Wednesday, September 28, 2016
'Get to Trophy Club you fucking pussy, you're 12 drinks behind.'
I'm on a text chain with 20 numbers listed. I don't have any of them stored in my phone anymore. But it's an 847, so it's certainly a North shore kid who was in my frat.
"We're taking PG bombs. You're now 13 drinks behind. That's 13 fantasy points bitch.'
There is a subset of people who won't find that phrase endearing because, well maybe they just don't remember what it was like to live with 100 guys when you were at the peak of your irresponsibility. I knew that the second I walked into that bar that I was stepping into a time portal, to a time 10 years ago when nothing mattered and we certainly behaved like that was the case. A time when we would build cannons and launch potatoes at the house across the street, a time when we accidentally shut down water to the city of Bloomington because of our doomed attempt at a hockey rink in our courtyard.
I left Chicago in 2011. Even before I left, college friends were starting to drift apart. When we first graduated people had gone out together four nights a week. There was a constant text chain relaying pregame locations and late night bars to meet up at. We all lived within a mile of each other and spent every waking moment not at work trying to pretend we were still in college.
But over time that would fade, guys would start to get serious with their girlfriends, people moved away, people grew up. I lost touch with a lot of guys after I moved but I would still follow their journey on social media. I would like their engagement photos, I would read about the wedding.
This weekend proved an interesting opportunity to bring me back into the fold. The groom and I moved to Los Angeles within a few weeks of each other. John and I had always been close in college. Even though I was a year older, we would spend summers in Chicago and terrorize Kilroy's together on the reg. When he first heard I was moving to LA he immediately offered up his bedroom to me as he was out of town. Then when he got back he told me to stay on the couch for a while.
Even when I finally moved into a hippie commune in Encino, I was a frequent guest at 8811 Burton Way. We didn't have a ton on friends in LA. Many nights I would end up on the Versaille rooftop, drinking beers in the hot tub with John, Joey and Eric talking about nothing until 5 o clock in the morning.
We all eventually caught our LA footing and at the same time John found a perfect girl, also a Hoosier, also from the Greek System. Unfortunately they were not long for this world as work called them both away to Texas.
Their last month here they lived on the beach in what is now SnapChat's offices and I think we partied every night to send them off properly. And somehow I must have forgotten this, because it wasn't until I walked into that bar and saw them nearing blackout riding a mechanical bull in tandem that I realized...
Oh, this is going to be a frat wedding.
FRAT WEDDING - noun - A wedding in which the majority of the groom's friends and bride's friends were in the same Greek Organization. It can lead to excessive drinking, loud chanting and poor life decisions.
Friday morning I woke up with a larger hangover than I imagined. I hadn't even arrived at the bar until 1am but I found out right around 230am that the bar closing times in Texas are more of suggestions. Naturally I rolled out of bed and had a beer.
Already my phone was buzzing with notifications from the text chain.
"When do Austin bars open?"
"How many fantasy points for a black eye?"
"Someone bring an IV to my hotel room."
"Did anyone fuck last night?"
I felt the best way to quell my hangover was to take a trip to Barton Creek and find a rope swing. It didn't help, so naturally my next stop was to a liquor store to grab a six pack, hoping a little hair of the dog could bring me back to life.
By lunch time, I found myself at a bar called Searsucker, aptly named for the type of people that hang out there. Our table of 12 was ordering tequila shots by the dozen and beer by the pitcher at the ripe hour of noon. Catching up with guys I hadn't seen in four years, you would think we had been living together for the past few years. I guess that's just how it is when you get back together with the guys.
Lunch ended and I decided to pop by the new Chive offices in Austin. Behold the power of a photo blog dedicated to bad behavior.
A house with a name means one of two things: You are either going to a college live out populated by 10 bros and 40 handles of flavored Kamchatka.
That is my Senior live out house. We called it Shingles because it had a funky looking roof. I once broke into a CVS and stole a sign that said FREE SHINGLES SHOTS HERE. I thought it was hilarious.
The other thing a house with a name might mean is that you are going to a multi million dollar mansion...
Behold Gatsby West.
We arrived at Gatsby West on a party bus and were handed glasses of champagne upon entry. There were three separate bars set up and manned by models. This was not the first rehearsal dinner I had been to that had beautiful women working the bar, but it was the first time I had ever been to a rehearsal dinner that was sponsored by a vodka company.
What do you think happens when you put a bunch of former frat guys in a giant house with unlimited alcohol? Toss in a rowdy country band just for good measure and it's an all time banger.
A cigar roller had camped out in the Billiards room. There were passed out bodies in the movie theater. I heard that a married woman got banged in the pool house in the middle of the party.
Her husband was not in attendance.
I spent the majority of my evening ripping cigars and doing the aforementioned PG bombs in the Parlor. It turns out a PG bomb is just when you fill a wine glass to the top with Pinot Grigio and drink it in one gulp. This might explain why I still feel like shit today.
I blacked out around 1 in the morning so I missed the skinny dipping after party. I missed the group that tore down Maggie Mae's on dirty 6th street. My roommate brought home a girl for the second night in a row. I woke up in my clothes with nothing more than a tinge of regret.
This is the exact content of the text chain I saw when I woke up Saturday morning:
12am: Just landed how long is the party going?
'We're still going'
'On my way!'
'Hurry the fuck up'
'Suck my balls!'
'Come downtown I had to put my wife to bed'
'Next stop Chugging Monkey'
'I just took 18 shots, not all heroes wear capes'
'How many fantasy points for passing out with your head out the window?'
'Moeller you pussy.'
'Guys, don't forget golf is in four hours.'
I didn't make it to golf.
I swore to myself that I would make it for a full night on Saturday. I was only halfway through the trip and we were just about to arrive at the main course. I've still got it baby. I can make this happen. I will bring home a chick tonight.
Saturday's lunch was full of more arguing about fantasy points. I had no idea my power to influence a weekend could be so great.
'You should lose points for pissing the bed.'
'It wasn't mentioned in the article, that's bullshit.'
'Well puking in an Uber should be double negative points. I heard John had to give the driver 100 bucks.'
'Isn't double negative a positive?'
I ended up drinking two Shiner Bocks at lunch because my head was throbbing. I also managed to put down $40 worth of barbecue yet still I felt like shit. It didn't help that the Austin heat was cooking up a full 99 degrees and something like 110 percent humidity. I was dreading how sweaty I would become on the dance floor later that night.
