New Orleans: A play by play of my Mardi Gras trip.

Editor's note: All names have been omitted to protect all parties involved, Nola is like Vegas to a certain extent, I'll share as much as I feel I can to be entertaining but protect reputations.

View from Tropical Isle Balcony: 10:00am

I have long hated New Orleans because of how their Super Bowl with the Colts ended. I thought it was stupid to rebuild a city built below sea level and the show Treme sucks. But it came time for my annual spring break trip and it didn't look like a ski trip was going to happen and one of my buddies was planning a trip to New Orleans, so on a particular stressful day of work I pulled the trigger and bought a one way flight to Mardi Gras. (Note: 90% of my travel purchases happen when I'm pissed off at work, because as long as I can have something to look forward to, I know everything will be ok.)

Flash forward to my birthday week. I have my last day on touch and then about 48 hours to prepare for this epic bender of a weekend. The group I was going with are some of the more epic party people I know. I was excited, nervous, ready.

Wednesday:
On Wednesday morning I left Venice at 4 in the morning to drop my car on some random side street in Westchester (no street cleaning days) from there I ubered it to the airport (ballin') I landed in New Orleans around 3pm and immediately bussed it to my hostel. Now I know you think at age 26 that hostels should be a thing of the past, but it was one of the most pleasant experiences of my life. Hostels are not for poor people they are for serious travelaholics.

Immediately upon arriving at the India House Hostel I was offered a beer by a group of Australians and we sat by the bar of our hostel's above ground pool (seriously how charming is that? I thought above ground pools were only found in northwest suburbs of Chicago) We were joined by a group of 9 Irish/Scottish/Canadian travelers and before I knew it I had 12 new friends.

We polished a handle of rum and walked to our first parade of the trip. A 20 minute walk where I got to know each of the life stories of this group, people I had met a mere hour ago. Meeting new people. That's why I stay one should stay in hostels.

The parade was raucous but not in the stereotypical way you might imagine Hollywood portraying Mardi Gras, it was more of a college football tailgate. Moms sitting on coolers, dads throwing the ball with their kids, everyone drinking beer and trying to collect free shit. Beads, candy...you name it, New Orleans really does have a small town feel when you are along these parades route. Everyone comes out to support their favorite Krewe. Oh what is a Krewe? A Krewe is kind of like a gang of sorts or team, they spend all year long trying to organize the best parades, build the best floats, throw the best swag. All in all I think there are about 50, so that means 50 parades during the 2 weeks of Mardi Gras season. Wednesday night after a brief stop at a local pub and some dancing we called it early, don't want to blow your whole load the first night.

A round of hurricanes at Pat O'Brien's

Thursday
As sad as I was to see my international friends go, it was time to check into the Best Western Bourbon Street and start the real party. If you know who I went with, it won't surprise you that within 15 minutes of check in, we were ripping shots, popping adderall and planning our immediate walk to Pat O'Briens. 7 guys from all across the country with one goal, get fucking obliterated (and see lots of boobs) well we did just that. What followed was 3 hurricanes each (like a hairy bear but dark red) at Pat O'Brien's, 5 hand grenades each (like an AMF but green) at the tropical Isle balcony (this is where we had our first round of flashing of the trip...Chicago public elementary school teachers HA and then we felt like we were sufficiently ready to head to Krazy Korner for the Indiana Game. I don't remember much of what happened next. My buddy Dub coined a move called "The Gronk" it's when you steal a girls drink, chug it and then spike it on the floor. The last thing I remember is ordering 5 shots for myself after we lost it shouldn't have been a surprise when I woke up in the bathtub covered in my own vomit.

2 girls about to perform a leez reez, girls can do it too.

Friday
I emerged from the bathroom to find the room covered in Bud Light Platinum bottles and broken glass. Someone had taken our hotel room art work and smashed it to all over the place. It would be a safe bet that it was WWF inspired, we were DDT'ing each other all weekend because...why not? Being that our room was covered in glass and likely some sort of venereal disease, we figured it a good idea to get straight to Bourbon Street. We caught a few parades on the way and then found ourselves at our new favorite spot, the Tropical Isle balcony.

We then spent the next 12 hours shouting at girls to flash us under the chant "Tits out for the boys!" Once we grew tired of breasts "Labias out for the boys" but apparently exposing genitalia carries a 1000 dollar fine, so we settled with "my buddies going to suck on your left titty, I'm going to suck on your right titty and it doesn't count unless we have a picture that we can send to all of our friends." This is called a Leez Reez The success to face slap ratio was about 1 to 4 which is not that bad all things considered.
We then ventured for a quick beer at Lafitte's blacksmith shop, it's the oldest bar in the USA before venturing to get some of the greatest crawfish in the bayou.

