Friday, October 28, 2016

Be a Doctor

Don't panic.

So you waited until Wednesday to Prime a Sexy Harambe costume and it ended up in Venice, FL instead of Venice, CA. You now have seven hours to put together a costume or your Halloween will be ruined and the rest of 2016 will suck. You're probably having a worse day than Hilary Clinton.

But don't worry. I've been there and I've got your back. Listen very carefully to what I am about to say.

First you need a friend who is a doctor. If you don't have a friend that is a doctor you should get one. They can call in Z packs for you if you ever get sick or have a curable STD. But if you don't have a doctor friend, go to the Scrubs store.

That's right, when everyone is going to the Halloween outlet to pick over what's left of the overpriced shitty costumes, you are going straight to Scrubs Unlimited in Westwood where you will buy a pair of short sleeved breathy scrubs. If you work on a medical show like the Mindy Project, you can just go hit on the costume PA for 20 minutes until she gives you some rejected wardrobe.

If you haven't figured it out yet, you are going to be a doctor for Halloween. It's a simple costume really, it's comfortable, but it also opens up the world of a surprising amount of bits.

For example. One of your accessories is going to be a note pad. Any time you see a girl that you would like to have intercourse with, you walk up to her and say the following:

"What ails you my dear, I am a doctor."

No matter what she says, you will pull out your note pad and prescribe her shots.

She will love it, it's hilarious.

On every prescription you will put your phone number on it and say something like 'If you have any side effects in the morning give me a call."

There is a 23% chance you will get a text in the morning saying 'Dr. I'm having some side effects, I may need a house call."

The good thing about being a doctor though is that you can prescribe more than shots. Feeling bold? Prescribe a kiss. Did you manage to wrangle a stethoscope? Check their pulse, ask her to take a deep breath and cough, this establishes kino, the art of touch.

Be creative, be obnoxious. Preface lots of statements with 'trust me, I'm a doctor' you can even lie and pretend you ARE a real doctor. Don't break character all night.

I guarantee you will have a good time and you and everyone around you will get very drunk.

Congratulations, your Halloween has been saved.

Tuesday, October 25, 2016

Be Basic

Do you like apple orchards, spiced lattes and carving pumpkins?

Me too. Carving pumpkins is fucking dope.

Did you get excited for fall weather because you have a fantastic wardrobe full of sweaters and Patagonia fleeces that you have been dying to wear for the last six months? Me too. I ride hard for that shit.

I grew up wealthy, my parents are still together, I was in a frat and I have a traditionally sought after body type. Oh and I'm white.

I like Taylor Swift because she's catchy, I go to Starbucks because it's convenient. I watch Love Actually at Christmas. I wear collared shirts because they are flexible, I participate in wine Wednesday because WINE NOT and yes I prefer skinny blondes because I am physiologically predisposed to.

You know what I am...I'm basic.

I don't know where the term came from or why it went mainstream around the beginning of this decade.

Oh wait, ya I do. We stole it from black people just like rap, Drake and phrases I hate like 'fam' and 'woke.' (Ironically that statement makes me woke)

But whereas 'basic' was effectively used by a certain subculture previously to criticize the mainstream it has now been co-opted by people that are feeling bitter and insecure, you know who they are: haters.

In a world of microaggressions and safe spaces it seems the only thing left to go after is that which we envy.

"Look at her vacation photos. So basic."

Sure, hot dogs or legs is a little played out, but the subtext of that comment is always going to be, 'god dammit this chick is in Bali and I had a mediocre Bumble date last night at a Barney's Beanery.'

I am here to tell you today once and for all that there is nothing wrong with living in Santa Monica or going to Yoga or getting a juice. It is not a mortal sin to your individuality to go to Soul Cycle or have a Class Pass.

Carrying a few too many pounds does not make you interesting, being skinny does not make you uninteresting. It is ok to conform to societal norms, read best sellers and check in from Sugarfish on date night.

Go ahead and be a bandwagon cubs fan. Get that North Shore approved t shirt that makes your tits look fucking great. Grab the matching hat too.