I realized while I was getting ready that I had accidentally brought an incredibly dark navy sport coat to pair with black pants, what a fucking loser. No matter, it's not about me, I thought. People will be focused on the bride and groom.
Well that was patently untrue since the first thing I heard from five guys after I entered the ceremony 30 seconds before the bride walked down the aisle was how much of an idiot I looked like.
During the ceremony I found myself crying, though it's unclear if I was overcome with emotion or my endorphine balance was just too fucked up. Sometimes I tear up in the midst of a bender. Fortunately for me the actual wedding itself was short and no one commented on the fact that I was shaking.
The fact that it rained on the brief walk to the reception was a Godsend because no one would be able to tell if I was sweating or just wet.
I walked in and found the bridal party already lining up an obnoxious row of PG bombs.
'Come on Moeller, all the frat guys are going to do one.'
We had all done three by the time that I made my way to Table 4.
7:00 The first groomsman has taken his shirt off. Speeches are still an hour away.
7:30 I am asked to settle a dispute of whether a dance floor make out actually has to be on a dance floor.
8:00 A member at my table is assured that the bar will be open all night and it is unnecessary to steal wine bottles.
And then it was time for speeches.
During the speeches I cried for the second time of the day. The speeches made me want to get married, have a daughter, have a son. But the best man's speech really brought the house down. It reminded me the real reason we all come together for these weekends. It's not to see how many times we can scream 'Saturdays are for the boys!' It's not to tell Johnny that we are doing collarbone shots off of him because all the girls said no.
It's because John and Meg are incredible people. Their families are incredible. And this is the moment that they will remember the rest of their lives.
But ya also so we can rip our shirts off and party.
The Spazmatics start playing and we are treated to two hours of lunacy.
The bride and groom do an interpretive dance on how they first met.
And at some point we decide to do the Jewish chair thing even though the bride and groom weren't Jewish.
Sorry, that video won't load.
And here is a picture of Jon Vender.
Of course there was limbo, there was double dutch, and yes eventually even yours truly took his shirt off. Everyone was doing it, why not?
After the reception we were taken to an after party in downtown Austin. Maybe it was on 6th, I don't know. One of the groomsman jumped over the bar and started serving everyone free shots. The last thing I remember hearing was PROSECO BOMBS!!!!
I imagine it is just a PG bomb with proseco.
I roll over, I'm passed out in my bed, this time naked but no girls are to be found. I grab my phone.
'Who made it to the pool party last night?'
'Extremely disappointed I wasn't invited...'
'I heard there was some significant female nudity'
'It has been described to me as an orgy'
'MVP [REDACTED] was there.'
'Female nudity is my favorite kind of nudity'
'Johnny's least favorite.'
'All clothes were removed post pizza. Things were seen. Actions were taken.'
'I highly advise against playing Marco Polo when everyone is naked. Never know what you're going to grab.'
'Dicks out for Harambe.'
'I'm heading to the bar for Irish Car Bombs.'
'How many fantasy points did [redacted] end up with?'
'All of them. All hail [redacted] your weekend MVP'
It was Sunday, the day the depression usually sets in.
I still had another full day in Austin. We were supposed to float the Guadalupe but decided to just go hang at the W hotel, drink fruity beverages and rot by the pool.
So ends a wonderful weekend full of good friends and memories I will never forget. We will all go back to our lives and possibly go years without seeing each other. If we are ever in the same town maybe we'll meet for a drink or maybe not. But it's ok, because those four years in college bonded us forever and the next time I see you it will be as if we never left one another's side.
I got back to work the next Monday after waking up at 2am to catch a lift back to LAX and I wanted to die. I rode the wave until Wednesday and probably spent four hours trying to figure out how to write this post.
Should I give out awards?
Should I rank everyone's performance?
Or should I just tell everyone what happened and see how much they believe.
I decided to pick the latter. And a lot of people won't understand half of what I've written, but it's not for them, it's for the people that do.
Until next time, rest up boys. I fully expect for there to be a sequel.
Wednesday, September 21, 2016
Welcome back to John and Meg week on SingledudeinLA! All week on the blog I'll be previewing their wedding this weekend in Austin. Today's entry will be focused on an extremely action packed weekend in the Texas capital.
It's Wednesday afternoon and there is only one thing going through my head. I cannot wait to get the fuck out of this LA cesspool and hang out with some fucking frat stars. This weekend will be full of Amphetamine abuse, collarbone shots and a fuck ton of DFMOs (dance floor make out, pronounced diffmo) if you are into that shit, read on. If not, proceed to Jezebel to find out what member of the Kardashian's washed up rapper The Game is fucking.
5pm: Depart Universal City and speed my fucking Mini Cooper all the way to LAX. I'll probably listen to the song 'I Believe in a Thing Called Love' because that song fucking rocks. I might smoke a god damn cigarette on the way and drink a Mountain Dew AMP. FUCK YA, I'm on vacation bitch.
6:08pm Arrive at LAX for my 7pm flight. Due to pending charges I haven't been able to get precheck yet. Don't worry, I'll get out of it. I always do. Due to positive racial profiling anytime I show up in court the judge just assumes I was 'at the wrong place at the wrong time' but anyway, I will have to wait in security at the airport. This will probably only allow me to have one beer and one shot before my flight.
6:50pm Yesterday I pulled up my flight info to see what my movie options would be on my flight. Maybe I could watch Sing Street for the 300th time...this is when I found out that I'm on a motherfucking prop plane. To Austin. I thought prop planes went from Indiana to Chicago. How in the fuck am I flying half way across the country on a glorified Cessna? THEY BETTER HAVE ALCOHOL.
Midnight (Local time) Land at Austin airport...drunk. Hopefully the rental car is ready. Don't worry, I'm not driving.
12:30am. Arrive at my Air Bnb. So help me God, if this place isn't stacked to the max with booze I will give them a 1 star review. I'm ready to stay up until 5am yelling Texas Forever.
8am: Rise and Shine motherfuckers. I have the day off today and I am going to make it count. Quickly check the emails.
'Wife and I are hiking the Green Belt today, all are welcome!'
Lame, why would anyone bring their wife to a frat wedding.
Here's another one.
'My main goal today is do find delicious barbecue.'
Better, at least they serve alcohol at most restaurants.
'Anyone want to hit up Barton Springs Pool?'
Yes, that. Nothing goes together like getting fucked up at a pool.
