Saturday, December 29, 2018

Top 10 Movies of 2018


I think I’ve aged out of arthouse cinema.

I watched Roma last night and, sure, it looked cool. And yes, I was gasping for breath during the ocean scene and the hospital scene and the furniture store scene.

But you know what? I didn’t enjoy myself. Roma was a tough hang. So was Sorry to Bother You and The Hate U Give. I’m not out here trying to learn a lesson. I’m trying to enjoy myself for the next couple hours. You know what I enjoyed this year? Mamma Mia 2. Now Mamma Mia 2 did not make my list, but I took a bottle of Rose into that movie and literally danced my way out of the theater when it was over.

The world needs more Mamma Mia 2 and less First Man. And look, not to disparage the God Damien Chazelle, First Man similarly to Roma and a bunch of other movies that didn’t make my list are fine works of art that look beautiful. I guess as I get older I’m just less interested in super serious depictions of tragedy…unless it’s a war movie because war movies kick ass.

I’ll also have to issue my list of apologies right now, I didn’t see every single movie this year. I missed Vox Lux and Anna and the Apocalypse. After Beautiful Boy I was all set on rehab movies so I skipped Ben is Back and Boy Erased. I can’t find a Destroyer screener and I think I’m all set on my RGB content for the year so On the Basis of Sex will have to wait until 2019.

No animation and no docs on my list this year. I’m sure I forgot something awesome I watched in March, who cares, Sing Street is still the best movie this decade and 2018 was kind of whatever. To the list!

10. Eighth Grade
All that grandiose soapboxing about ‘movies are meant to entertain’ and then I drop the movie that made me the most uncomfortable this year. I hated watching this movie. It made me physically uncomfortable and I just wanted it to end before any other bad things could happen to that little girl. But I think that was the point. Director Bo Burnham is a 28 year old comedian who is objectively good looking and I would imagine that he could have sex with anyone in Los Angeles male or female. The fact that he remembers this kind of pain and angst from middle school just goes to prove that it’s a horrible time for everyone.

9. Black Panther
What can I say about this movie that hasn’t been said already? It’s the most captivating political thriller in years. It makes statements without being annoying about it and it has an all time performance from Michael B Jordan who may be the most interesting American actor working right now. The entire cast really just knocks it out of the park, all the while being set in one of the freshest and most exciting worlds that we have seen in any comic book movie. The film loses a couple points with me because I’ve really had it with the third act final battle. I didn’t need those rhinocerous looking motherfuckers rushing into battle but I guess this movie is for 8 year olds too. 

8. Annihilation
I’ve thought about this movie a lot and I really don’t have a fucking clue what was going on, but there was a scene in which an alien bear rips a chick’s jaw off and it’s the most metal scene of 2018. Also Natalie Portman is perfect in everything she does.

7. Bohemian Rhapsody.
This movie got shit for not being gay enough and it got shit for not making Freddie Mercury enough of a degenerate. I counter with this, when you see him stumbling through a house full of empty booze bottles and coke residue, what do you think happened? They weren’t having bible study the night before! I could watch that Live Aid sequence probably every day for the rest of my life. If Rami Malek doesn’t get an Oscar nomination I may organize a protest.

6. The Favourite
I wanted to like this movie so much more. The first half was hilarious, absurd, fun. The second half, not so much. Similar to The Lobster, Yorgos Lanthimos…you know what?Fuck it. I didn’t really like this movie. I’m changing my mind. Fuck The Favourite go see 6. Overlord.

5. BlacKKKlansman
I feel like I’ve been disingenuous with my list thus far. The truth is, I probably liked To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before AND Set It Up more than Eighth Grade. I just put Eighth Grade in there so I would have some indie cred. Whatever. At least I didn’t put something super obscure like Sisters Brothers on here (even though I quite enjoyed it) BlacKKKlansman was really fucking good. John David Washington was really fucking good…and Adam Driver? I’m so glad you fucked up your back mountain biking and never went to war. I think Spike Lee is pretty hit or miss, this movie is his best in 20 years.

4. Crazy Rich Asians
My interests are always changing but I will never not be into rich people doing rich things. A rom com about the opulence of the Singaporian elite is right up my alley and boy does this thing deliver. Maybe this is why I didn’t like Roma. That movie follows a poor maid and a rich family slipping into the middle class. What a tragedy. Fewer politically motivated massacres and more POND WEEDDINGS PLEASE! Alas, the cast of CRA is stellar. Everyone is pretty. Even Awkwafina is funny. Man, I really am just a materialistic girl out here, huh? There better be fireworks at my wedding.

3. Vice
I’m going to be honest with you. I find Adam McKay’s satirizing American tragedies to be absolutely hilarious. As a former hard line Republican, I really found nothing upsetting about the war in Iraq and Afghanistan at the time. I was playing a lot of Halo back then and my preferred mode in that game was ‘slayer’ which essentially means, kill more bad guys than bad guys kill you. We definitely killed more bad guys in that war than they killed us. But that’s not the point. We also killed innocents and really no Americans should’ve died to mid-east fuckery. I know that now. I’ve grown up. All that said, fat Christian Bale makes me laugh.

2. Hereditary
The less you know going into this movie the better, so I’ll leave it at this. Hereditary is the scariest movie I have ever seen in my life. Hard stop. Toni Collette deserves seven Oscars but since the Academy is made up of limp dick cowards, she probably won’t be nominated. The car scene is the wildest cinematic experience in 10 years and the piano wire shit is still giving me nightmares. Go see Hereditary you peasant.

1. A Star is Born
Oh fuck you. Yes, it’s basic. Yes, it’s very white. Yes it’s heteronormative. But it’s also fucking perfection. Listen to ‘Shallow’ again you fucking muppet. It’s magical. Listen to ‘Always Remember Us This Way.’ Ya that song bangs too. I even ride for the song at the end. It’s pretty good. I listen to it in the shower. Give this movie all the Oscars. Give Sam Elliott an Oscar. Let Lady Gaga and Brad perform the whole god damn soundtrack. You really want to give Glenn Close an Oscar for The Wife? You didn’t watch the fucking wife. Basically what I’m trying to say is that if you want to go to Vegas for Gaga’s residency, I’m down. Tiny arthouse fiends, we gave you Moonlight, a film about a poor kid getting a hand job. La La Land was robbed. Just…just let me have this. Thank you. 

