep that mouth full. You should be like Chad and deli meats. NEVER STOP EATING.

Ok, we've made it to lunch. Two options. If you have a gym at work, now is time for the 90 minute shower. Lay down in the shower. I ALWAYS LAY DOWN IN THE SHOWER. I know your gym shower is gross and you will get athlete's foot on your dick, but you will feel SO much better.

No shower at the gym? Drive one mile, park in shade and get another hour of sleep. Set five alarms, you won't easily wake up from this nap. Also if you're fucking a nurse, now is the time to cash in that IV she told you about during pillow talk.

Ok, if you've played your cards right, you probably have 2 more hours to kill before you can escape this hellscape of the office. My suggestion? Load up on more coffee and more water, and blog about your night before. It doesn't matter if you are good at writing or ever plan on posting. Someone typing fast and violently on a keyboard looks like they are hard at work. People are unlikely to interrupt them. I survived at CDW for two years before they realized I was coming into the office for 8 hours a day to write about my party habits. You can certainly get away with it for an afternoon.

As soon as humanly fucking possible slip out the door, go home, drink a bottle of ZZZquil and sleep it off. Or possibly if it's a Friday take a nap and then call some fuck piece that you've been benching and tell her you desperately need a no questions asked blowjob. She needn't sleep over.

The next time you are at work, people may say you were a little off the last day. NOW is when you can lie and make up an excuse. "I had a huge fight with my girlfriend" is an easy one that will lead to zero follow up questions. Everyone can relate to this. "My brother is sick." Again something vague that will make people uncomfortable. And hell, if the person is a real homie, tell them you weren't feeling well and give a little wink.

Trust me guys I've been there. I used to stay up until 5 in the morning on Tuesdays doing god knows what. I one time went blood drive in the depths of a brutal hangover because I thought I might pass out and people would look at me a victim instead of someone who did something wrong. I didn't pass out. To the person that got my blood,  hope yoiu enjoyed the buzz!

Also, avoid using sick/vacation days. Those are days for partying, not days for laying in bed feeling sorry for yourself. Unless you're a surgeon or a pilot, you're allowed to have bad days. This is America. Just like your bathroom visits, make your employer pay for your hangovers too. Follow these rules and probably won't get fired.

Wednesday, August 10, 2016

In Defense of the Pregame

I'm starting to get to the age where I no longer recognize half of my Facebook friends because their names have all changed. When I click on their photos I can only chuckle to myself as I see Linda the girl who shit herself on a bar crawl is now holding a newborn next to her husband.

People grew up man.

It's only reasonable that I have noticed a severe downtrend in what used to be my favorite staple of the night: The pregame. Or whatever it's called in your part of the world, the pre-drink, prep party, party before the party...the place everyone would meet to take 15 shots of room temperature triple distilled vodka so you would spend less than 20 dollars at the bar. The place where you would blast shitty EDM to get pumped about the night. And yes, the place where people can get a warm intro to members of the opposite sex and start to decide who they may have the optimum chance of going home with.

They seem to be a thing of the past man.

I remember the pregame used to be my favorite part of the night. Hell, I was the guy who never wanted to leave. While one person was frantically trying to get out the door, I would hurl back phrases like..."We'll get the next one" or "Second wave." Some nights I was having such a good time pregaming that I never made it to the bar. I regret nothing.

But as we've grown up, it seems people are less inclined to binge drink between the hours of 9-11. Maybe it's because people have more disposable income now, the financial stakes aren't as high. Maybe people have significant others, so it's less important to mingle with people before. Or perhaps, people are just no longer actively pursuing a black out. Whatever the case, it's probably for the best. We're adults, we can go out, meet at the bar, have a few drinks and go home.

It's fine.

Counterpoint: Fuck that.

People may say getting married is the moment you give up on your dreams, or maybe it's the moment you ask your SO to bring you toilet paper, but I'm here to tell you that the moment it's all over for you is when you decide you're too good to show up to someone's apartment with a 6 pack of beer and fight over who gets to airplay their Spotify playlist.

Meeting at the bar? What kind of half assed measure is that? You might as well be the person that is super busy but will 'try to pop by.' You're the worst.

'Oh you and Irene have to stop by a baby shower first?' I didn't ask you about Irene and I sure as hell didn't ask about any fucking babies, are you in it to win it or not? Let's just look at a list of reasons why pregames rule.

1. A sense of community
When you trickle into a pregame there is a weird sense of anticipation. Who will be here? I wonder if Jen brought her cute cousin from Omaha. It's like the first day of school when you wonder who will be in your class. Who will you sit next to? Is your next girlfriend in here? Will you meet some awesome bro tonight that you will go on 8 trips with?