I wake my roommates up to the song 'Thunderstruck' by AC/DC and hide Smirnoff Ice all over the house. We're going swimming, but not after an aggressive 2 hour pregame.
10am: We arrive at the pool. There are some UT Alpha Phis sunning themselves on the shore. I do a cannonball near them as a peacocking move. It doesn't work. Apparently Dad Bod peaked in 2015. No matter. I brought a case of beer. We play a game where people throw a beer toward the water and you jump off the shore and catch it in the air. It is an awesome game. The lifeguards disagree. We are kindly asked to leave the pool. If you are keeping score in wedding fantasy football, I would lose a point.
Noon: We are at a bbq place now and everyone is mad at me. 'When are you going to grow up?' 'Why did you push my wife in the springs?' HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU I WAS TESTING THE WATERPROOFNESS OF THE IPHONE7? We eat some bbq and people are asking if we should go back to our respective hotels to rest. Not enjoying this one bit, I beg everyone to let me get them ONE drink before we retire home to rest before the evening's event.
2pm: We arrive at the Dizzy Rooster and I order a celebratory round of shots...only what everyone doesn't know is that I have slipped a 10mg adderall into every shot glass. WHOOPS! 6th Street Bar Crawl!!!!!!!!!!
4pm: Midnight Cowboy
430pm: Blind Pig
Things escalate at the Blind Pig. There are a group of Phi Psis on a bar crawl and we challenge them to a drinking olympics. We play flip cup, we teach them Rage Cage, shots are involved. The Indiana Alumni topple the UT kids. Obviously.
6:48 Everyone freaks out when they realize we are all fucked up and the welcome party starts in 15 minutes. With no time to change we all hop in pedicabs and head to the party in swimsuits.
720pm: God dammit. There are adults here. People are also dressed nice. I am in a pink swimsuit that is somehow ripped. It must have been when I got kicked out of friends and attempted to re-enter by jumping through the window. It's ok, I'll just play it cool and hang by the bar. The groom's parents have seen me at my worst before. Right now I'm just a tall guy who is slightly under dressed.
There are cute girls here. Of course there are, the groom works at Facebook, the bride works at the Chive. You have to be like hotter than a 7 to work there. I realize I need to find some clothes to wear or I'm never going to convince one of these Chivettes to come back to my Rainey Street bunk bed.
I bribe one of the bartenders for his jacket. I tell him I'll give him $200 and he can hold my iPhone for collateral. Next I find a closet with some salmon pants that don't match the jacket that I'm wearing but they are better than a swimsuit.
9pm: There are some speeches and I'm talking to a very old person. For whatever reason anytime I'm at a wedding I like to talk to adults and lie about what I do. Yes technically I am a writer, and I do work on a TV show. It's not my fault if they infer that I am a writer on a tv show. But it totally worked at a wedding a few years back when some dad introduced me to his daughter 'This is Dave, he writes on The Newsroom!'
I bet that dad wouldn't have introduced us had he known what I would do in that broom closet.
9:30pm The open bar is cut off, people are talking about where to go, I hear there is a bus to Maggie Mae's, I am fucking elated. I get there and find one of the single groomsman. We decide to have a competition to see who can get the most numbers at this largely college kid bar. I start strong but then I find myself get into a particularly long conversation with a Sophomore. She's a journalism major. She asks me if I want to go see her dorm room. I do.
1211am: I come out of my black out in a hallway. I realize I have no idea where I am. Fortunately I am wearing my pants, but I have no shirt. My wallet is in my pants. There is no way I will ever guess this chick's room number. Fuck it. It wasn't even my jacket. I hobble out to a street and try to get an uber but I realize it was banned and I don't have a phone anyway, I hail a cab and have it take me to Rainey Street. I find my Air BnB but I'm locked out and no one answers when I knock. I fall asleep on a bench on our front patio.
10am: My roommate dumps a bucket of water on my face and I jump with a start. 'What, what's wrong?'
'Well we're late for golf, you are on video stealing some pants from the welcome party and you slept on the front porch without a shirt on."
'Is anyone mad?'
My roommate throws me a change of clothes and we're off to Butler Park Pitch and Putt.
1030am: The group has already started and we join them on the second hole. I insisted on grabbing a 12 pack from the clubhouse so I could play beer a hole. Half the group is pleased with my exploits, the other half are horrified. I am told specifically by one person that they are not allowed to be friends with me anymore because I seem like a bad influence.
11:48am I hole out on the 6th from 78 yards, I force everyone present to shotgun a beer with me. I will find out later at the clubhouse that an ace at a Pitch and Putt doesn't qualify for a PGA hole in one plaque. I demand at least a free beer. The clubhouse manager reluctantly grants my request.
1pm: Feeling ready to conquer the world after 10 beers and a hole in one I recruit people to take me to hike the Green Belt. I've heard it's a fun thing to do in Austin.
2pm: About an hour into the Greenbelt hike the beer and the heat catch up with me. I vomit all over a quaint picnic area. I see a woman telling her young son not to grow up to be like me. At this exact moment a crazy thunderstorm breaks out. We run back to the car but I slip several times in the mud. My group is not pleased.
3:45pm: My roommates throw me in the shower turned as hot as it will go. They can't sober me up. It's basically like the penultimate scene in Flight. Finally Kevin shows up with a secret weapon.
'I found a store with original formula Four Loko. What do you think?'
'It's a risk,' Says Jack, 'What if it backfires.'
'If it backfires I don't think Dave will be invited to many more weddings.'
They decide to go for it and funnel some into my mouth. Like Popeye eating Spinach or Leo huffing blow I am resurrected from my catatonic state. I finish showering get dressed and we disembark for the ceremony.
4:30pm The ceremony is held. I keep kicking Alicia asking when they are going to break the glass and lift them around on a chair.
'It's not a Jewish Wedding Dave.'
I write down on a program that all weddings should do the chair lift thing.
5:30pm I am at a table on the far outskirts of the reception area. There are crayons in front of me. I can't decide if this is an ironic adult coloring situation or if I am legit at the kids table. We eat dinner, someone talks to me about why Trump will win. There is a choreographed entry by the wedding party. I give it an 8.
Speech Speech, toast, first dance, please and I spend the next 2 hours trying to find a dance partner. I decide it's time for drastic measures. I rip a tablecloth off a table and find my friend Joey. It's time for dance floor limbo.