Wednesday, December 12, 2018

Top 10 TV Shows of 2018



Ah yes, it's year end list SZN, the time of year where I put very little thought into putting together my 'best of' but I get thousands of views because I got Mindy Kaling's lunch for a season.

THAT MAKES ME A FUCKING EXPERT. (Apparently)

Truth be told 2018 was my first year mostly away from the TV industry. I wrote one pilot and briefly consulted on a couple treatments but I actually didn't work on a series this year. As such, I watched a bit less than in years past. Also nearly everything on my list came from streaming so I am now officially an idiot for not cutting the cord. I legit have DirecTV for the two times a year I wake up in time to watch the Colts play at 10am on a Sunday.

Now looking at it in totality my list can be categorized as things I'm in to...rich people, young love, drugs and terrorists getting shot in the fucking face. I guess I'm a pretty simple guy when it comes down to it. Let's go to the list.


10. Lovesick, Season 3 (Netflix)

As a show it barely qualifies, the entire episode dump came while I was nursing a hangover on January 1st of this year. Season 3 (or series 3 as the Brits are wont to call it) was not as crisp as its previous iterations, but as long as Dylan, Luke and Evie are appearing together in something it's making my list. The show is about a bunch of 30ish year olds just trying to figure it out in between black outs at the pub, angsty confessions and sloppy break-ups. Inject that shit into my veins. It doesn't hurt that I aspire to have the personality of Luke and the look of Dylan and end up with a girl as beautiful as Evie.



9. Jack Ryan: Shadow Recruit, Season 1 (Amazon) / You, Season 1 (Lifetime)

I have these tied for 9 because they are both guilty pleasures of mine. Unlike my woke counterparts, I still really enjoy getting jingoistic from time to time and fist pumping when a nameless terrorist has his head blown off. The fact that Jim Halpert and the guy from The Wire are the two protagonists of Jack Ryan: Shadow Recruit makes it that much better. The fact that this is my lone Amazon choice may puzzle you, surely Ms. Maisel or Homecoming are objectively better fare, but just think of JRSR as my Indiana comfort food when I'm feeling like 'Making America Great.'

On the flip side, You is a show about attractive people making questionable decisions. You can just go ahead and sign me up for all of that. The pilot alone has rich people doing rich things, Dan Humphrey as a voyeur, multiple scenes of gratuitous masturbation, and an arrogant douche getting maimed by a hammer! All the while it's set against a very Gossip Girly New York backdrop. While I was watching You, I wasn't sure if the show was great or if it was just made especially for me. Either way, I'm in.



8. End of the F***ing World, Season 1 (Netflix)

I watched EOTFW hungover on a Sunday afternoon after making some very poor choices on a Saturday night. Anxiety was through the roof. That's probably the best way to watch this show, which feels like a 4 hour My Chemical Romance music video. The show revolves around two teens that kind of want to murder each other but also kinda want to fuck? Eventually they decide to go on a Bonnie and Clyde-esque tear through England and by the time its over you think Sid and Nancy had a healthy relationship.



7. Narcos: Mexico, Season 1ish (Netflix)

Shows about drugs are objectively cool. Michael Pena is objectively cool. And let me tell ya, Diego Luna has come a long way since crying his way through sex with Mozart in the Jungle. The show has a familiar hook. The bad guys are pushing dope, the good guys are trying to stop them but you find yourself rooting for...the bad guys. Let chaos reign.



6. Succession, Season 1 (HBO)

The only thing I think I like more than the wealthy and elite is a good old fashioned power struggle. I also enjoy dysfunctional families bc my family is painfully normal. This show has a plethora of both. Also: Underground Burning Man drug orgies? Check. Jerking off to city skylines? Check Check. A meth binge in New Mexico? CIRCLE GETS THE SQUARE! Kendall Roy was the biggest dipshit on tv in 2018 and probably the one who I would most like to get a beer with.



5. Bodyguard, Season 1 (Netflix)

Does anyone else watch shows with the subtitles on? When I was like a Sophomore in high school my grades plummeted and my parents were afraid I wouldn't get into a decent college. I went to a psychiatrist and they ran a thousand tests on me. The results showed that I had some sort of hearing fuckery where I can't process information that is told to me, I need to read it. The real reason for my slip in grades was that I just wasn't doing homework and was spending all of my time online after football practice on AIM trying to convince people to have sex with me. Regardless, they prescribed me 40 mg of adderall a day, I went to IU and became your God for four years.

These days, I really find myself struggling to understand people that don't speak perfect English. Maybe that psychiatrist was right! Anyway I can't comprehend what the fuck Richard Madden is saying or why he keeps calling people mom, but I keep the subtitles on and the show beats ass.



4. The Chilling Adventures of Sabrina, Season 1 (Netflix)

God this show is awesome. I like the cat and the pansexual cousin. I love the 'Mean Girls' witches, I love the Slytherin Aunt, I love that Lady Satan looks like Veronica Lodge all grown up and I love that in season two Sabrina is probably going to start fucking Archie during a Riverdale crossover.

One thing I don't like is that fact that little Sally Draper is playing a 16 year old and the show is full of near nudity. I know the actress is 19, and know that some of these scenes are not written as exploitive but GOD DAMN do not put that temptation on me, it's fucking gross. Never did I think I would be the rallying voice to stop sexualizing women on TV but I guess I am a feminist after all. *None of this applies to Prudence though, strip away Prude. She might be playing a high schooler but she's 22 and I can tell the difference.



3. Bojack Horseman, Season 5 (Netflix)

This is the most consistently great show on television. After five years I don't know what else there is to say. Raphael Bob-Waksberg is a genius. Satires typically have a finite shelf life but every year this show seems to outdo itself. I think that's because once you get past all the sight gags and Hollywood quips, this is a show about despair and mental illness, something that we're all acquainted with in 2018 amirite?!

If you're not a fan of animation, I get it. Listening to those Rick and Morty apostles talk about Szechuan sauce is annoying, but Bojack is different. It's as biting as early South Park and as laugh out loud funny as peak Office.