Listen to Chainsmokers. Fuck it make an entire Chainsmokers playlist for your Halloween party. Dress slutty. Do your best re-enactment of SNL's 'A Girl's Halloween.'

Live your life like a fucking Pinterest board if you want to because the people that drag you down for living your life the way you want are the same people that think their self esteem issues make them hip.

Being unhappy is not hip.

Live your best life and if that life includes making pumpkin cookies for your book club. You make those fucking cookies with pride. You aren't a 'normie' you aren't a stereotype, you are you.

My name is David Moeller and I am proud to be a basic bitch.

Friday, October 21, 2016

Palm Springs 2016: Preview

I'll cut right to the chase.

I'm going to Palm Springs in two hours and I have no idea what to expect.

I have never met a few of the people that I will be living with for the following 48 hours and there is another group who has a very cursory knowledge of my existence.

Conventional wisdom would say that it would be a good idea to take it easy, fade into the background this weekend; not make it about me. It is after all a birthday party, not my birthday party and I am a guest at this house. I need to be respectful and clean. That's really the most that can be expected from me.

Conversely, I have had one hell of a week. I have heard so many Bumble horror stories at work that I'm starting to think that I am living in a Black Mirror episode. Sometimes you just need to drink whiskey out of a hot girl's collarbone to make sure you've still got it.

I agonized over the decision for days. Part of me wants to be an adult, wants to prove that I can be 'chill and low key.' I want to think that I am not Denzel Washington from Flight, stuck in a hotel room with a fully stocked mini bar.

Just to be sure, I asked my friend Ally. She's put together and often gives me sound advice.

Clavicle shots it is. I'm sorry everyone, I tried, I really tried to be different. But sometimes you gotta be you. Consider this a warning shot for the debauchery that follows.

Of course I haven't packed a bag yet. I'll probably just bring a swimsuit and 3 bro tanks as well as 3 cases of beer, 2 gallons of Fireball and of course 12 strategically hidden Smirnoff Ice.

I might bring a drone and if I can procure one, a shot luge.

I am going to use the power of persuasion to make this trip go exactly the way I want. I may buy a gong and call it the 'shot gong' and make people take a shot every time I ring the shot gong.

Do you know how fucking effective shot gongs are?


Dinner I don't want to go to? Shot gong.

Photo shoot that I want to cancel? Shot gong.

Want to rally some people that are napping? Shot gong.

Trying to get people to go to the Ace Hotel? Shot gong is now Adderall gong. GONGGGGGG!

Look I'm sure everyone on this trip would be totally content to float on swans all weekend and leisurely drink Rose.

Well I'm not.

You have been warned. It might get loud.

Friday, October 14, 2016

How to send your Bumble break up text.

We've all been there.

You matched on Bumble and there was a little spark of hope. OMG is this guy my future husband? Your pulse races a bit and then you say WHOA SLOW THE FUCK DOWN. First this guy needs a funny response to my question.

"If you were a baseball player what would your walk up song be?"

You're super proud of yourself. What a witty question!

"The Friends theme song probably."

OMG HE'S PERFECT. He probably thinks his life is a tv show too!

That amazing reply obviously grants him a first date and it goes...ok?

He drank a little too much on the date, he accepted your offer to split the meal. He led on that he MIGHT be a Trump supporter and oh he totally has put on 10 pounds since his photo was taken.

But like he's funny right? Remember the Friends thing? He's such a Joey!

You kiss and it's a little awkward.

The night ends.

Life goes on for you. Maybe you get drunk at a bar and go home with an ex-fling the following weekend. Joey from Friends fades from your mind...

Until 10 days later he brings up some obscure fucking 'inside joke' you guys had.

'Hey remember when we talked about getting drunk at Dave and Busters? We should do that soon!'

You say something non-committal like 'Haha, YES that sounds so fun.'

But then after cancelling on him twice, you find yourself drinking an IPA and playing Big Buck Hunter at Hollywood and Highland on a Tuesday night.

He says something about how he wants his wife to be a stay at home mom and it's not because he's a sexist or anything, it's just his mom was a stay at home mom and he turned out great!