8pm Dance floor limbo is a hit. It spirals eventually into double dutch, also a classic wedding move. People start to abuse the open bar a little more. The adults start to get tired. The energy is picking up. This is when I shine.
10pm I'm yelling at the band for not knowing how to play 'Sorry' when someone taps me on the shoulder. 'I read your blog.'
'The one where you predicted how the weekend in Austin was going to go.'
My brain almost explodes as I try to wrap my head around this.
'How many wedding fantasy points do you get if you do a collarbone shot off of me?'
'Let's find out.'
12am: Blog girl is telling me that she lives in Austin and I should come back with her. I protest that I really need to make it back to my bunk bed tonight. Maybe tomorrow. As I'm beginning to leave I see the bartender with my phone.
'Hey man, can I get my phone back?'
'Can I get my jacket back?'
Fuck. I get in a fake uber back to Rainey Street. Somehow I'm locked out again and sleep on the front porch.
10am I wake up to find it raining on my face. The door swings open and my roommates are bummed that we won't be able to float the river today.
'What do you mean we can't float, of course we can!'
'It's storming, it will be dangerous.'
'Bullshit, this is just a tiny cell, let's at least take the bus over there and check the situation.'
12pm we get to New Braunfels and it is pouring rain. My friends refuse to get off the bus.
'It's dangerous dude. Look at those rapids.'
I give some speech about the fact that if I die doing what I love then it's a tragedy and every bad thing I did will be forgiven just like Joe Paterno.
They respond that if I die drunk floating a river people will remember me as an idiot and also that Joe Paterno was not forgiven in death.
AGREE TO DISAGREE and I get on my inflatable tube with my person 6 pack.
2pm: It's still raining and I'm out of beer. The leisurely float is turning into something more akin to white water rafting. I also realized that I must have nodded off for a minute because I now appear to be the only person on the river and I hear thunder. Fuck. I see a small RV park up ahead and abandon my cooler and inner tube. I walk up to a large RV and see a man drinking Budweisers and watching NFL. I ask him if I can join him for a minute. He hands me a Budweiser and we watch some sports.
6pm: RV bro asks if I need a ride back to Austin. I do. His wife and daughter give me a ride back to Austin proper. I argue with the 12 year old daughter whether or not One Direction will ever get back together. I decide that they will but only after Zayn and Harry both have their careers stall. We spend the last 20 minutes jamming out to the Hamilton soundtrack. Me and the 12 year old know every word to Schuyler Sisters.
7pm: I'm back on Rainey Street. It's still raining. I see my roommates eating barbecue. I tell them about my day, they tell me they would not like to travel with me anymore. It's heavily insinuated that I will not stand at my roommate's eventual wedding. I order a beer and remember I don't have my wallet on me. You guys got this one right?
9pm: We're calling it a weekend and I finally make it to my bunk bed. It's not very comfortable. I grab a pillow and take it to the front porch. I see collarbone shot girl walking down the street.
'What are you doing here?'
'What are you doing OUT there?'
She tells me she lives next door. It's fate. I go over there with the intention of sex, but fall asleep immediately.
7am I get to the airport. I'm on Delta, a large plane. Sing Street is an option. I watch it. I order a bloody Mary. Fuck it why not.
10am I get to the office straight from LAX. I grab a Smart Water. Someone asks me how the weekend was? Really relaxing, really emotional. I think I'm ready to get married guys. Everyone says awwwww and then I stealthily go take 4 Excedrin Migraine and prepare for the worst day of my life.
Tuesday, September 20, 2016
Guys, I need some help.
It's only Tuesday and I'm worried about my line-up.
You see I'm in this Fantasy league with some friends from college. But it's not like a normal fantasy football league, it's more of like a...I don't know, how hard you party at weddings league. It's very competitive.
The scoring is as follows:
1 pt for every drink consumed
6 pts for every chick taken home
2 pts for a dance floor make out
-2 points for every time you vomit
-2 points for every time you break something
-1 point for getting kicked out of something
So it's kinda like fantasy football as there is lots of strategy involved. You want to have a nice mix of deep threats and solid producers throughout your line up. I mean I could stack my roster with single dudes but that can be a little feast or famine. Let's draw out the football metaphor a little bit.
Quarterback is the leader of the crew; the person that is not only going to put up massive numbers but also inspire others to do so as well. You should be able to count on your QB for 12 drinks, a dance floor make out and take their steady girlfriend home. That's a 20 point performance, gotta be happy with that.
Running back I like to take a married guy with kids. Especially if this is a road game (out of town wedding) that dude is away from the kids and he is going to go nuts. Expect at least 10 drinks and then some very sloppy post wedding sex with his wife. Sure he might cough the ball up once (vomit) but you're always going to take 14 points from your RB1.
Wide Receivers will be the biggest drinkers at the wedding. You want them to be reliably able to put down 2 dozen drinks without batting an eye. The WR is not necessarily going to be a big hit with the bridesmaids similar to how smaller WR's will be sometimes overlooked in the red zone. But you better be sure that the WR will get his money worth at the open bar.
Tight End is a position where you want to put some one reliable. This guy won't be doing body shots off coeds at Maggie Mae's but will definitely close at the end of the night. A couple old fashioneds and then sex with his steady? Sounds like a Jason Witten performance.
FLEX are definitely the feast or famine guys. This is your single buddy that is a pure wild card. On any given night he could blow up for 20 drinks, 3 dance floor make-outs, and take two bid week sorority girls home and have a threesome. I need to work out the scoring to include for menage a trois multipliers. Conversely, he can have 6 drinks, get bored, break something, puke on himself and get kicked out after pulling out a bag of blow. Large variance at this position. Games are often won and lost at the FLEX position.
D - There is no defense at a wedding, well except from the jealous bridesmaid that doesn't want you to go home with her friend. Gotta learn to fight through that Pass Interference.
So now that I've outlined the format of my game, let's look at my options.
So you've got the Groom, the best man and three groomsman.
Groom is tricky, he has to stay relatively sober to talk to the adults that come to the wedding. This is unfortunate, because groom John is a born leader and if wasn't his wedding I'd be happy to start him.
Eric is a phenomenal choice as the Best Man. But since he is in the wedding he has a duty not to black out and poison everyone with Molly. (The best man only does that if a Seidman is involved)
Then we look at Leo and Brian, both good dudes, both married. I would feel confident in them leading my team to victory. But I'm a gambler and the smart money for an absolute vintage Peytonesque performance for non-groom John. He lives in Austin so he won't be afraid to throw a few back and push the rest of the team to have the night of their lives.