I was too drunk to figure out the "twist and pull" manuever so I settled for a filet cooked rare, I may be a pussy but I do not regret my decision. Around this time we went back to get dressed for the one night club of the trip. You'll notice the details of each day get hazier and hazier until I flat out can't remember anything. The club was fun, we attempted Bourbon Street at 7 am after the club, I think it was us and the street sweepers a depressing sight.

Tropical Isle Hand Grenade, the shark is from the shark attack shot

Saturday
I didn't get out of bed until about 3pm Saturday, my body was already breaking down and I didn't yet have a return flight, this was giving me massive anxiety. Sunday flights $800. Fuck. Monday flight $250 dollars but it goes to Atlanta, has a 4 hour layover, and gets me into LA at midnight. Whatever, the shit I'll do to save a buck.

Finally, after booking the world's most miserable day of travel, I head out to meet my friends where they were again running back and forth between Patty O's and The Tropical Isle. At this point my friends and I were pretty much at peak degenerate status. Phrases like "let's just go to the bathroom and fuck...it'll be like real quick." were not offlimits (Also, I don't think thats a good selling point to a chick.

I promise it will be like 3 pumps. If a chick is going to degrade herself to fucking in a bathroom I'm sure she wants to at least enjoy it and not just be your cum recepticle.) We were all horribly sun burnt because a bunch of bros don't bring things like sun block on vacations to the Gulf of Mexico. We had a nice meal at Bayou Burger, I personally went with the crocodile burger, pretty tender.

We polished the night off with a solid 8 hour trip to a karaoke bar called the Cat's Meow, where I brought the house down with a moving rendition of Nelly's Ride With Me. The key to all these bars is that they all have balconies facing eachother. There are literally millions of people lining these balconies, shouting things across, throwing beads, chucking beers. It's a real cooperative experience. The guys want to see boobs, the girls want the prettiest beads.

Sunday/Monday
We're out of Adderall, we're out of booze, our hotel room has a $400 clean up fee. There are two mysterious girls crying in the bathroom. It's the peak of shame. When all the dopamine in your body is gone and you think you may never experience happiness again, it's probably time to call the trip. We won, we bonded as a group, we have lots of fun inside jokes and lots of stories that we will never tell. Hell we even convinced a few drunken girls to let us get some horribly inappropriate photos with them...but no. We had to push it. One more hurricane, one more bar...one more IU game...ok I'll get out of bed for one more.

Bad decision.

Next thing I know, I am as drunk as I have been the entire trip, and the bar that is playing the IU game has dollar shots, dollar beers, and the greatest brass band I have ever heard.
As you know IU crushed Ohio State and there was just enough Euphoria left in the air to get my friends to a taxi and home to New York/Sacramento/Indianapolis/Hermosa Beach...but then there was me....all alone, experiencing early symptoms of alcohol poisoning, stuck in a parade route with 10 bucks in my pocket and a reservation at a hostel 5 miles away.

I used all of my remaining energy to bribe a cab driver with said 10 dollars and a stick of beef jerky to take me to the India House hostel.
I checked in and saw all of my friends from Wednesday partying at the pool again. Not this time guys. I through all my shit on the closest bunk and crashed. Except I couldn't I was so drunk/hungover/dehydrated I could not sleep. Just sit there and sweat and listen to the old man next to me and his emphyzema symptoms.

I tried to go watch the Grammy's on the communal couch with the New Zealand girls but I felt too bad about my constant sweating and sauntered off back to bed. I rolled out of bed at 2 am and took a cold shower, using 2 miller lite promotional shirts I had been given to dry off before throwing them in the trash and hopping back into my bunk like a wet dog.
 Just as I was about to doze off at 4 am, some guy and a fat chick start making out right next to my bunk. I groan a bit thinking they'll choose another cabin, but it only drives them to the shower where he rails her for the better part of 2 hours (and she was a screamer, but good for him on that performance. He must have been juicing.)

Monday morning rolls around and I finally drag myself to breakfast at noon and swap stories of mischief with all my Aussie/Euro/Canadian friends and it cheered me up just a bit so that I almost for got about the next 12 hours of my life. These are truly friendships that I cherish and I hope to meet them on the road again some day.

Progression of the work week hangover

My travel day
1pm. My cab arrives.

2pm. I get to the airport.

3pm I board my plane. I can barely walk, and my throat feels like it is constricting my wind pipe, but I catch my first break. EXIT ROW! YES! But it's only a 1 hour flight to Atlanta. A 1 hour flight Northeast.