2. The Haunting of Hill House, Season 1 (Netflix)

While this show won't quite make my best television series of 2018, it certainly had the best episode. Episode 5 'The Bent-Neck Lady' gave me such a visceral reaction, that I'm not sure I have fully recovered. I remember reading internet reviews that read 'Millennials Have Found Haunting of Hill House So Scary, They Can't Sleep!' and thinking God I can't wait HuffPo to pull a Gawker and die. But my God, I would only watch this show, with the lights on, in my room when one of my roommates was home. For whatever reason I figured the ghosts wouldn't come for me when my roommates were home...probably because my roommates would force the ghosts to party with them.

Actually now I'm laughing because I can't shake the thought of Michael chasing a spirit around the house with cigarettes and Budweisers...too drunk to realize that he was tormenting a malevolent demon. Ah, good times.



1. American Vandal, Season 2 (Netflix)

This show is a masterpiece. It is the peak of what entertainment can be, and it's a show that is essentially built upon poop and dick jokes.

When I was working in tv, I used to think I was better than all of my colleagues. If someone got promoted ahead of me it wasn't because they were a better writer, it's because they kissed more ass or were less of a white male than me. (God do I belong on 4chan or what) I really struggle to watch a lot of modern sitcoms because I know I could so easily write for them. Love? Sure. Sunny? Def. You're the Worst? In my sleep.

Not American Vandal.

Everyone on this show is operating at such a high level it shocks me. It's so current and relevant. The style is so fresh. I was genuinely upset when it was over. I went back and binged the entire first season again. This is the type of show that made me want to write television, the type of show that says FUCK the format. Spend less time worrying about your act breaks and just come up with something new.

A year ago when I made this list I was temping at a Regus office while still trying to write. This is the type of show that makes me want to quit my job and give it one more go. Alas, cheers to the Turd Burglar and the best show of 2018.

Tuesday, November 27, 2018

To All The Girls I’ve Loved Before


Let me tell you something I’m good at.

I’m pretty good at grabbing some beers with the boys. Some may say I am great at it. Actually, an argument could be made that I am a first ballot hall of famer at grabbing some beers with the boys.

Could honestly be thrown on my tombstone some day: “Here lies David Moeller, who was adept at grabbing some beers with the boys.” 

I’m a fun hang! People generally enjoy being in my presence.

Let me tell you something I’m not good at.

Girls. Among other things. Taking things seriously, planning for the future, making good decisions… oh it keeps going.

Talking about my feelings. Telling people what they mean to me. Being honest. 

Sometimes I’m solid at the beginning of a relationship. The part where we just get drunk together and roll around under the covers all night. Other times I just do and say nothing. Wait for some other guy to scoop her up and judge bitterly from the sidelines.

Regardless it always ends terribly because at the end of the day, it’s just easier to grab a few beers with the boys.

It’s ironic because I live an inherently risky lifestyle. I text and drive, I drink to excess, I ride Bird Scooters without a helmet, I still eat romaine lettuce. If I were at a music festival and found a bag of an unknown substance I would take it. I would take all of it. And hope for the best! Chances are it wouldn’t kill me, but who knows? 

Conversely, I find it nearly impossible to tell a person how I feel about them. Telling a girl that I like her is quite unlikely to kill me, yet I find it overwhelming. Dying might be unfortunate, but it isn’t awkward.

There have been four.

Four girls that I felt that burning desire for at all times of the day. Four girls I wrote countless unpublished journals to because screaming into the void was easier than having a human conversation. Four people that caused me physical pain.

Four very different scenarios, four relationships I ruined or prematurely aborted because life is hard. If I could do it all over again, I wonder what I would change.
Four girls I thought about all week at home.

Going home inherently leads to a walk down memory lane, especially when I spend the majority of the time two of the places that were so influential on me during my formative years. 

I walk into Chicago’s Bank of America Theater and instantly it’s 2010 again on a cold winter night, we can’t find a cab home…the beginning of something special, maybe. 

There were four but then there were all the ones in between.

I’m sitting in Nick’s having beers with my dad after an IU/Purdue game. We just walked past my college house and now he’s asking about all the girls he used to meet in the IU tailgate fields.

That one’s married with a kid.
I don’t know what happened to her.
Ya, her dad was cool.
Ya, her dad was rich.
Married with a kid.
I agree that one was very pretty.
Married with a kid.
Divorced maybe?
Yes I probably screwed that one up.

But why did I always screw it up?

Was it because I was afraid of heartbreak? Afraid of an uncomfortable situation?  Was it because I wasn’t sure?

Or is it just because it’s easier to pretend not to care about anything and throw back some pints.

Maybe this is why I find it so much fun to get wrecked all the time. Because when you’re shitfaced it’s easy to ignore your own insecurities and just focus on the pursuit of pleasure. Life is a story and buddy, I have a lot of them.

But a story is that, a work of mostly fiction. Something to laugh about on occasion, but stories don’t help you waking up feeling empty on occasion.

Black Wednesday comes around, I’m in Chicago. This holiday used to be my Christmas. Onesie bar crawl? Yes. Rush and Division until 4am? Obviously. The goal on this night was to drink until I lost all motor functions and then drink some more. Hopefully I would wake up in a bed more comfortable than mine to a person prettier than me.

It was then a matter time…of getting to the airport in time to fly to Chicago or Sacramento wherever I was going. Maybe I would have to drive home to Indy, maybe I wanted to shower before my parents picked me up in the city so they wouldn’t know the extent of what had gone down the previous 24 hours.

I went through security at LAX once with a black eye wearing a Pikachu onesie because I didn’t think I had time to change. This would be a great story at the Thanksgiving table.

But this year as I sat alone in my hotel room at the Moxy Chicago on Wednesday night I had no real desire to tie one off, to go on an epic Ulysseian journey seeking debauchery on a 25 degree night in Chicago. I bought a cheap ticket to Hamilton, had a couple glasses of wine and was in bed before 12.

Likewise, while I was in Bloomington with my parents, all I wanted to do was spend time with them, catch up on what they’ve been up to, get sentimental about old Bloomington memories. Even when I ran into a bunch of college friends at Kilroy’s, it wasn’t a race to see who could black out the quickest. I wanted to hear about their wives, their kids, what life events they were looking forward to.

I remember drafting up text messages to girls while I was home that were less along the lines of ‘U up?’ and more so, ‘Hey I’m sorry I screwed everything up, I wish we could have given it another shot before you moved away.”

“That’s never what you wanted.”

Home is no longer a place I go seeking some kind of king’s homecoming. That ship has sailed. Now it’s just a wistful stroll through my past, a nostalgic memory that used to feel real.