Predicted score: 22 points.
I haven't seen my buddy Jeff in like three kids. He lives half a world away and he is at most 5'3. That said I would not be surprised in the least if he is the MVP of the weeekend. When you are 28 and have three children, you have no life. There is not time for vacation, but I know somewhere deep inside of him there is a little bit savage left. Don't be surprised to find Jeff making love to his wife in the haunted room at The Driskill at 4 o clock in the morning after polishing off an entire case of beer.
Predicted score: 20 points.
My friend Joey just achieved his lifelong dream of becoming a professional writer, so on would expect him to really let it rip this weekend, but he also has something to lose were he to fight a cop and steal a squad car.
Jack can also make it rain, but I have a feeling he will spend a lot of his weekend apologizing to people on my behalf.
Carl and Alex can both throw them back like seasoned veterans and will likewise be on vacation.
But Kevin just moved to Washington DC to work in politics for Google. I don't think he has had a day off in 3 months. Have you met political operatives before? They get stressed. Kevin needs to blow off some steam. I'm expecting a breakout performance.
Predicted Score: 18 points.
Basically everyone else at the wedding
Pretty much all of my friends are married now. They all have very stable lives and are probably on the road to home ownership. They pay their bills on time. They are adults. They probably got their own rooms at the Driskoll and didn't worry about the cost. They stopped doing drugs and probably don't feel the need to make this wedding about them. They will have a few drinks and be cordial to everyone. They probably think the concept of a Wedding MVP is dump. Let's go with Ian.
Predicted score: 10 points.
I'm inclined to pick myself here because I am going to behave like an absolute animal this weekend. My life is a very frail house of cards that could fall apart at any moment so I have to treat every vacation like my last. There is no doubt in my mind that I will try to make out with a chick in a pedicab this weekend somewhere near dirty Sixth. I've certainly had 40 point weekends before, but I am also sharing a bunk bed with Kevin, so that may hinder my ability to close.
Johnny and Ryan are former legends that are always capable of a relapse.
But smart money here is on Paul. Paul may have the most impressive job of anyone at this wedding but he also certainly gives the fewest fucks. If anyone is going to be walking across the bar at The Dizzy Rooster pouring people shots at 4 o clock in the morning on Sunday it will be Paul. Also he's a Dr. and might be able to give me an IV drip Sunday afternoon if I need one.
Predicted Score: 30 points.
So that's who I'm rolling with; John (Non-groom edition) Jeff, Kevin, Ian and Paul. I'll be sure to post their scores on Monday. If you think you can put together a better squad than me, I challenge you to leave it in the comments.
It's going to be an incredible weekend in the way that only a wedding with your college friends can be. I'm looking forward to spending quality time with each and every one of you. And I'm totally kidding about all of this...
Unless I'm not.
Monday, September 19, 2016
About 3 months ago either during or after a night of drinking one of us shot a text... 'OAR at the Belasco?' And the other person probably responded 'Of course.' Tickets were purchased and I didn't think about it until like 2 weeks ago. I never plan in advance, I usually buy tickets day of, I have commitment issues.
So when I booked my trip to Austin for a wedding this weekend I didn't think 'oh shit this is the same weekend of the OAR show. Better tell Rob!'
Well I leave for Austin on Thursday and at the time of the OAR concert I will be at a wedding reception probably yelling at the DJ for not playing enough Justin Bieber.
But to be clear, I am devastated. Any Time Now is my favorite CD of all time, I've listened to 'Lay Down' from Madison Square Garden 892 times. I have let Rob down and I feel terrible about it.
So I am here today, to ask you, nay BEG you to go to the OAR concert this Saturday with my friend Rob. Rob fucking loves OAR. I think he has probably seen them live 40 times. We went to the show last year at LA Live after Rob had been drinking at a god damn Diplo Rave all day. THAT IS COMMITMENT. I love OAR too, but just not enough to cancel my trip to Austin and probably ruin my friendship with the groom. But I promise if you go to OAR with Rob you will have fun.
Rob is fun and despite what you probably think, OAR is fucking dope. Like legit they are so so good live. Who knows? Maybe you and Rob will become lifelong friends and get to go to OAR concerts with us for years to come. Please, come on. Read on to hear a fun story about my third OAR concert (I've now been to about 30)
I spent the summer of 2007 working as a Marketing Intern at Prudential Financial in Indianapolis. My friend Dan spent the summer of 2007 roofing in Boston. At the end of the summer I flew out to Boston with one of our other pals to road trip back home. As 20 year olds are wont to do we made absolutely no plans.
We went bar hopping in Boston the first night of the road trip and had a swell time, but things really got interesting on day 2. We were planning on going to New York City (a place I had never been) but quickly realized that we had no place to stay and no idea what to do in a large city like New York. I text my brother to see if he could get on a computer and let us know if there was anything to do in Connecticut.
'There is an OAR concert in Hartford in three hours.'
I looked at my buddy Dan who was sitting in the driver's seat of a 1999 Chrysler Town and Country, then I looked forward to the New York City skyline.
"Ok, I know it's two hours in the wrong direction, but there is an OAR concert in Hartford and a Motel 6 within walking distance of the venue that is $50 a night. My mom will pay for the room."
I'm pretty sure he banged such a hard U Turn that the pipe I was holding in my hand flew out the window.
We drove to the ghetto to find a liquor store that would honor Dan's atrocious fake ID and pregamed in our hotel room the way only underage college kids can. Armed with a bottle of Skol Vodka and an iPhone 1 without speakers, we used our room's alarm clock for pregame music.
About an hour before the show we started walking toward the venue, a large amphitheater type outdoor place surrounded by car dealerships in which kids were drinking. (I would find out years later that these were what the CT kids used for tailgating lots, all the actual cars for sale were moved on days of shows)
We go to the show, they open with my favorite song (Untitled) and somehow Dan is able to reliably get us beers all night. Right before the encore I started dancing with some chick and then we even start making out. I am thinking that skipping NYC for Connecticut is like the greatest decision of my life. "Love and Memories" is playing on the ground and I have this fairly hot 20something chick all over me.
When the show ended I was on cloud 9 and I go to catch up with my buddies who were laughing uncontrollably.
'What's so funny?'
'Uh your chick.'
'What about her?'