These relationships can only be forged at a pregame. If you show up at the bar? Sure, you're with the group but you aren't WITH the group. You're a hanger on. You are tolerated. You're the JV guy who tells people he is on Varsity.

2. Epic cab rides
You know what's almost as fun as the pregame? Getting into your UberXL with a giant water bottle full of Grand Legacy Whiskey and demanding the driver hand you an AUX cable. You know who doesn't get to participate in Bohemian Rhapsody Sing-a-longs? The guy that just meets you at the bar.

Don't worry about your star rating. Uber drivers love driving around drunk people that karaoke. I bet it doesn't bother them when you fuck in their backseat either.

3. Financial Responsibility
While we can all argue the merits of renting vs home ownership, I think we can all agree that purchasing a 10 dollar cocktail at a bar is not the best use of one's limited resources. Maybe you are trying to dial back your drinking a bit, but what if you meet someone and want to stay out longer? What if the night turns into one of those all timers and you know you have to catch up?

The average cost of going from zero to drunk at an LA bar is $68. $68 can pay your cable bill, it can pay your car insurance, it can go into a Roth IRA. It's MUCH cheaper to get a solid base for relatively cheap and then coast on $6 Domestic Beers. That's just sound financial advise I even think my father would agree with. You know what is a lot of fun? Yelling out shots!!! and getting everyone to take one. You know what's less fun? Coughing up $100 for that decision.

4. A controllable environment
Do you know why tv shows prefer to shoot on a stage as opposed to practical locations? Because everything on a stage can be controlled. Everything at a bar is variable, but everything at a pregame can be controlled. The lighting can be changed, the music can be changed, there likely won't be any weirdos there because well hopefully your friend doesn't invite weirdos over. There is a lockable bathroom to do drugs in, if you absolutely have to you can probably borrow your buddies closet for a romantic indiscretion. There is no line and everything is free. You can even smoke pot in the open. There are no hours of operation. Comfortable seating too!

5. Coming in hot
No one gives a fuck when you show up at a bar. No one is looking at the door waiting for you to come in. But such as everyone makes an entrance on Bachelor in Paradise, you too get to make an entrance at a pregame. A solid entrance can set the tone for a very memorable night.

There are a million other reasons why pregaming is awesome, but just remember, it's something you're never too old to do. I was at a pregame a few weeks ago with a bunch of dudes in their mid 30's, they are all studio execs and shit. We pregamed for like 3 hours at 11am.

Do you know why? Because successful people pregame.

So next time someone tries to tell you, they'll just catch you at the bar or link up with you time someone gives you side eye for inviting them over for a few cocktails to get the night started; just remember, this person is a coward and they do not deserve to be in your presence.

In the same way that breakfast is the most important meal of the day, the pregame is always the most important drink(s) of the night.


Tuesday, August 9, 2016

Bachelor in Paradise


I opened my eyes to absolute darkness and it took me a moment to realize where I was.

Ah yes, I'm sleeping in a movie theater in the affluent suburban community of Mercer Island. I have no idea what time it is, it could be 5am or 3 o clock in the afternoon, though I would hope someone wouldn't let me sleep half the day away. I am here for exactly 48 hours and there isn't a second to spare.

See I got in last night at 2am after a brutal Delta delay. Fortunately they decided to open up the flight to free beer and movies, so I got quietly drunk by myself and watched Sing Street (my favorite movie of the year.) Upon landing I was able to grab a quick Uber from SeaTac to MI, and my weekend was underway.

I fished around for my phone and saw that it was 10am, an appropriate time to wake up and have my first beer. I leave my movie theater which has been dubbed my bedroom for the weekend and scale the spiral staircase to grab breakfast up above.

I meet my roommates for the weekend, a group much more impressive than me. Three overachievers and their significant others. Meanwhile I am a 29 year old television assistant who hasn't had a girlfriend in 4 years.

We're all up here for Seafair, which is essentially Seattle's Air and Water show. The hydroplane boat races start at 1030 in the morning and drone on endlessly through the day.  We're all at the childhood home of one of my good friends, a sprawling Colonial with a beautiful water's edge view and a front row seat to all of the weekend's action.

By 11am, the boat is stocked with alcohol and we're on our way to the popular log boom to get a prime spot for the Blue Angels performance. By 11:10am we're given a police escort back to our dock by the Coast Guard on account of our rowdiness. They take extra care to point out the temporary drunk tank they have set up on a local beach. The authorities are clearly not fucking around on Lake Washington today.

We get back to the house and I notice that the party has grown significantly during our doomed jaunt out to sea. Adults arrive bringing plates of ribs, meatballs and dips. Their children have arrived with Coronas and bottles of flavored vodka. Before long I find myself in the hot tub with a Brazilian just casually pulling on a bottle of Hennesey, this is the good life.