But circling back…if I could do it all over again. I guess the easiest way to deal with my pathetic emotional intelligence would be to write everyone a letter and have my brother send them out without my knowledge. What a zany scenario that would be!

In reality though, I would probably change nothing. That’s just who I was then, and this is me now. I was a child. Why did I self-sabotage? I guess so I could learn things about myself. 

“That’s never what you wanted.”

That’s right, I wanted to be the life of the party, the coolest guy in the room, the person you wanted to be like when you grew up. Fun, confident, wild. The problem is I was never any of those. I was just a lost soul trying to figure everything out.

To all the girls I loved before, I’m sorry I wasn’t better. To the ones that I left hanging, I’m sorry I didn’t care more. To everyone else that did or didn’t give up on me, I just wasn’t ready back then. I’m still not ready. But some day I might be. At 31 it just took me a little longer to learn how to treat people and hopefully I’ll never forget again.


Monday, October 8, 2018

The Deuce


Jack, Nick, Dana, Stephanie, Joey, Sarah, Sam, Mark, Michael...me

These are the people that have lived in 627 Westminster #2 since 2012, yet I'm the only one that's been there the whole time. At least three of those people are married now. Maybe four or five, I lost touch. Two still live with me for the moment. One of them moved 3,000 miles away to find himself the 9th is M.I.A. and then there's me, number 10.

A lot happens in seven years. I've changed, evolved. I've seen people come and go, friendships begin and end, multiple relationships fail and I've accumulated a LOT of stuff.

A LOT of stuff.

It's generally accepted that even if it brings about a better life situation, moving blows. The physical process is just catastrophically bad. I wouldn't wish it upon my worst enemy. Even when you involve movers, it can be an emotionally grueling process. The one life event worse than a move though may be the home renovation.

I have a noted slumlord of a property manager, but after seven years and about 30 failed city inspections I was able to convince him to install hardwood floors under threat of violence. In retrospect, this may have been a mistake. What I assumed would be a three day undertaking with a professional crew has turned into a month long cluster fuck in which one guy shows up and installs about 10 square feet a day.

All the while, all of my furniture sits outside on the patio for all of the elements. It rained last week on all of my shit, I'm sure all of it is now infested with bugs. A couple weeks ago I came home to a homeless man passed out on my couch, how exciting.

On a more personal level, it has caused me to completely clean out my room for the first time really since I moved in. I've found jury notices from 2013 that I never responded to, birthday cards from ex-girlfriends wishing me a happy 24th...random items that came in care packages from my mom and about a decade's worth of old t-shirts, socks, and old beer caps. I didn't realize how many night caps I was enjoying from the comfort of my own bed. It's a truly disgusting process, sifting through all of this garbage and deciding what to keep and what to burn.

I've been attempting to stay as far away as possible from the construction site that is my life. I hit the movies every night during the week, I destroyed myself at a festival last weekend, neither of these gave me the answers I was seeking. I decided to try something different on Saturday: head east to the desert.

The first time I ever went to Joshua Tree was with roommate Nick. He was the first roommate at #2 and the first to leave. We had been fighting a lot about stupid stuff but decided to take a trip to the desert. We ended up climbing a mountain and watching a sunset together then proceeding to get extremely drunk with 10 eighteen year olds who were starting college the next week. A park ranger came and confiscated our bong and looked very disapprovingly at Nick and I (24) for hanging out with high school kids. Regardless, the desert healed our friendship and we remain close to this day.

I don't know what it is about Joshua Tree but anytime I go there for answers, the desert provides. I've been back probably a dozen times since my first trip and every time I come back emotionally rejuvenated. I hoped I might find that refreshment once more.

Saturday, we pitched our tent off the Boy Scout trail, one mile in, 200 feet off a path (these are the back country rules) at Outlaw Rock, a place I thought I knew as well as the back of my hand. We then set off for Pioneertown and a meal at the legendary Pappy and Harriet's. Pioneertown is a city that was created in the 1940s to be a living 1880s film set. Western television shows such as the Gene Autry Show have been shooting there for years. Now it exists as an escape for tourists in the Yucca Valley. We witnessed a wedding, had some drinks and ate some truly incredible ribs, highly recommend.

Now here is what I WOULDN'T recommend...

On the way back to our campsite I decided to begin my vision quest a little early and ate a few stems. This was a bad life decision. Because by the time I parked at the Boy Scout trailhead it was...

A. Pitch Black
B. Freezing Cold

And I was without...

A. A flashlight
B. A fucking clue where I was going.

For those that have ever wandered around the desert or a forest at night, you are probably aware that it can be difficult to walk in a single direction. Even if you think you are walking a straight line, it's entirely possible that you drift one way or the other, so the chances of walking in circles is rather high. I assure you, if you are tripping your dick off, these odds go exponentially higher.

So instead of finding the answers to my questions about being metaphorically lost, I spent my vision quest being literally lost in the desert.

For close to two hours I led my merry band of misfits in circles through San Bernadino's high desert. There were laughs, there were tears and there was a growing sense of desperation. At one point I thought we may have to go sleep in the car, but I was so turned around I'm not sure I knew where it was. I had flashbacks to getting lost on Mt. Baldy, but that was during the day, I had ample water and sunlight. This was 10pm, I was cold and the only assets I had on my person were whiskey and more mushrooms. Against my better judgment I took more, sometimes you need to get all the way lost before you can be found.

Two hours later, I was debating whether we could survive a night exposed in the desert. I had a vague idea where a road was, so I didn't think our situation was completely dire, but at this moment I gave up. I let go. Every rock looked the same, we were not going to find our camp.

And then there it was, like a shining pearl in a deep blue sea, an orange tent emerged.

There was celebration of course, dancing around with a boot full of tequila watching the stars smile back upon us. Little did I know, in all of my jubilation, that my questions had just been answered.

You just have to let go.

Let go of the past, let go of my anxieties, let go of expectations and just...be.

I've heard of this with addicts or those who are super religious: submitting to a higher power. Well to be honest, I don't know what I am submitting to, I'm just making a conscious effort to stop being my own worst enemy.

I didn't find my camp until I stopped looking for it, and maybe that's a metaphor for happiness. If I am spending my whole life looking for something, maybe there's a chance I was just too distracted to realize that it was right in front of me the whole time.