Ok, you're totally out on this guy. He needs to fucking go. You don't even want to count all your Skee Ball tickets to see what kind of rainbow slinky you can get from the prize store, you want to go home and never see this guy again.

He drives you home, plays a horrible song that he thinks you like and then tries to kiss you in your driveway. He even has the audacity to say 'I think that was a pretty good second date!' You flee up yo your apartment and no sooner have you locked the door when a few charming texts come in from Mr. Wrong.

"Hey I had so much fun with you tonight, you're the best, sweet dreams. Smiling party emoji."

Fuck. I guess he is kind of a nice guy. Just a bit of an idiot that you are NOT into. But you must break it off. Sure it will crush him, but don't worry. I got your back on this. I will show you how to break this man's heart with (some) compassion.

STEP 1: It has to be preemptive.
 Look, I love to put things off until the last minute because dealing with things is hard. But just like an unpaid parking ticket, leading on a Bumble boy will just increase the pain exponentially with time.

The day after the date is when you need to cut it off. Do not wait for him to ask for another date, do not seek advice from your mother. Do not draft 17 versions of what to send. Time is of the essence.

STEP 2: Show some heart (but not too much)
I understand the want to say something like: While I was kissing you I felt like one of Bill Clinton's rape victims or I literally had to swallow a bottle of shampoo to get your gross taste out of my mouth. But obviously you have some degree of tact or you would just ghost this motherfucker into oblivion.

Conversely, you do not want to butter this guy up too much with emojis and compliments. The only thing worse than sending a Bumble break up text is the follow up questions?

Was it something I said? Did you not like my shirt? Was my Khloe is actually the best Kardashian take too hot? COME ON ONE MORE CHANCE PLEASE!!!

This fuckboy has to do know that you had a generally nice time but there is absolutely no chance of getting back together.

STEP 3: Cease communication
Knowing when to walk away is a skill that is almost universal to all walks of life. Clayton Kershaw after the 6th inning? WALK AWAY. Having an argument with a person of color about white male privilege? WALK AWAY. In fact the only time in life when you should NOT walk away is when you are enjoying a Diplo song. (Four people that read this will catch that reference)

As much as you will want to keep pumping this guy's tires and saying shit like 'No, I think you're great, it's just..." and "It's just a personality fit type thing" or the dreaded "It's not you, it's me..."


In fact after you send the text. Hand your phone to a friend and don't let them give it back for an hour. Or turn your phone off and throw it at a wall and don't look at it for a few days. It's a real Schrodinger's Cat situation. If your phone is not on to receive a scary text message, did it really happen?

STEP 4: Straight and to the point

Ok, without further ado. Your text should read something like this.

'Hey, I had a good time last night, but I'm not really feeling a spark. Good luck!'

The end.

Does that leave an opening? No.

Is it mean? No!

You're saying, I had a nice time but this chapter is closed. No nudes for you.


There is also a world in which this guy really won't give a fuck. Maybe you are one of 12 girls this dude is dating. Maybe he sends every chick 'I had a really good time tonight crazy party emoji.' Maybe, JUST MAYBE he's not that into you.

If all goes according to plan, seeing this guy in public shouldn't make you want to kill yourself. And really that's the best one can hope for with a Bumble break up.

Or you could just get flaky with your text messages and wait for it to work itself out. Whatever you want

Tuesday, October 11, 2016

American Fuckboy

'Oh he's just some fuckboy.'

I originally heard the term probably a couple years ago while listening to a couple girls talking about one of their boys on the side. I didn't really understand at the time what the phrase meant. I assumed said 'fuckboy' was just some guy that this chick had sex with, but it didn't really mean anything. Maybe he was hot, maybe his dad had money. But this dude was probably not 'the one.'

Under that definition being a 'fuckboy' would seem to be a positive. After all, there are very few men in their mid 20's that have an aversion to no strings sex. Unless of course a 'fuckboy' were to fall in love and WANT there to be strings. In fact they made two movies about this in 2011 so perhaps fuckboy had deeper origins.