As the Blue Angels start their show, I start doing shark attack shots (ingredients: vodka, blue stuff, grenadine, a toy shark) and I notice something curious. All of the girls at the party have gravitated toward me. Now I could chose to think this is because of my winning personality or the fact that I ride a razor thin edge between dad bod and being physically fit, but then I realize it: I am the only single guy here.

My whole life I had been trained to think you needed to lock down a girl early or all the good ones would be taken, but what if the opposite is true? Let me tell you, being the only single guy on a trip puts you in a very powerful position. It would be like going on Bachelor and Paradise and controlling the only rose. Add to that the general thirst associated with day drinking on a lake on a Saturday and I realized that this was going to be a VERY good day.

After the show, the Coast Guard leave the area and madness ensues on Lake Washington. As far as the eye can see there are 20something trust fund kids that came home to take out their parents' hundred thousand dollar boats out with women of questionable morals. I am on one of those boats and someone just shot me with a Super Soaker full of vodka. This is crazy. There might be thirty Searay 450s tied together and I guarantee you not a single person on them has a student loan payment.

Sitting here on the boat, I can't help but be reminded of my childhood. See I grew up in a similar lake community full of trust fund kids driving their parents expensive boats. I of course was the kid that lived a couple blocks inland and didn't own his own boat, but even then I loved nothing more than pretending to be high society, running with all the local Geist socialites, having the adults ask me how my parents were doing. Mercer Island is like that but with $8 million dollar homes instead of $900,000.

After a few hours on the lake we have to take someone home. We boat her there because cars are for poor people. There is a diving board on her dock and before we head back to our place, I challenge two 8 year old girls to a diving competition. Despite my 1.5 front tuck being executed flawlessly, the judges (my friends) give her the win for her cannonball.

Upon returning to the house, the party is in full swing. I realized I have partied like an absolute rockstar today and spent precisely zero dollars. It IS like being on Bachelor in Paradise, women throw themselves at me and it's all free, perhaps life as a reality star wouldn't have been so bad after all.

I go upstairs for a bit and rub shoulders with the adults. They are all super impressed that I work on a television show and I obviously exaggerate all of my responsibilities to make it sound like I'm kind of a big deal. 'Wait you're a television writer?' Well I write and I work on television so....yes?

Meanwhile I'm with Amazon CFO's and Boeing Execs who I tell to look me up if they're ever in LA, I'll take them around town. My wallet is currently overflowing with business cards. I'm a master networker when I'm blacked out. Although I was admonished for dropping too many 'fucks,' I figure some flowers in the morning should get me out of that pickle.

Anyway, cut to later in the evening, we are playing drinking games as one does. Three rounds of Kings, fuck the dealer, Irish Poker and 8 of Mundt, someone asks, 'should we go to a bar or something?'

I quickly go to my reasons for going out in the first place...
1. Get fucked up
2. Hang out with friends
3. Hook up with chicks

I have all three right in front of me as well as a hot tub and a movie theater at my disposal. Why would we go out?

2am I black in (just heard that phrase for the first time this weekend, it's the moment you exit your black out) There are olympic replays playing in my movie theater. My clothes are scattered everywhere. It's been exactly 24 hours since I arrived in Seattle. This time tomorrow I'll be getting packed up and calling an Uber to get me to the airport in time for my 5am flight to LA. Then I'll drive straight to work, it will be absolutely terrible.

But before that...

Ya before that, I'm going to wake up in the morning and do all this shit again. A hearty thanks to everyone that made it possible, I can't wait to come back.

Thursday, August 4, 2016

I Can Olympic

 The Olympics are coming tomorrow and I'm so fucking excited I could run through a wall. Why? Because I love America, I love sports and I love trainwrecks. It's why I've started following politics.

Honestly, if you don't love the Olympics you probably support ISIS and I would love nothing more than to roundhouse kick you in the mouth. The last two opening ceremonies I have watched from the Driskill Hotel in Austin and this year I will be shitfaced on a Delta flight to Seattle, THANK GOD FOR SEATBACK MONITORS. I cannot fucking wait.

But there is another deeper reason I love the Olympics. Some of the events I look at and think 'I could probably do that.' Obviously when I watch NFL and the NBA I think, I will never be a 6'10 black man. But I look at shooting and I think, this is my father's fault for not getting me a gat at age 5. I mean I could probably fuck people up at men's 10 meter air pistol now, just imagine if I had been training for 25 years. Surely I could make the Olympics in something.