I was sorting through the junk in my room this morning and I had a bit of a revelation. I don't need any of this shit. Everything must go.

All of it. This old mattress, this 2014 IKEA bed frame. This shitty desk I took from an Abbot Kinney law firm. Every article of clothing more than a year old, this cracked iPad, this fucking old drone. Get it the FUCK out of here. I'm DONE.

But it's probably time to let go of these old letters from an ex-girlfriend who is married with a kid now. Probably time to let go of this Tri Delt Flapjack Attack t shirt. The car that's been gathering dust in my driveway for a year? GONE! I think I'm all set on at least five of these onesies, this stuffed giraffe and a couple unrequited crushes I've been holding onto for a couple years too long.

Move on. Clean slate. Fresh start.

It's therapeutic really, to just kind of rip off the band-aid. Start a new game, eliminate all baggage. I had a friend in college who told me she would intentionally 'fire' all of her friends every two years and start over. I thought it was insane, but now I'm starting to understand.

Throwing away all of your shit and starting fresh is not a novel concept. It's a trope in movies about divorce and self discovery. Hell, there is a Will Ferrell movie called 'Everything Must Go.' I'm not going through a messy break up or anything but it has recently occurred to me that I have like three assets that I really care about.
1. Nintendo Switch
2. OC Christmakkuh Sweater
3. Golf Clubs

Everything else can fucking BURN baby. Who needs it? Why do I still have old sheets that were stained when a girl wet the bed? Why do I hoard gag gifts from Cards Against Humanity's 12 days of Christmas?

It's time to bag all of this shit up and drop it at Goodwill, and some underprivileged youth out there can have all of my frat shirts, Members Only jackets, pink polos and stupid hats. When I moved out here I was making $12 an hour selling newspaper ads door to door. Now I'm making slightly more than that and my life should reflect it.

If that means growing up and moving out of Westminster sooner rather than later, so be it. Because as long as I'm living the life of a 21 year old Junior in the frat, I'm never going to emotionally mature beyond that. I still love to party, and that will probably never change...but I do have the option to do it whilst NOT living in squalor.

Once we made it into the tent on Saturday night we were punished with 50 mph winds. I thought the REI tent might snap in half several times, but it weathered the storm. In the morning I saw the poles had tangled up into a steel mess, but they hadn't broken. Bend but don't break. I think that's a good metaphor for my last 10 years. I was resilient in the face of adversity several times...but it's time to start the next chapter, in which Dave becomes a human adult and tries to stop sleeping on the floor so often.

Sometimes we feel the most lost moments before we are found. I was wandering around in life, straying to the left or right in the darkness, often spinning in circles looking for something that I couldn't define. So let go and head back to the drawing board and get excited to fail again. One of these days we'll get it right. Westminster has been a hell of a ride and it's not over yet, Unit 2 will always be a part of me. In seven years I've experienced a lifetime of memories but it's hard to get better while staying the same. I've been lost in the desert for quite a while now, but I think I see an oasis on the horizon.

Wednesday, October 3, 2018

When it's Over







It feels like yesterday.

I was just 19 when I made my debut on August 4th, 2006. I remember I walked onto the field on a sweltering day in Chicago’s Grant Park, tens of thousands of people around me. This was the type of stuff you dream of when you’re a little kid in Indiana, making it here to the big city. 

People were in various states of undress, swimming in fountains, drinking beer. A group of guys huddled behind a tree with a shovel, unearthing drugs they had buried days before. A celebration of excess, debauchery and what it means to be young; a journey of self-discovery and very loud music.

I sheepishly walked up to a press tent and displayed a pitiful self-made pass. It read ‘The Booze News, Indiana University – Reporter.’ The guy shrugged his shoulders, gave me a wrist band and pointed me backstage. I sat there holding a Michelob Ultra, wearing a Phi Psi Cycling shirt grooving away to an afternoon of Umphrey’s McGee vibes and unlimited possibility. 

That’s why people go to music festivals of course, the potential. Who will you see? Who will you meet? Who will you be? Will you fall in love or make a connection? It was never about the music for me, I was there in pursuit of a story…a memory to carry around for the rest of my life. 

Every weekend was a subtle escape from the dregs of responsibility. For a few days, nothing else mattered but the people around you and the dreams of the day.

On one hand I never want it to end.

I like the chaos of it all, the thought that I am temporarily escaping to an alternate dimension where one’s only purpose is the pursuit of happiness. I like planning the outfits, staging the photos, even the long car ride to some forgotten civilization that will soon be overrun with angsty youths looking for something more.

I’ll never forget the afternoons in the snow, the days in the sun, the long walks back to camp or the nights that turned into mornings and everything in between. I met so many unbelievable people out there, did so many stupid things but I don’t think you can ever truly feel more free than when you’re dancing like no one’s watching even though they all are.

Last weekend was number 40 for me, a pedestrian number to some, though I can feel the wear and tear on the body at this point. Nearly a year’s worth of weekends spent trekking around fields, crashing in crowded AirBnBs and frantic packing come Monday morning. 

So many long trips home, regretting every decision I’d made, only to get that itch a few months later and to run it back one more time.

On Sunday I suited up for the last time. I hit the bottomless brunch in the morning and then stormed the park in my Hawaiian shirt for one last hurrah. I left it all out on the field. So now 12 years, one month and seven days after I first walked through those gates, it’s time to hang it up.

I’ll never forget the people I met, you made it all worth it. The places we saw, the things we did, the music we heard…it will fade like an old henna tattoo but it will always be a part of me. I felt love, I felts sadness, I felt hope, often all in the course of 48 hours, but most importantly I got to live my dream for 12 years. Many others around me were forced into early retirement but I got to play a kid’s game until 31 and that’s something I will always cherish.

The sun sets on this chapter. The women in their fur and boots begin the long walk down a trail of tears to an afterparty that ended hours ago. The molly is all worn off now, the juuls empty, the weekend over.

I don’t know what lies ahead for me, simply that at this particular bar the lights just went on and an old man shouted ‘last call.’ I don’t have to go home but I can’t stay here. Peace out music festivals, it’s been real…

For now at least, because you can never rule out a comeback.


Thursday, August 23, 2018

10 Year


"Welcome to the greatest year of your life," Jake shouted to me as he tossed me a beer.

I smile and give him a hug, he's shirtless per usual.