'I'm pretty sure I saw her giving a dude a bj like 15 minutes before you made out with her. You totally just got snowballed.'
The following day we got pulled over crossing the border into Canada. Right before we got pulled over, my buddies whispered to me 'we forgot to hide the pot.' So I shit my pants for 20 minutes while customs questioned us. It turns out that my friends DID hide the pot and were just fucking with me. They probably made up the Snowball thing too, right?
But the point is, crazy shit can always happen at an OAR show. September 24th at the Belasco...do it!
Looking back maybe this wasn't the best story to sell you on OAR.
Here's the setlist from that Connecticut show though. It was fire. http://www.oarsa.org/features/viewsetlist.php?showID=1286
Thursday, September 15, 2016
Enter any Writer's Room in the country you will find an eclectic variety of a certain sparkled water named La Croix. In fact, I would wager that any office building in a major city boasts a fridge stocked with them. Specifically here on The Mindy Project we probably go through about 40 cans of the Grapefruit (aka Pomplamoose aka give me a fucking break) every day.
Now we can argue the merits of flavored sparkling water, we could attempt to rank the twenty some odd flavors of La Croix or we could do a deep dive into the origin story of how a water company from Wisconsin tricked a pretentious world into making La Croix the official mascot of upper middle class white people.
La Crosse, WI is a town of about 50,000 near the Minnesota border. It has a median household income of $40,000 and a shitty D3 college. It's basically Brendan Dassey territory. To be clear, household income is the income of everyone that lives under your roof. I essentially make minimum wage and struggle to pay my bills but have a household income well over $100,000.
Now let's not shit on La Crosse too hard. It shares its name with a dope sport for bros. It is the birthplace of Flip Saunders and they have the coolest demonym in the country. If you are from La Crosse you are a LAXian.
But why did I just spend two paragraphs educating you about some shit hole town in Wisconsin when I am supposed to be talking about some fancy ass French sparkling water. Because my friends, La Croix is actually not French, it has nothing to do with France. That's right, playing on your bullshit faux-francophile sensibilities, a tiny company tricked you into buying their product via some clever marketing.
Nowhere on a La Croix can will you see 'Product of France' or even 'imported.' No, all you will see is some fancy ass color palette, a non-English word that a bunch of people don't know how to pronounce and some nutritional information in the form of a bunch of zeros.
Upon closer inspection, you will realize that La Croix isn't even a quaint independent Wisconsin company anymore. They sold out to Sundance Beverage Company, some giant conglomerate in Michigan.
Even their website is an exercise in trendy 30something housewives jerking themselves off. They have a blog about everything trending La Croix. This is literally some Goop adjacent bullshit that is just preying on those that need to feel better than everyone. Seriously, look at this shit.
In summation, I want to point out that you are not enlightened because you drink La Croix. You are not trendy. You are just some basic ass bitch that got hoodwinked by their pretty colors and 8-pack packaging. Why an 8-pack instead of the traditional 12? Because fuck you. That's why.
And to those of you that find it 'refreshing' and 'tasty.' You are just a god damn liar.
At least Perrier is actually French, a country that wasn't even that great to begin with. Me personally? I'll enjoy the shitty LA tap water that almost certainly contains something like .2% bacteria per liter. Maybe when the zombie apocalypse hits I'll be immune.
Tuesday, September 13, 2016
|^ Not the strung theory equation|
Guys, I felt like shit on Monday.
Thursday night I drank a metric ton of wine because it was the last Pier concert.
Friday I consumed a baker's dozen Old Fashioneds on a Hollywood rooftop at some fancy ass Mindy Project Party.
Saturday I drank an entire case of beer at the USC tailgate and then proceeded to play 500 games of skee ball at the Arts District brewery all the while slamming IPAs.
Sunday I did bottomless, drank 10 mimosas, got a miserable case of Sunday Scaries and was asleep by 9pm.
It was a hell of a weekend and I felt terrible on Monday. This should be no surprise, but I spent the day today wondering if there was a formula that could quantify when my hangovers would end.
Spoiler Alert. I did it.
Now I'm not going to go out on a limb and say that it's perfect. To be honest, it's impressive that I was able to do anything mathematical. I limped through the only 2 math classes of college with C's and I can't say I remember a fucking thing about Finite Mathematics or Calculus other than the fact that I almost didn't get into to Kelley because the night I was to study for the Calc final I ended up having sex with said study partner and watching Space Balls.
I survived with a 73.
Further disclaimers: This formula doesn't include how much food you ate, whether you went to bed hydrated or not, if you were smoking cigarettes or if you missed your alcohol. But guys I tried my best...allow me to introduce Strung Theory.
Strung Theory or ST for short is not going to tell you when you are safe to drive like that wheel they gave you after you got your drinkoing ticket. It is not going to tell you when your body has completely processed all of the alcohol, it merely aims to tell you when you will no longer feel like shit.
I hope you enjoy.
Recovery = [(Streak * Amount)/(age*(1/hr))]Drugs
Recovery (R) is the amount of hours until you feel fully recovered.
Streak (S) the days in a row that you have been drunk.
Amount (N) the amount of beverages you consumed on the last day of your bender.
Age (A) your age.
Hr (H) the hour you went to bed.
Drugs (D) amount of hard drugs (including alcohol) done on last day
R = [(A*(1/H)]}D
Ok, so let's plug my weekend into that now.
I went on a 4 day bender and had 10 glasses of champagne on Sunday.
S = 4 N = 10
We've got 40 on top.
My age is 29 and I went to bed at 9pm or 21 military time. (Note, if you went to bed at like 3, this would be 27) 29/21 (that's a little trick for you straight from my honors math class) is 1.38.
So now we have 40 on top, and 1.38 on bottom. 40/1.38 is about 29. I did not indulge in drugs on Sunday so we just multiply 29 by 1, which is 29...
This means after my bender I was fully recovered about 29 hours after I went to bed on Sunday night...and seeing as I felt like shit all day yesterday, I am inclined to agree.
Hooray! While an inexact science, I am inclined to think that this is the most accurate predictor to date, I'm not requesting any sort of medal or Presidential commendation, I just do this out of the goodness of my heart. So go ahead, type in your weekend numbers and let me know how I did!
(And show your fucking work)
Wednesday, September 7, 2016
One would think that I would have learned the limits of the human body long ago. Sure you can ride your bike 100 miles, run a marathon, drink 30 cocktails, but the next day you have to pay the Piper.