As it turned out, I was wrong. A fuckboy is not some hot piece of ass a single chick calls when she is in heat and needs to tie one off. It is in fact an attempted perjorative term for somewhat of a flakey manwhore.

In fact, I stumbled upon a checklist on Betches about how to determine if you are dating a fuckboy.

After strong examination of the list it seems like a 'fuckboy' is the dude that doesn't want to date you, but will definitely send a 'you up?' text once he's drunk. Also every single person in Los Angeles.

It was at this exact moment that I realized that I am a fuckboy.

Not satisfied with my findings I decided to do a deeper internet dive, Huffpo defined it as such.

In essence, a fuckboy (sometimes stylized “fuckboi” or “fuccboi”) is a (usually straight, white) dude embodying something akin to the “man whore” label, mashed up with some “basic” qualities and a light-to-heavy sprinkling of misogyny.
Vanity Fair went slightly darker.

A “fuckboy” is a young man who sleeps with women without any intention of having a relationship with them or perhaps even walking them to the door post-sex. He’s a womanizer, an especially callous one, as well as kind of a loser.

And then Jezebel came it to say 'naw it's actually a word black dudes call each other to question their masculinity something something culture appropriation.'

To call someone a fuckboy is to insult them. It falls into a similar category of terms like bitch-ass or scrub. A fuckboy is a man who is lame, who sucks, who ain’t shit.
 Jez goes on to talk about hipster hip hop act Run the Jewels and probably some hot takes about why pads are better than tampons, but the evidence remains that there are multiple interpretations of the word.

I began using the word recently to dismiss the guys that my female friends dated that I didn't like.

'Can I bring Jonas to the pregame?'

'Ugh, that fuckboy? He'll never be one of us.'

I feel like that insult runs contrary to either Jezebel or Huff Po's definition and is more akin to just blaring Avril Lavigne's 'Hey hey you you I don't like your girlfriend!'

Furthermore there are even more sites that claim calling someone a 'fuckboy is to question their manhood.' As in you are not a man, you are a boy. Which is strange.

Right now we are living in parallel subcultures in which many people are worried about triggering warnings and safe spaces, while another half are yelling 'Saturdays are for the boys' while doing lines of cocaine out of skinny girls' clavicle gaps.

 Were a Silverlake male feminist to call a former frat guy a 'fuckboy' the reaction would likely be, 'Hell ya man, Dicks out for Harambe!' thus creating a subculture paradox where one side is calling the other horrible and the other side embracing it.

My conclusion is that a 'fuckboy' is whatever you want it to be. It's also an aesthetically pleasing thing to say which is why it must be so popular in our current lexicon.'Fuckgirl' didn't pop off because frankly it doesn't roll off the tongue as well.

We're overrun by fuckboys at this specific moment in time. Donald Trump, Lena Dunham, Kanye West, Season 4 JD McCoy in Friday Night Lights. But just remember before you judge too harshly, there is a little fuckboy in all of us.

That in mind, I've created a fun and quick quiz to determine if you, in 2016, are a fuckboy.

1. Do you do use drugs?

2. Do you wear your hats backwards?

3. Have you unironically Sent a snapchat with the caption 'Saturdays are for the boys?'

4. Have you ghosted someone in the last three months?

5. Are you on at least 2 dating apps (Bumble, Tinder, Jdate, etc.)

6. Are you voting for someone other than Hillary?

7. Would you cancel all pre existing plans if you were invited on a boat?

8. Do you have a cleaning lady (or guy) that you pay to clean your apartment?

9. Do you own more than 5 articles of clothing that could be considered pastels?

10.  Do you judge people for saying things like 'Mercury is in retrograde?'

11. Have you participated in a fad diet in the last year?

Now give yourself 1 point for every 'Yes.' If you're over 7, congratulations. You're a fuck boy. Come on over on Saturday we'll start drinking Smirnoff Ices around noon.