Let's quickly do my resume. I am a 6'3 200 pound white guy. I'm not necessarily rocking a dad bod, but I'm certainly a former frat guy 10 years removed from two a days. In my prime (1997) I was on a travel soccer, baseball and basketball team. I was like the 4th best player on all of those teams. By the time I got to high school I was pretty mediocre at sports but I was sick at Goldeneye and doing backflips off of my diving board. I lost my sporting focus, too busy making up stories about getting to second base on Spring Break. I was just happy to be a back up on a couple of varsity squads mostly for the social aspect.

So clearly I haven't done much since 1998, but the seeds were there. At one point I was dope! One of my former teammates plays Major League Baseball. If I ever learned how to hit a curve ball to catch a fly ball maybe I could have to! Probably not, but again, I think I was athletically gifted enough to do something if my father would have been a Grade A Todd Marinovich Sr. level psycho.

That said, let's take a look at the Olympic sports are probably the easiest for a average white guy to play. For ease of consumption, I will break these into categories.

FUCK NO: Basketball, soccer, wrestling, martial arts, boxing, gymnastics

I was able to dunk on a 10 foot goal with a men's ball for exactly 48 hours in 2007. This is the athletic achievement I am most proud of. That said, I was never going to be good at basketball, and in soccer my go to move was a heavy toe bash, that's like being a knuckle ball pitcher, it rarely works out. I never got into martial arts but I did box my friend Adam once. I clearly won the bout but Adam did make me bleed, for some reason people thought this made him the winner.

Looking back I outweighed Adam by at least 50 pounds, so now I feel even worse about taking that L.

Probably not: Rugby, Hockey, Golf, Swimming, Equestrian, track and field

To be clear, I could have been a dope hockey player if my dad would have let me play. I would have awesome hair and I would be on three sweet beer league teams. I'm sure anyone with enough money can get good at golf and horseback riding, but as a large man I think the horses would struggle to jump over shit. Hard out on 99% of track and field stuff, but I could probably launch the fuck out of a javelin.

With a better trust fund: Rowing, Sailing, Kayaking, Fencing

My friend Dan taught me how to sail in high school. I enjoyed it but 90% of the reason we went to his boat was so that we could drink Boone's Farm and listen to Matt Costa. I imagine that if I grew up in East Hampton and my dad was Thomas Crown, I could have gotten fairly competent at sailing. Furthermore, I fucked my little brother up in fights with plastic swords when we were kids so I think if James Bond were my teacher, I could get to an Olympic level.

Definitely Maybe: Volleyball, Diving, Tennis, Water Polo, Cycling, Tri, Modern Pentathalon

We've already covered my dope ass back flips, and I know how to ride a bike, so I feel comfortable moving onto Water Polo, a sport I have never played. In the first season of The O.C. I identify most with Luke. Luke was good at water polo so I feel like through the transitive property I could be a good water polo player. I don't know what the modern pentathalon is but I feel like no one else does either and I could sneak in.

Sure, why not: Shooting, trampoline, badminton, handball, synchronized swimming.

Ok most of these aren't even real sports. Badminton and handball were just made up by a bored Phys Ed teacher with a bad coke problem. Synchronized swimming seems about as difficult as masturbating left handed and we've already covered shooting. Any sport you can do with a half tin of Skoal in your mouth can't be that difficult. But let's get right to Trampoline. I have no idea what trampoline entails and my parents wouldn't let me get one when we were kids because they thought neighbors may sue...BUT. The girl down the street had one and we played this game called popcorn, you curl up in a ball and try not to pop (uncurl or fall off the trampoline) I NEVER FUCKING POPPED! I did however knock someone off the tramp and break their arm. Unsure if that is frowned upon or not, I call it gamesmanship.

Future Gold Medalist: Archery.

Look at that banner photo for a moment. Look at that form. Look at that flow. I look like Katniss Fucking Everdeen but with less cum on my face. (Fappening jokes are ok now, yes?)

I am confident that if my dad would have gotten me a crossbow for Christmas instead of an Easton Redline I could have ruined lives on the archery range.

Listen to some of these boners representing the US. Brady Ellison? Sounds like the Larry Ellison child that wasn't given a billion dollar trust fund to go make dope movies. Zach Garrett? Virgin. Cool Zacharys spell it Zack.

And Jake Kaminsky???

Oh Jake Kaminsky and me would be bros.

Jake and I would finish Gold Silver on Saturday...Saturday as in the fucking day after tomorrow. Like the first event done.

Do you know what that would give us three weeks to do???

Put a massive fucking dent in that supply of 450,000 condoms in olympic village. Hell, I bet the US basketball team would even let us party on their super-yacht. I hear gold medals are like oscars at the Vanity Fair party, hardware lets you cut the line.

Who are Jake and I going after first? Jesus, I don't know...maybe all of Olympic Village? But if I had to guess, that Dutch Field Hockey team is definitely sporting some dimes.