5pm. Lost an hour. It's 5 in Atlanta. 4 hour layover busiest airport in the world. I try to explore a bit but my muscles are so sore and deprived of water that I cannot walk without assistance. One of my buddies the day before used a handicap cart to get around, I can't bring myself to ask. I go order Subway. Can't put it down, throw the remaining 11 inches away and go puke up the first inch. 3 hours go by I try to order some more food. It's no use. I go lay in the corner seizing and gasping for air the remainder of time until boarding.

9pm. Boarded my plane. Full 5 hour flight. Fuck. I just want to be in my bed watching the Walking Dead

12am pacific. Ok. I'm back in LA and thank god my roommate is a saint and picked me up. I made it into bed at 2am.

Not as eco-friendly in New Orleans

The only word to describe the trip is "epic." Some of the greatest memories of my life with some of the coolest guys. Unfortunately I'm not 21 anymore and can't handle the 5 day blackout of spring break. Go to Mardi Gras. Go for 3 days only. And always remember to hydrate.

Snap back to reality: Generation Z

It’s been quite some time since I have done some blogging. There are a variety of reasons for this.  One is I suppose I have been trying to write actual pilots and screenplays that might one day make me rich and famous. The second is the fact that when working 65-70 hours a week I barely have enough time to hit the gym a few times, black out thrice and get my requisite amount of masturbation in. Lastly, I haven’t had a whole lot to say lately.

Over the past 3 or 4 years of some incarnation of my blog or another the message has been pretty static. You should rage! Be an amoral frat legend, do drugs drink and have unprotected sex! Seize the day, you’re only young once! Growing up is for pussies! That was all exaggerated Tucker Maxian fun for a while but I’m sure the message wore thin over the long run. I think I basically wrote the same blog entry or some variation of it 1000 times just to remind you that live doesn’t end at 22 and there are other things to aspire to besides home ownership and an engagement ring.

My life is very different from yours, not necessarily better, but definitely different. While you wear a p coat to your high rise and read the Wall Street Journal, I wear a Chive shirt to Fox Studios and wait for my show to get cancelled. A Tuesday night for you may be cooking and watching the Biggest Loser with a significant other, I drink a magnum of Pinot Noir and try to find the voice of my generation.

There that’s it. No bragging, no ranting just an update of where my life stands in comparison with that of my contemporaries.

But I like you, notice things. Perhaps moreso than others because I fancy myself a writer. I try to capture stories and retell them in an interesting way. In keeping with my theme of stunting my eventual psychological development, I spent a fair amount of time going back to college after graduation, I go to Kilroy’s in Broad Ripple when I am back in Indianapolis. I still try to pick off coeds at Kincade’s on karaoke night. I thought there was probably not much different between an immature 25 year old and your standard run of the mill college Senior.

Boy was I wrong.

In the time that has passed since I graduated in 2009, 80’s rock and 90’s ironic boy band hits have been replaced by hard edm bangers and filthy drug glorified hip hop. The “cool girls” that is the attractive upper middle class white girls who joined top tier sororities at large state schools are no longer just having a few too many shots at the bar, they are popping ecstacy like fucking altoids on a Tuesday and going to the Mid in a bro tank. I used to be abhorred by girls that did drugs, it was almost more of a double standard than giving/receiving blowjobs. Now it seems it’s just the norm. Having a live band at a party used to be a thing, now it’s merely about how current your playlist of underground dubstep is. Remember the days of fighting over the iPod trying to decide whether to play Celine Dion or ‘N-Sync? Now you are trying to decide which 15 year old Swedish child prodigy dj to play.

It’s more, there is actually an app dedicated to sexting. Like are you kidding me? If you are a standard college kid now, you just sit on your iPhone 5 waiting on all your old slam pieces to send you their most scandalous nude pic. Maybe you throw them a courtesy boner once in a while, even if she screen shots it, whatever all dicks look the same. I can’t imagine an easier way to engineer a hook up. “Send me your tits, now send me a video of you fingering yourself, ok I’m hard come over so I can dump this load in you.  Oh you have leftover molly from last night? Bring that too, I have the new Skrillex EP.”

This is by no means an indictment of any of the above. I tolerate if not condone all of the actions. My last two pilots are heavily centered around electronic dance music (and drugs are very much an integral part of that culture) I’m planning a reality show around a concert tour and I for one would find it much easier to make it through the work week if I knew I was going to have a collage of Snap Chat tits waiting for me when I got home from work each night.