Friday, October 7, 2016

The United States of Frat: Wisconsin

On today's episode of the United States of Frat we discuss the birth of the road trip scavenger hunt, Pennsylvania fake IDs and the merits of hooking up on a couch. If you are into that kinda thing, read on. If not, have fun folding laundry this weekend.

University of Wisconsin*: The Red Shed

*You don't have to indicate Madison because anyone that went to a satellite school should be ashamed and not reading this blog.

Yelp Score: 3 stars!

Scathing reviews:

Joe W has this to say.

Terrible Bar.  Smells like a dirty locker room.  The bar tenders are rude.  The drinks are terrible and when you ask for a new one they call you a drunk and argue with you about it.  Bathrooms are the most disgusting room I have ever been in.  If you go there do not use them.  Only good thing is that music isn't overly loud.
Hey at least you get to leave the ear plugs at home!

Chris W thinks they hate the gays!

Ugh. Cesspool of a college bar, the only place at which I was ever, as far as I can tell, overtly discriminated against on the basis of (perceived) sexual orientation.
I stopped in for a quick happy hour drink with two friends, one a lesbian, one bisexual; all three of us "look" non-heterosexual to a certain extent. Anyway, we paid for this; the old guy tending bar pointedly ignored us, at one point literally ignoring our polite "Excuse me"s to wait on a cute blonde in the OTHERWISE EMPTY BAR. 
I am not eager to ever return. 
I for one do not find it rude to wait on a cute blonde, it certainly isn't her fault that she was born that way.

Rachel has thoughts on the straw allotment...

Worst customer service ever! My fiance took 2 straws to put in my drink and this dumb bartender kicks him out for no reason! Worst customer service and bartender with the bald head and glasses ever! I highly do not recommend this place. There's better places that can gladly take your business 

Perhaps they just don't like dudes that drink from straws, I was once kicked out of a Dublin Bar for that very infraction.

A truly confounding review from Dana

Ok, I warned you.  Good thing you blacked out for the broken glass in the toilets, the sinks that turn into urinals, etc etc.
But wasn't the foosball game you played at 1 am a lot of fun?
And aren't you still trying to figure out what were in those mason jars?  No, they were definitely bigger than pints jars.  Those were quart jars....  And your hangover is bad enough that you may never go near those tomatoes you canned last summer.
There is a covered wagon, oregon-trail-style, over the door.  Real Western.  Ever seen hbo's deadwood?   You're lucky to leave deadwood's tavern alive.  Same goes for the red shed.
(I can't wait to go back) 

And lastly JR wants to comment on some air flow issues.

The entire place smells like a bathroom. If they could remedy that with a constant flow of fresh oxygen, then one's mind could open to discover the joys of bar games and mason jar long islands. 

My review...

Let me take you back to a simpler time. October 27, 2007. A Republican was in the White House, Crank That Souljah Boy was the number one song in America and I was yet to have sex with a person of color.

Apparently at some point the previous evening I had agreed to road trip to Madison with some Delts, so when they pulled up to my fraternity house the next morning, the only 'Halloween' costume I could come up with was some pink pants and a pink sweater vest. I called it 'a golfer' but really that's just what I wore every day.

Somewhere along I39 (the world's worst freeway) we decided to pull over and get some 40's for the road as this was a pre Four Loko world. About two 40's in we decided that seating in the car on the way home would be determined by weekend performance. As a sort of measuring stick we developed an extremely complicated scavenger hunt, awarding points for feats of fratitude such as having sex with a hot chick or leaving an upper decker deuce in a stranger's toilet.

It was a magical weekend insomuch as it was the only time I have talked so much shit at a sporting event that it led to management moving me to a better section 'for my safety.' IU was massacred that day 33-3 but instead of calling it a day, I decided to triple down on my partying. It was the Saturday night of Halloween and I was down in the standings.

After a few hours of bar crawling I realized I had been separated from my friends. I had already lost two fake IDs that weekend and was down to one atrocious Pennsylvania ID. I stopped a stranger on the street and asked...

'Hey man, I've already had two IDs jacked this weekend, where can I absolutely get in and get shit faced?'

He did a double take on me and I felt like I recognized him.