"There's a keg inside, 10 handles of Kamchatka and all of Kappa is coming over. See ya."

I still remember that last move in day so vividly. Driving down to Bloomington in my old Pontiac with my family following me in the U-Haul. I was cranking Dave Matthews Band Live at Central Park and didn't have a care in the world.

My parents always cried when they dropped me off, but this time it was different. I'd already left home three times, traveled halfway around the world, and now I wasn't even coming home for summers. They had shed their last tear. It was almost over.

My actual moving process revolved mainly around me barking orders at my brother in between sips of beer.

Put the mattress by the Xbox, the futon by the window, set up the dresser in the corner...throw that giant bean bag in the back by the AC, that will be a great place to nap when I'm hungover tomorrow. As an 18 year old high school student, his labor was very cheap. His rate? One case of BLs.

The only thing left was to do was drag my 500 pound TV up the stairs, a job that required four men, though with the amount of late night Mario Kart we played, it was well worth the struggle.

We were up in Btown a week early with a very full social calendar that included drinking on our porch, playing golf and terrorizing Kilroy's. It felt bittersweet being a Senior, living out of the fraternity house with one foot out the door. On one hand we were the kings of campus, the world was ours. On the other, the finish line was now clearly in site and no matter how hard we tried, we knew our time in this world was finite. The vacation was about to end.

It was ten years ago today that I moved into Shingles, ten years ago that I started the most memorable year of my life. Back then who could have known that Jack, Steve, Larkin and Jake would get married, that I would live in LA, the people that would come into my life, the people that would fade. Hunter would go to London, Jack and Nick started companies. Dan and Taylor climbed the ranks of corporate America and I...

Dan was the first one to get arrested that year, didn't even make it to the first day of class. I think he had some trouble finding his way home from the bar. In his defense, it was a pretty long, tricky walk home. He bailed himself out and made our tee time the following day.


I think we rented boats that week, planned our first party, coordinated a semi-formal and mapped a bar crawl. These days I can barely pay my rent on time, but back then I had the ambition to squeeze something awesome into every waking moment. I figured by the time I was 31 my life would ostensibly be over, I would be married, I'd have children, I'd be coaching the soccer team. Little did I know.

The pregame would rotate between three houses. 8th and Dunn would take Thursdays before and after Bears, the Sigma Chi guys usually took Friday and our house always threw down on Saturday. We were 500 feet from the only bar that mattered and had campus exposure on three sides, like a party peninsula. One couldn't help but walk by and be in envy of the debauchery: a dj playing trance music, shirtless men participating in beer jousts, young women sucking from a bottle of Grape vodka like it contained the secrets of life.

We were assholes, but the nice kind. We wore Crocs to bars because it was funny, would tip 70% because it was awesome, danced on tables because we could. We slept all day and stayed out all night. If I could just drag myself to class, where I would sit in the back BBMing girls or breaking bricks, I could make it to the night where it would all start over again. It didn't matter what night of the week because we had static plans year round, a standing reservation if you will.

Monday: bowling.

Tuesday: Kilroy's.

Wednesday: Crazy Horse/Sports

Thursday: pregame/karaoke/pregame/Kilroys

Friday: Sorority Dance/Theme Party

Saturday: Tailgate/Darty/Adderall/Darty/Kilroys

Sunday: Sleep until 4pm, smoke a bowl and watch Planet Earth.

The theme parties were absurd too. I had gear in my closet for every single decade, every offensive exchange idea that would never work in 2018 and lots of Members Only and Surf Style just for the fuck of it. We would throw wedding parties, we would throw divorce parties, we would take a bus out to a barn just to party with a change of scenery. I played more pub golf than actual golf, I spent more time coaching bar crawls than I did thinking about my future, but it just felt right.

Spring Break? That was a banger. How did we take the whole Greek system to a foreign country and have nothing go wrong. I feel like I couldn't pull that off with a group of four now. Little 5, I'll never forget. We could've won that year...

Remember Opryland? The Gossip Girl themed Trip Delt arrest? Lazy afternoons at Lake Lemon and Monroe? I thought it would last forever.

And then just as fast as it started, it was over.

I didn't have a job lined up, nor any real direction in my life, so I stayed in that 9 bedroom shack at 528 East 7th Street. Though it was summer and classes were out, I kept up the routine, living in an extended epilogue with no real purpose. I would wake up and go on day crawls, which were just bar crawls that started at noon. Every moment I slept was one less precious minute in Bloomington.

 I floated around, spending some time in both NYC and Los Angeles but I ended up coming back to that house, going to the bars with a handful of people that studied in Summer Session 2, fiending for that last drop of adolescence that I so clearly could not let go.

I remember leaving and how sad it made me feel.

This was my first real house, first place I'd been arrested, first place I had fallen in for a girl and the last place where I had any business calling myself a kid. There would be no more Friday brunch at Tri Delt, no more late night smoking sessions at Chi O, no more getting girls to spend the night via the promise of pizza. It was time for me to leave, it was time to become an adult.

Steve got married shortly after I left for LA. Things were still the same when we went back. It felt like a frat party with higher stakes. It was like we were pretending to be adults, getting into nice suits, staying in a hotel, but the next day we would all go back to eating Easy Mac and calling pledges to do our laundry.

Jake was next. His wedding also felt like a gong show. We were back in Bloomington and it felt like nothing had changed. The absurdity was well chronicled on this blog. I was very pleased with everyone's lack of progress in the 'growing up' department. I thought maybe, just maybe we could all be Peter Pan forever.

But by the time Ryan got married later that year, I was noticing changes. People were showing up with dates, there were no plans for an after-after-party and people seemed to be starting to let go of the past, a troubling development.

Ten years later I found myself sweating profusely on a golf course in Barrington Hills, about to give the best man toast for Jack, almost ten years to the day of us moving in and beginning this crazy journey together. Most of my speech focused on how we had lived together for so long, so many places, so many memories. Crazy to think that we had started in a crumbling fraternity house in a 6 bedroom closet and now here we were at a beautiful country club. It didn't feel like a frat party anymore, this was real life.

It was during the speech that I had a moment of clarity.

I had spent my entire life comparing everything to that year, that time and place. 2008, Senior Year, Bloomington.

It's not that I didn't enjoy the ten years in between...I've had a wonderful time, it's just that 2008 was the last time I fully felt in control.