It’s just like…what’s next? Websites like Brobible and TFM have pushed the bro culture about as far as it can go. (Guys now coerce girls to write their letters on their boobs during rush and send them in to promote the frat. Like seriously, what do they get out of this, a handle of Karkov…actually more likely a gram of some controlled substance) I mean I remember leaving college thinking. This is it…we have pushed the limits beyond expectation. WE. FUCKING. RAGED. We were awesome, we had the biggest parties, took the most shots…and we’ve been completely and thoroughly outdone. Not even close an epic knockout punch against generation Y and morality in America. These days it’s not about how many shots you take but how may waters it takes you to rehydrate after you sweat your balls off during an especially intense trip.

I think I may be joined in my belief now that having kids is not a good idea, at least not for now. Not when girls are snap chatting pictures of them shoving bongs up their twat to stoner frat guy to turn him on. Maybe going celibate will be the next big thing, or a hard hipster phase. Because right now there is enough blow and mdma rolling around to blow the 80’s collective fucking mind.

It’s not even just LA, this is all going down at a small town near you. As a writer it’s all great for storytelling…this is a story that mass society does not want to hear, the epidemic of “rage” that is taking over America. But fuck it…I mean it looks fun?

What are you really thankful for?

It’s that time of year where everyone is going to blog about feel good bullshit they are thankful for (Thought Catalog suggests sending an old friend a handwritten note expressing your feelings to an old friend!) I am thankful for friends and family that love me for me. I love my job, my supportive husband and my beautiful niece.

Are you really thankful for that? Like yes, friends and family are great, but are you really thankful for book club and pretty flowers and the show Revenge? That seems like a pretty half ass list…pretty conducive to the half ass life most people are overeager to settle for, I like to paint a slightly different picture of the things that I am really happy for.

I am really happy for alcohol and all the glorious effects it has on my life. Almost every sexual encounter I have ever been fortuitous enough to engage in has been relating to alcohol. Either I was so bombed that I settled for a 3, a chick was so bombed she settled for me or I drank enough that I was able to muster up the courage to actually talk to a pretty girl. If I was a Mormon I would be a virgin Mormon. What a shitty existence that would be. On the flip side alcohol has led to various downfalls in my life. Infidelity, legal troubles, hangovers, bouts of erectile dysfunction and me just being a shitty human being, but it’s easy to blame the alcohol. We live in a society where you can generally just say, “sorry I was hammered” and all is forgiven. It’s one of the only generally accepted excuses. Much better than saying, “sorry, I was sober I’m just actually a miserable person.”

I’m thankful to live in a world where personality matters. If I had to get by on effort, reliability and ability to follow orders I would be fucked. Like super fucked. I do not play well with others and I do not do the role of subordinate well. I would be the worst soldier ever. Fortunately though, I am extremely outgoing and fairly talented. I can succeed for the most part or at least get by on charm and wit. I will likely leap over deserving people in the long run because I am more fun to hang out with and generally awesome. It’s not that nice guys finish last, it’s just that shy quiet people don’t get noticed and in life you promote people that you like. Remember that whole rumor during pledgeship that the guys that were the best pledges would hold the most respect in the house? It’s bullshit, it’s all about who crushes the most ass and makes road trips more fun.

I’m thankful for dreams. Because without them what’s the fucking point? I could go move into my parent’s basement, get a job selling home security. No fuck that. Sales is the worst. I would go get a job in construction, it would save me a visit to the gym every day. Eventually I would find a decent woman to marry, we would buy a 2 bedroom house south of broad ripple and eventually procreate. The world would go on.  I think I would rather die of a heart attack at 30 before living out that existence. So I slave away collating scripts knowing that one day I’ll get stuck in an elevator with some producer and by the time we get out, we’ll be shopping my pilot to networks together. And if it doesn’t work out, at least I spent my 20’s attempting to do something interesting.

Honorable mention: I’m also thankful for Indiana basketball, Justin Bieber, independent cinema, electronic music, virgin air, giant soft chewy sweet tarts and also for you. Yes you. I know my ramblings are so pretentious and at times hard to read. If I were you I would be rooting for me to fail, but I won’t because I keep it real and apparently that’s a dying art form. Happy Thanksgiving, enjoy the football and the inside of your ex-girlfriend’s snatch.

The Dilemma

Warning: The following post is a tad more graphic than usual. It in no way reflects an endorsement of how I believe people should behave. However it is an exercise in creative writing. I also wrote it when I was quite intoxicated. It is a work of fiction.