'Are you staying at Brian's place? Come with us, we're going to Red Shed it's going to be great.'

I follow this guy and we march straight into a frat boy's wet dream. People are chugging pitchers of Long Island Iced Tea and there are at least 5 white dudes doing the Souljah Boy dance (I told you it was the number one song!) We walk toward the bar and order 5 Long Island pitchers. I realize there are only four of us present.

'Who is the fifth for?'

'The loser. This is a horse race, we are going to chug these and whoever finishes last has to chug this one AND get our next round.'


I finish second in that race and about three more. By the time I have explained the rules of the scavenger hunt to the guys, I can barely stand.

'Ok, we're going to play one game of foosball and then we're going to walk over to that dance floor and get you some points.'

I don't remember how sticky the floor was that night, I don't remember if I won or lost the foosball, but I definitely remember how I woke up.


"What do we have here?"

I'm laying on a couch in full costume, I am spooning with a girl and my hand is precariously up her shirt. Somehow I have made it back to where I am supposed to be. I am still in full 'golf' costume, my hand is up the shirt of a sexy nurse. (Sexy costumes were still cool in 2007) I am looking up at my three comrades from the road trip.

I realize aforementioned nurse is awake now and staring at me and my hand. Horrified, I recoil my hand.

"It's fine."

"What happened here?" I sheepishly ask the nurse.

"Well you were blacked out and we were cuddling on this couch and we made out a little bit. At some point in the night you must have put your hand up my shirt. I didn't mind so I just kinda rolled with it."

"Get up Moeller, fourth place. You're driving."

Keys are tossed in my direction, I still don't know the nurse's name.

'Wait a second.' It's another one of my buddies. 'Miss nurse, would you consider what transpired last night a 'hook up?'

There is a tense silence surrounding the room.

'I mean we didn't have sex, but I'll probably write his name down in my hook up journal. (To me) what's your name?'

The person that tossed me the keys throws his hands up in the air.

'It doesn't matter, a hook up is only 20 points, Dave is still in last.'

'But she's in her costume, that's a 2x multiplier.'

'Ok fine, 40 points. He gets to ride in the back.'

I look at the nurse and I look at a picture on the wall.

'Wait, do you live here?'

'Ya, I live on this floor and your buddy Brian lives in the basement. Why?'

I look at my buddies, 'Go back to her place, an additional 3x multiplier. 20*2*3 is 120. I win.'

I grab the unnamed nurse by the face and kissed her on the lips.

"Thank you, my name is David Moeller, and I owe the next 7 hours of my life to you."

I rode shotgun the whole way back to Bloomington and slept the whole time, it is still the greatest fourth quarter comeback in my life to date. I never found out her name.

Thursday, October 6, 2016

The United States of Frat: Michigan


Welcome to the United States of Frat, a new recurring segment on SingledudeinLA. A coworker recently pointed out to me that I have an uncanny knowledge of bro bars in college towns, that's because my chief mission in undergrad was to drink beers and gun chicks. As it is college football aka road trip season I decided that it might be helpful to point out a few bars that you might want to check out on your visit to campus. Every single one of these bars will have good drink specials and probably a 20 year old trust fund girl who will go home with you. You're welcome!

University of Michigan: Scorekeepers

Yelp Score: 2.5 Stars

Scathing reviews:

From Erin G who gave it one star:
I've been to Skeeps several times, but last night was a combination of frat boys and sorostitutes celebrating St. Patty's and some kind of business school event I think, since a whole busload of guys in suits was there. I am neither a sorostitute nor a b-school attendee, but I know some people who work there and can get me cheap drinks, so there I was. I'm pretty sure there were about 500 people there, and I'm really not exaggerating. It was so crowded and hot, you had to push through people to get anywhere, and it definitely made me claustrophobic, big-time. With all the stairs and levels in the place, my drunken self kept thinking if there was a fire, we'd all be goners. At about 1:15, I frantically escaped, desperately needing fresh air and NYPD bbq chicken pizza. They have cheap personal pitchers and good specials, though my personal pitcher gin-and-tonic seemed to have a very high ratio of tonic water and ice to the gin. This points to a key aspect of Skeeps: don't go here if drinking an entire pitcher of alcohol by yourself seems odd or maybe unsafe. Do go if you like to get puking-drunk, like to feel cheap, or like to watch UM Greek's finest do what they do best.
 You hear that you cunts? You better make Erin's personal pitcher a fucking half and half. She likes to be hammered when she makes fun of the Greeks. I do want to know more about this NYPD BBQ Chicken pizza though...