In college, you are given a very simple charge: graduate and don't die.

I was very good at graduating and not dying.

But everything else, came more difficult to me. Figuring out what I wanted, who I wanted to be, where I wanted to be. Getting in touch with my feelings, learning how to communicate with people and telling them what they mean to me. I also realize that while I may evolve, I'll still always largely be the same person I was in 2008. I may have different goals now and in the future but that won't drastically change my personality.

The last ten years weren't a wash. I made some of the greatest bonds of my lifetime, experienced joy, loss, pride and disappointment. But now, for the first time in a very long time I feel like I'm back in the driver's seat of my own story. I have regained the control. There will always be professional and personal ups and downs but if living in Venice has taught me anything, it's to just ride the wave.

As a writer I'm always thinking of things narratively, how do I get this character from point A to Point B and give them a happy ending. Well I don't have the precise answer yet, but I'm starting to figure it out. Every single one of my past experiences got me to where I am right now, and where I am, is the right track.

10 years ago today, Jake tossed me that beer and I could have never been prepared for the rollercoaster that followed. But If I could go back and talk to 21 year old me, I would just tell him to strap in and enjoy the ride.

And so I raise a glass...here's to you Shingles, may you always be a part of my heart.

Friday, July 20, 2018

Almost Good Enough


There is perhaps no word in the English language more soul crushing than 'almost.'

al·most
ˈôlˌmōst/
adverbnot quite; very nearly.

Failure is of course part of life, but coming so close to a goal and falling just short can lead to the type of despair that I wouldn't wish upon my worst enemy. Almost getting the girl, almost getting the dream job, almost being happy.

I was almost good enough once. I wanted to be a professional writer and I was ok, maybe even good. But there is a major difference between being good and good enough. 

I often attributed my professional failings to a personality problem. Most folks in Hollywood didn't stumble out of the frat house on their way here and found my attitude to be a bit off-putting. I made the mistake of assuming that everyone at their core was like me, someone who wanted to be the life of the party and have a good time.

I figured that regaling my coworkers about my weekend heroics was the quickest way to ingratiate my way into their hearts but really I was just proving to them something that I didn't yet know. I always wanted the life of a professional writer more than I wanted to be one.

I wanted a fast car, I wanted a sick apartment. I wanted to go on dates without worrying about the cost of menu items...should we get one more? Of course I wanted to have one more drink every time. Who doesn’t want one more drink? But instead of living in the moment, I would do the simple math and realize that every time I agreed to ‘one more’ I was setting myself back $40. On a production assistant salary those $40 increments add up fast. The first one means rent is going to be late, the next means I won’t be able to put gas in my car tomorrow, the third means the internet is going to be shut off. I hated this. I wanted to live a life free from the fear of overdrafting my checking account, free from the thought that if my car broke down I wouldn’t be able to fix it.

And that wasn't enough. I wanted to go to Yacht Week with the boys, that ski trip in Park City, take a friend out for their birthday...and this, this is what I was more worried about than 'making it.'

While I was going on those hall of fame nights where we took 12 ubers to 7 different neighborhoods and got home as the sun was rising, the people I thought I was so much better than, they were improving, I was just turning into a lush. 

Ya I was pretty good, probably better than most of my contemporaries to be honest. But in an industry where most writers under 35 are 'replacement level' anyway, who do you want in the room, the person who is dependable or the guy nursing a brutal hangover from a pier concert?

So there it is. I fucked up. I was almost good enough and I pissed it all away.

Everyone has a similar story of course. Maybe you were in a band that couldn't quite get over the hump, maybe you broke up with your soul mate over some petty argument. Maybe there was something you wanted so bad you could taste it and then one day, POOF, it was gone. You blew it you self-destructive twat.

But...

I have good news.

The good news is that it's not too late. Today I am here to absolve you of your sins. Whether you pissed away a promising TV career by behaving like a degenerate or literally anything else, today we wipe that slate clean.

Say it out loud, write it down, it's therapeutic to come clean on your fuck ups. White girls in LA pay a lot of money to say this kinda stuff to a therapist, this site is free. Yell it at your screen right now, it won't yell back. Did you blow your marriage, did you ruin a friendship, did you give up on one of your passions because you just couldn't get out of your own way?

Well that's fine, because right now I am hitting the reset button, because the truth is...there's no such thing as 'almost good enough.' You are fucking good enough. I am good enough. My career at NBC Uni may be over for the minute but that doesn't mean that my angsty single cam dramedies are any less fire. I mean, my God, I wrote a pilot a few weeks ago about summer in Carmel, Indiana and it was fucking BOMMMMMMMB. It took me eight hours. I mean even if it's shit, that's gotta be some sort of speed record. 

Pick up your guitar, write a new song. Hit up your ex girlfriend and list all of the things you did wrong. Dust off the clubs and book a tee time, start training for those triathlons again. Join a gym, reconcile with your parents, go get a new head shot. Don't give up.

I know it sucks to fail. It blows. And by all means you are well within your rights to climb into a bottle for two weeks and sulk, but after that, get over it homie.

And if you can't find someone to give you the opportunity to pursue your dream, just do it yourself. Self-publish a novel, record an EP and throw it up on Soundcloud. Can't find funding for your movie, shoot it on a god damn iPhone. We live in a time where there are just simply no more excuses not to pursue the things that make you happy. Start a podcast that has five listeners, believe me, it will become the most fulfilling part of your life; just do something. 

And of course because life is a cruel mistress and everything is cyclical you will undoubtedly screw up and fail again. But guess what, you can just re-read this and give it another go because it won't be too late then either. Because the only thing worse than trying and failing, is never trying at all.

Shooters shoot...remember that. 

Monday, July 9, 2018

Oh, the Places You'll Go


The car in front of me comes to a halt as I look at a the sun mercifully setting on the horizon. It is hot,  in fact I'm not sure if the asphalt is quite literally melting or I'm just seeing a hazy mirage as I make my way toward the Mexican border.

My car thermometer reads 115 degrees, that's probably inflated but needless to say I feel much more like I am pulling onto the dust of the playa than a coastal weekend getaway.

Twenty five people, two houses, one peninsula in Baja California, in the resort town of Ensenada. This was how we chose to spend the hottest weekend of the past ten years. Of course there was a 30th birthday and well and you don't exactly need to twist my arm to get me to do something cool.