Sunday I hiked over 20 miles and 5,000 feet of elevation gain. It is now Wednesday and I am still having trouble moving. This is concerning as I have 4 important social activities the remainder of the week: The last Pier Concert, The Mindy Project's 100th episode party, the first USC Tailgate and my neighbor's 30th. Heaven help me if I don't get 12 hours of sleep tonight. But whatever, that's future Dave's problem. Let's look back for a moment.
I've long been of the mind that everything will just work out with a positive attitude and some perseverance. Such was the case when I jumped into a car Friday night with the intention to go backpacking through Yosemite. I didn't have any plans for the weekend and since only a loser stays in town for a 3day, I decided to join my friends for a camping trip.
I had never been to Yosemite, in fact only one member of our crew had step foot in the park before.
How hard can it be? I thought to myself. We'll find a campground, pitch a tent, walk around a little bit and then get fucked up on Buffalo Trace it will be fine. I entered Yosemite this weekend a filthy casual, I exited an all-pro. What will follow are some handy tips, to ensure that you don't fuck up your Yosemite trip.
1. Make a fucking reservation.
If you're like me, 29 years of white male privilege have told you that things will just work out for you. My dad used to just walk me into concerts by telling the usher that we had misplaced our tickets. Using this strategy I have sauntered into Cubs games, music festivals and even awards shows. Hence, I thought nothing of it when we showed up at Yosemite on the busiest weekend of the year without a reservation. Surely there will be one spot left if we get in at 7am. The 'all campgrounds full sign' is clearly for fucking rooks who they are trying to keep out of the park.
Naw dawg, those signs are for real. If you can't get a reservation. You're fucked. If you want to be slightly less fucked, pull in Friday night...or even 3am Saturday morning. Not 6, not 7...fucking 3am. Go to the biggest campground and beg the park ranger to let you in. Tell him you drove 16 hours for the opportunity to camp in the greatest national park in the world. Rangers love it when you pump their tires.
If all else fails exit the park at Portal and there is a tiny campground to the right. We stayed there and didn't get murdered. Also there is a mini mart next door with a surprisingly strong beer selection.
2. Have a plan.
The whole 'we'll just figure it out' thing sounds good in theory, but in practice, it's foolish. I just assumed I would win the Half Dome lottery on Sunday and that we would hike to the top, I would take a selfie and get a million Instagram likes and a talking point with outdoorsy chicks for the rest of my life. It would probably lead to 2.5 blowjobs.
Well I lost the half dome lottery, didn't get a good camp site and then had no plan the rest of Saturday. This led to us getting stuck in 4 hours of traffic, abandoning our car to get to a general store and me consuming an entire liter of whiskey and an extra large bag of Jalapeno Kettle Chips on Saturday night. (Still not a bad Saturday night)
3. Tin Meals.
The most magical thing that I learned this weekend and the reason my Saturday was a 7 instead of a 2 is the tin meal. Are you ready for me to blow your fucking mind? It turns out, you can just wrap up meat and raw vegetables in tin foil, throw it in the fire and after 20 minutes you have a delicious stew.
I live in an apartment in Los Angeles with granite counter tops, a nice over, a grill, a foreman, fancy blenders, a Vitamix, a roommate that is dating a FUCKING CHEF and the greatest thing I have ever made in my life was some shitty burger meat and bell peppers wrapped in tin foil that I threw into a fire. Or maybe it was just that I drank an entire liter of whiskey Saturday night. Whatever, the combined euphoria of tin meals, whiskey and my new favorite game 'Mt. Rushmore*' were enough to turn a potentially catastrophic situation, into a tenable one.
* How to play Mt. Rushmore
Ask someone to name their four favorite of something.
i.e. 'Hey Rob, what's your Mt Rushmore of cheese?'
'Brie, Cheddar, Swiss and Manchego'
4. Bring a hatchet.
There is nothing more fun than splitting wood when you are fucked up.
5. Pack Appropriately.
Our first hike Sunday was a Vernal Falls/Nevada Falls/John Muir Mist Trail. Vernal Falls and Nevada Falls are like for real legit waterfalls and they are bad ass. I was wearing $30 hiking boots because I like to allocate 90% of my income to what Mint.com calls 'Entertainment.' 1 mile into our 20 mile hike on Sunday I decided to jump off a 30 foot rock into the waterfall because I #Doitforthestory.
All I could think on the way down was 'I wonder if these Cal State Northridge girls filming me with their GoPro want to fuck me.' And also 'I hope I don't land on a sharp rock.'
I did not land on a sharp rock, but I failed to remember that the waterfalls were glacier run off. I hiked the rest of the day with wet boots, wet socks and hypothermic symptoms. But hey, I have a hell of a picture.
6. Pack Appropriately part 2.
I wore a 'Make America Great Again' hat all weekend because I wanted to have a bunch of ironic pictures that would make people angry. It turns out that lots of Latino folk visit National Parks. I learned quickly that if you are going to ware an offensive hat, turn it backwards. That way people can't hate you until you have already passed them!
7. Research Public Transportation.
After our first hike on Sunday, we decided to chew off a 10 mile loop to the top of Glacier Point. It's a tough-ish hike but has spectacular views of half dome and the entire valley. Everyone was already a little tired and low on water so we decided maybe we would just hike to the summit, get a few photos and take the shuttle down. That would give us time to have a few drinks and hang out at the campground before bed. Two and a half hours later we were at the top. Two hours and thirty one minutes later we were told there is no shuttle to the bottom.
8. When in doubt hitchhike.
We walked to the Glacier Point parking lot hoping to find the girls a ride down. Your best bet when hitchhiking is to find anyone other than an old man with a beard. We found a couple Pepperdine chicks to take our girls to the bottom. The guys sprinted down the mountain and I fell and cut up my arm. Looking back I probably should have hitchhiked with the girls, probably have a better story and fewer scabs.
9. Don't set up your camp like an ass hat.
I insisted on pitching my tent next in the middle of our campground because I am afraid of bears. I also figured that if I was in the middle I would be best positioned to escape my tent and kill the bear with the hatchet. Because of this, my tent was pitched on a slight incline. This led to me rolling down to a corner in the middle of the night and cuddling with Andrew's feet.
Set up your tent on flat ground. Even if it's closer to the bears! Also, bring a lamp, eating in the dark is weird! Also, you can do the tinfoil trick with corn on the cob. Also, I drank 6 more beers and another liter of whiskey Sunday night and briefly forgot about our 20 miles of hiking and my soon to be extremely sore joints.