From Jen G who gave it two stars:
1 star for friendly waitstaff and for a tasty burger.

Another star for watching ridiculously drunk girls in ridiculously short dresses dance awkwardly on the dance floor.
I would give the drunk girls in short dresses at least an additional two stars Jen.

David M (Not me!) checks in to give it one star:
Gross and scary, as the other reviews have outlined.  If you're underage (or into underage individuals) this is your place, though, since they are notorious for letting people slide.  I, however, am 22, and would go to any other bar instead.
Whoooa you hear that shit? David is a Senior, he's 22! Practically retired, he can't be fucking with the sloppy underagers at Skeeps.

And finally Crystal tosses in her two cents:
This place needs to be gutted and burned down. There were flies and gnats at the bar and on the TV s and trash behind the bar on the floor from the night before. It felt like we were in a dungeon. The food was NASTY! Just..ewwww. Cold chicken wings, gross nachos. I noticed the bartender didn't ask the little girl next to me for her ID. I actually told the bartender all of this and he gave me 15% should have been 100% free.
My review...

I went to Skeeps (only loser GEEDS call it Scorekeepers) Labor Day weekend of 2010. I had already graduated and I was 23, so what did I do? Drive to Michigan to hook up with my roommate's sister's Sophomore friends. Yay! I was staying at a Phi Psi live out and literally traded a guy drugs for tickets in the Big House parking lot. It was a bender of a weekend, I did body shots off of no fewer than four Tri Delts during tailgate and I was generally feeling great about myself.

I didn't think the day could get much better until I headed to the bars after the game. My buddy took me to this place called Skeeps, the local frat bar. I knew immediately when I walked in that I had found my Ann Arbor home. What sat before me was a multi level dive bar masquerading as a dance club. Freshman Sorority girls fell all over themselves on a slippery dance floor. Chanting bros stood on tables Viking chugging pitchers of beer. Braylon Edwards sat in a corner with no less than seven blondes pouring bottles of vodka directly on their faces.

I equated myself to the bar and ordered 8 Jager Bombs for the completely reasonable price of $30. I then found the dance floor and used my white male privilege to just dance with whoever I felt like. It paid off and hours later I found myself in a U of M off campus apartment hooking up.

30 minutes or so into the ordeal I heard some rustling upstairs.


"What? Do you have a roommate or something?'

"NO! THAT'S MY BOYFRIEND. He wasn't supposed to come back until tomorrow. Also he's black.'

With that I am flung from the bed and shoved out an open window. My jeans and shirt are thrown through the window as well as a profuse apology. What happened next, I didn't expect as I was hit in the face with a wadded up piece of paper. I looked to the ground and saw a 20 dollar bill.

'20 bucks can get you a cab anywhere on campus!'

A wink and then the window slammed shut. I'm pretty sure this is the exact moment feminism was born.

I made it back to the apartment where I was supposed to be staying. I found my roommate sitting on the curb with all of our belongings. Apparently he had been on the Skeeps dance floor, kissing the girlfriend of one of the guys we were staying with. It was frowned upon. We got in the car and drove back to Chicago at 4 in the morning...

But ya, Skeeps gets a solid 5 stars

Tuesday, October 4, 2016

Bangers Only

 It's a few minutes before midnight on a Saturday night in LA. I'm so far east of Lincoln I might as well be in a different state. There is a transvestite DJ on stage playing a mash up of Justin Bieber's 'Where are U now' and Cher's 'Believe.' I'm on a dance floor surrounded by competitive Ultimate Frisbee players and a bunch of girls that look like Barb from Stranger Things. I desperately want to make out with someone, but what I want more is for the DJ to play something loud with a monumental drop. How did I get here?