In fact, I've spent most of my life counting down to something. Counting down the days until college, until the next formal, spring break, karaoke night...more recently the next vacation, wedding, the next 'bloggable moment.' It's not that I don't enjoy my every day life. I enjoy recording my podcast every week and walking the streets of Venice. Heck, I even enjoy my job. It's just that I am a very excitable person and I've always looked forward to the unexpected. Alas a trip with two dozen friends 200 miles south of LA was sure to be one of the highlights of summer.

***

We arrived in the small town of La Bufadora around 9 o clock, Friday night, eight hours after departing LA. The property is beautifully situated on a cliff that rises about 200 feet above the rocky beach below. With no guard rails or any sort of protective measures it's shocking that this place is allowed to exist, especially with the frequency in which it plays host to extreme debauchery.



Within minutes of arriving the host is sure to tell me that he can get me 'whatever I want.' I press him for clarification and he says 'Well, I had midget lucha libre wrestlers delivered last weekend for an Australian bachelor party.' Despite my well known affinity for WWE, I thank him for the offer and respectfully decline. I have a healthy amount of Fireball and Tecate Light as well an iPhone with the last four Bieber albums downloaded and ready to go.

A private chef came over to cook us a late dinner on Friday. This quickly escalated into a Disney Power Hour which has become my favorite trend of 2018. 

After eating about three pounds of beef tongue I sauntered off to bed with my bunk mate Michael Griffin and passed out to the soothing ambiance of his inebriated snoring. Day 1 in Mexico, in the books.



I wake up in sweat around 8am drenched in sweat and I am once again reminded of that brutal feeling of wanting to sleep more but being unable to due to heat. So I went through my typical burning man routine of briefly cursing the sun and then wandering somewhere to find a beer. 

Upon cracking the first Modelo of the day, I realize that some adventurous folk have already made their way down the treacherous cliffside "path" down to the rocky tide pools below. So with an inflatable Peacock named Peter, I scrambled down the mountainside to take a bath in some rejuvenating 69 degree water. Several of my party were stung by sea urchins and one may have been pinched by a crab but fortunately, Peter and I made it through the morning unscathed.



At 10am it was time to load up two vans with to go to the beach for some morning horseback riding. 

I have never ridden a horse, but I have seen plenty of Westerns. People in movies ride horses all the time. Men, women and children, they all ride. They ride fast. But then again people have also died riding horses. Superman was paralyzed. Scarlett O'Hara lost her father AND her daughter to horse related injuries. It probably wasn't my best idea to hop on a steed after an AM 6-pack, but alas I did...dressed all in black, it's not hard to ascertain who I would chose to portray in Westworld.



Baja California is a fascinating place, it has some of the most breathtaking natural beauty in the world, but it is also surrounded in abject poverty. There are hand made shanty towns as far as the eye can see. The majestic beach at the La Jolla beach camp doubles as a trailer park, where I imagine someone could have great success disappearing forever. The people have nothing and rely on a couple dollars from Americans on holiday to feed their children.

We ate a quick lunch in aforementioned trailer park at a quesadilla stand before making our way to the Guadalupe wine country where we took very stereotypical American photos and ran up a bill that included 37 bottles of wine and 10 plates of charcuterie. Our bill? Twenty dollars a person. Beat that Malibu Wines.



After sitting in the hundred degree sun all day, the executive decision was make to 86 an excessive night of table lording and bottles at Papas and Beer in favor of just hanging out with each other at the house, a decision that five years ago would have made me sick, I now appreciated more than anything in the world. 

If I learned anything this trip it's that life is usually about the small moments that happen when you really aren't paying attention. It's about lighting a sparkler on the driveway or taking the time to look at the stars. It's about the late night bonfires when no one wants to call it a night because in the morning it will be over.

But it isn't over.

Because of course the people that make life worth living are the ones you choose to celebrate it with. I may be back in the states, my Mexican vacation may technically be over, but the people in it are still here. Add that to the fact that technically the memories will live on forever, so by that logic the trip really never ends, a part of us will always be sitting outside telling old stories and hoping to spot a shooting star.

And those are the things I will never forget, being knighted by the Alexia, Queen of Baja, Monica setting the house on fire with an ill fated sky lantern, Andrea and Kelsey attempting to buy a puppy at the border.



It's time to stop living life one event at a time, because doing the whole philosophy of "If I can just make it to _____" posits that the majority of your life you are just waiting for something to happen. What a waste. Take pleasure in the small moments, a brief conversation with a loved one after work, watching a movie with your roommates, surviving a yoga class with a friend. Sure it's ok to look forward to the weekends but it's also great to not wake up with existential dread on a Tuesday just because there are four more days until you can sleep in.



Perhaps that is wishful thinking and my endorphin count is slightly higher today than a normal Monday because my mood is inflated from an incredible weekend with a rockstar crew. But I am reminded of something from high school that I thought was complete bullshit at the time but now I finally understand.

I went to a catholic school and we did a thing called 'Senior Retreat' I think it was about finding God and you told a random group of your classmates all your deepest darkest secrets. It was super therapeutic and the idea was that everyone would be friends afterward. The whole thing was three days long and you were told to "Live the Fourth," the meaning being make the rest of your life the fourth day of retreat. Well to scale down all the religious elements one could apply that theory to a vacation or really the last time you were truly happy. Never mentally leave there, tell those people how much you appreciate them at every opportunity. Cherish the fact that these people are in your lives and will undoubtedly rub off on you to a certain extent.



Of course you can rip it too. I mean the eight hour drive home yesterday was by no means great and I was so dehydrated this morning that my urine looked like used motor oil. But I dunno, I just felt a little different today. Maybe it was the calming effect of the Pacific Ocean, maybe I had a quasi-psychological breakthrough, but I just feel better now. Everything is going to be ok because the people I surround myself kick ass. And what else do you really need? Sure, life would be incrementally better with 10 million dollars in my bank account and a clean bill of health, but I don't think I would trade my situation for the world.

I think tonight I'll do my an dual re-read of Oh, the Places You'll Go...a book you undoubtedly received at your high school graduation party. Well ole' Doctor Seuss gave me a 98 and three quarters percent chance guarantee that everything would turn out ok...and boy was he right.

Oh...and Happy bday lex! Love ya forever :) Thanks for the trip of a lifetime.