10. No matter what you do, go with a great crew.
We caught some L's early in the trip. There is no denying this. Half dome fell apart, we ended up at our last choice campground. We put probably 2000 miles on Andrew's car and spent a needless 8 hours in traffic. But despite all of this, we pressed on. The mountain may have defeated us day 1, but we kicked this shit out of it day 2. Only go on a camping trip of this magnitude with solid positive people that can roll with the punches. Also I would suggest a bluetooth speaker that you can hike with. Also I would suggest blasting Girltalk on those trails. Because even though mash up DJs have gone out of style, Feed the Animals is still a masterpiece.
Most importantly, enjoy the ride. California is home to NINE of the 59 National Parks in the United States. You hear that 15% of the national parks in the United States are in your fucking backyard. And they are all dope. This is why nature kicks ass and Teddy Roosevelt was the coolest president.
The things I saw this weekend and the memories forged with great friends are things I will never forget.
Tuesday, September 6, 2016
*I will be writing about my experience in Yosemite tomorrow. But today, please enjoy this piece about another popular Labor Day destination: Palm Springs.
The following story was told to me one time by an Uber driver during Coachella. He also asserted that Marilyn Monroe was murdered in a mob hit by Frank Sinatra, so I completely trust him. I have not fact checked.
In the early days of Hollywood, actors were contracted to studios. An actor would receive a weekly salary and in return they would do whatever movies the studio decided to cast them in. There was a clause in the contract that you could never be more than 100 miles from LA because at any time they might need you to come act in something.
Palm Springs is 99 miles from Los Angeles.
Thus a playground was born for the rich and famous, a place where one could 'get away from it all.' A place where one could bang hookers, do drugs and carry on sordid extra-marital affairs with other men all seemingly far away from the bright lights of Hollywood.
I first went to Palm Springs three years ago on Labor Day weekend. I was with my roommate and his new girlfriend and all of her friends. I didn't know the group very well, but we decided to rent a giant house in the middle of the desert and see if we would get along. I spent that weekend blacked out on Fireball, openly insufflating Adderall XR and chain smoking at the Ace Hotel, all the while openly putting on a show of PDA with one of the girls.
Somehow three years later I am still tolerated by this group.
Trip two to Palm Springs was a Coachella trip that involved acid and an Easter Egg Hunt. Trip Three to Palm Springs involved 2 cases of Smirnoff Ice and a drone.
If the above sounds like fun to you than you might have already deduced that I fucking love Palm Springs.
But then again, I also don't mind sleeping on pool mats in the kitchen. I like trying to come up with the darkest possible timeline in a game of Cards Against Humanity. I have three aces in the hole for Never Have I Ever. (Never done Butt stuff, Never been to Asia, Never eaten a Kit Kat) I am the target market of 'Who wants to split a 7 bedroom house 2 hours outside of LA for $80 a person and buy a bunch of beer, liquor and hamburger meat?' Palm Springs is the easiest and cheapest vacation you will ever take. (Aside from camping)
Maybe that experience isn't for you. But the question is...is that Palm Springs stuff? I did similar things at Lake Houses in Indiana or cabins in Big Bear. One time I was staying at a La Quinta Inn and we threw a keg in the pool and had a grand old time.
What we will try to deduce today is if there is anything inherently special about Palm Springs. If it is a legit location for a quick weekend getaway or if it is like La Croix, completely overrated.
"Hot take, Palm Springs sucks. It's hot and there is nothing to do."
I am looking at one of my coworkers, he is married and went for a quick getaway with his wife this weekend. I had received a similarly unenthusiastic review from my roommate when I asked him how his weekend was. "It was good."
Palm Springs is objectively hot. There is a high of 100 degrees today.
My coworkers observation is accurate. I will not argue this point.
'There is nothing to do,' gets a little harrier. Is there really nothing to do in Palm Springs? I've been to Palm Springs and I did a lot. I played golf, I invented a game where you throw a beer into the pool and the first person to swim to it gets to chug it! I drunkenly decided to climb a mountain in our backyard. And of course we cooked, played games and played music unreasonably loud.
Which is to say...I partied.
And then of course there is the nightly debauchery of The Ace. If you aren't familiar with Palm Springs you may just think the Ace Hotel is a downtown date spot for guys that are trying too hard. It's actually a hotel chain and their most famous hotel is an old converted Howard Johnson and Denny's in Palm Springs.
It turns up.
And while most of the people there are gay dudes just getting lit, there is plenty of fun to be had there by the common cis hetero male. Namely shitty DJs and a ping pong table. It's like going to the shittiest possible version of a Vegas pool and I love it.
I digress. There are objectively things to do in Palm Springs.
There are possibly other things to do in Palm Springs. I think the girls went antiquing last time while the men played golf. We played beer a hole 2 man scramble, but I'm sure the girls had just as much fun looking at old lamps.
That brings us to a very fair question: Is there anything to do in Palm Springs if you don't like to party?
Well I suppose you could have sex all day. That's something couples do once in a while right? Get some wine and just have a fuckathon? Also, I'm told that some people enjoy laying in the heat. In fact the Yiddish term for this is having a 'shvitz.'
On the outskirts of Palm Springs there is gambling and I think even some real life hot springs.
But again, most of the people I know go to Palm Springs, rent a huge house and rage all weekend. They take lots of snap chats, back flips are typically involved.
So is there anything to do but party in Palm Springs? Kinda. But not really.
And while one could argue that there is gambling and fuckathons and 'laying by a pool and sweating' in LA, I would parry that they are forgetting 'The Vacation Principal.'
'The Vacation Principal is as follows: going on vacation is fucking dope. It's something to get excited about and it's something to talk about after.
When someone asks you 'what did you do this weekend?' it's much easier to respond, 'Went to Palm Springs' than 'Got a room at the W and had sex with my wife 20 times.'
The latter is weird, the former is cool, even if functionally they are the same.
I am now confident that I have enough information to make a ruling on this matter.
If you want a fairly inexpensive, easy vacation to get fucked up with your friends, Palm Springs is an excellent choice.
As a couple's trip it still has value, but might not be as fun as something like Ojai or even Tarranea.
Palm Springs is not overrated nor underrated. It is not shitty, it is not great. Palm Springs is fine. If you go to Palm Springs you will have a fine time.