The last time we spoke I was on a flight back to Los Angeles from Austin, TX stuck in that in between half sleep you endure so many times in the air. I kind of think I'm sleeping, but I'm conscious of the fact that I could wake up at any moment accidentally cuddling with the stranger next to me.

I survived that day and vowed to stay in all weekend. Luke Cage was on Netflix and there was an Amanda Knox documentary out. Nothing makes me happier than loading up a bong and trying to play armchair detective. Tuesday-Thursday I found myself in bed by 9 o clock. Even Friday, after briefly attending a stand up comedy show, I was home and in bed by 10. I was good.

And then Saturday hit and I just couldn't take it anymore. I found a Mad Decent Block Party ticket on Craigslist for $20 and the next thing I knew I was on a train heading east wearing a bro tank that features a tidal wave wearing sunglasses. I was back.

Mad Decent Block Party is essentially a miniature festival on the grounds of LA Center Studios, the home of hit tv shows such as 'The People V. OJ Simpson' and 'Mad Men.' When not cranking out prestige dramas LACS leases out space to things such as 'Beerfest' and small raves. Hence, I have a fair amount of experience walking around hammered outside the offices of Sterling Cooper.

The exciting warm up act for Diplo was a fully bat shit Ke$ha. I had never seen her in concert, but I remember chain smoking and listening to her songs on the way to work in 2010 blaring the music on full blast so not to fall asleep at the wheel after a random Wednesday night bender. Whereas I have pulled myself out of that spiral, I am happy to report that Kesha is still living her life like she expects to die young. And good for her, she played the hits, I jumped up and down. I got sweaty. Hell I even found a girl a full foot and a half shorter than me and trade shirts with her for 15 minutes, which led to Saturday's Facebook post/what I will ever use if I decide to try an online dating app.

There is something magical about a music festival, about the little connections you make. You realize you might be dancing with someone who is 15 feet away and didn't even realize it, but then you make eye contact and realize that you are in complete lockstep. Perhaps this is the greatest contribution electronic music has made to the world.

Diplo ends, I find myself at the Echoplex with aforementioned transvestite DJ. Now they are performing a mash up of 'Sweet Dreams' and 'Tainted Love.' I'm coming down, I need to get home.

I wake up on Sunday to my usual hangover, only this time I have to google 'Brain Tumor or Hangover' because it's particularly bad. There are still flash tats all over my face including an auspicious Star of David, Happy Rosh Hashanah. I move to the couch and watch 12 hours of football. During the Sunday night game those dark thoughts begin to creep in. Why is our staff writer 26? I'm almost 30? Am I ever going to make it? What am I doing wrong, or conversely am I doing everything right? Maybe I'm just one lucky break away.

I stand up, make myself a water, take a deep breath and relax. Everything is fine, I live in paradise, my roommate just brought me ice cream. I will go to work five days next week, make enough money to survive and party. It will be a generally pleasant time.

So I guess my question this enough? I come to work and all my piers are in the midst of full blown panic attacks about what the future holds.  Meanwhile I am perfectly content to keep writing and living for the weekends. Sure I would like to blow up, get famous, make an absurd amount of money and float through life like the trust fund kids I always emulated, but if I don't? Eh, it could be worse. I don't feel the pressure to find a partner, to procreate. I think there is value in living for the moment and seeking a good time.

Sure I get worried about money, about growing up, about where I will be 10 years from now...but those are tomorrow problems. If I can't find a job in LA I can always go pick berries in Australia for a few years, right? And sure, there will be people that say 'what a waste of talent, had he just applied himself he could have-'

Could have what? Seen the world? Made a positive impact? I'm pretty sure that if I were struck down by a errant lightning bolt right now I have lived a more exciting life in 29+ years that most people will their whole lives. And I did it on my terms. So for now, I'm going to keep seeking the thrill, living for the story, telling the DJ to turn the music and play the bangers, because life is too short to worry about tomorrow, especially when today is so rad.