You look to your left. Slight panic. Where am I? A bed. Good start. Have come to in much worse places. This is not a prison or a ditch. Evaluate surroundings. Not my bed. That’s a body. Not attractive. At least she’s female. So I’m at her place. Piece it together. I went out last night. Hard. I blacked out. Jesus. When will I stop doing that. Did I bang this chick? Unlikely. I blacked out. Not 19 anymore. Drunken erections not to be taken for granted. Also that gram of blow I did. At least there is no need to worry about condoms and pregnancies and stds. But wait. What if I went down on her. That’s my move. It’s a classic go to. Fuck. Can vag herpes turn into mouth herpes? I guess I would just call them cold sores. Those are gross though. It hurts when you open your mouth. Whatever. I probably just came here and passed out. Where are my pants. All the way over there? Why do I feel the need to dramatically whip my jeans across the room? Maybe I can lean over and get them. She won’t wake up. Fuck, this bed is high. Is that a thing? Don’t wake up, I’m leaning, I’m reaching. Fuck. No chance. Oh shit, she’s moving. Do not roll over and attempt to cuddle me. Please. Oh shit. Ok so the covers shifted around a bit. I may have undersold her a bit. Nice tits. How am I going to get home. A cab would be 90 bucks. I can’t justify that. Spent like an asshole last night. But she’s not that bad. I;m digging that puffy nipple. Oh shit, I’m hard. Maybe I poke her awake. But maybe she blacked out too and will be weirded out to find a stranger in her bed. Is it wet on her side of the bed? Did she piss herself? Fuck it. I’ll rub it on her thigh until I get a hand job minimum. I can probably get a ride out of her. Unless she makes me take the bus. Or I could abandon this plan and just try to sneak out. That won’t work. Oh shit, my breath. Was I drinking tequila? Why. Quick strategic analysis, sneak out vs. possible hand job and lift home. The dilemma. 

When I become showrunner

I think I finally know what I want to be when I grow up. It may have taken a quarter of a century, but I think I've figured it out. Obviously my end game is to be able to write in some capacity, and sure, lots of the glory is in features. Most aspiring writers don't dream of being television hacks, but where there is a lot of glory is that of a tv show runner. This is basically the guy that comes up with the idea for the show, sells it to the network, writes the pilot and then maintains all creative control of the series moving forward. Think of Dan Harmon at Community (before he got axed) Kurt Sutter at Sons of Anarchy, Matthew Weiner at Mad Men, Terrence Winter at Boardwalk Empire. All of these guys are major badasses.

Unfortunately in order to get into the machine you have to start at the bottom where I am now. I have no complaints about my job, I view it as a very necessary evil. I will not get food orders forever, it is a stepping stone to eventual happiness. It's very much akin to being a pledge before you are allowed to join the frat. You are kind of part of the whole scene but not really. Most people don't go out of their way to be a dickhead to you but some will, that and many of my duties are things that I learned to do as a pledge and haven't really done since, such as cleaning up after myself, and others. I'm a fairly cocky, arrogant guy. I am physically superior to almost everyone, well...I'm taller than most people. I'm loud, imposing and I have a lot of fun.

I remember when I was a pledge my general demeanor really rubbed some people the wrong way, it was like "Why aren't you more miserable? You are supposed to fucking hate this." But I didn't really because when I left the frat after cleaning up or getting barfed on, I would shower, get drunk and go have sex with a random chick. My life wasn't that bad. I feel like the hierarchy of tv is very much the same. I am a pledge. The producers are the Seniors. Everyone else on the staff is somewhere between neophyte and Junior. Most of the people are super cool and really don't give a shit what the pledges (PAs) are up to because they have a show to make. (I equate this to frat guys having girls to fuck.) Note that the cool guys in the frat never gave a shit about the pledges, they were too busy finding good houses to party with, going on epic road trips, and generally drinking beer and gunning chicks. Outside the occasional fuck up that directly influenced them (losing a key to the booze fridge) they generally didn't think twice about you at all.

This directly correlates with tv. 99% of the staff is all smiles with me until I fuck up something that either gets them in trouble with their boss or directly impacts their job, making them work longer or harder. But once in a while you encounter that guy that lives in the valley (in a shitty upstairs single) that still remembers getting picked on when he was a pledge (PA) and he doesn't like your fucking arrogance. Wipe that smile off your face underling, go get me a bottled water (beer.) He can't stand the fact that you are going to go out in Venice (Briscoe) tonight and bang some chick (bang some chick) while he wonders why he is still just an assistant editor (Sophomore with no people skills) I'm going to haze the fucking shit out of you because I'm still miserable.

Our assistant editor is the shit actually and so are 99% of the people I work with, it is just something I have picked up on in life. The losers can never let their hardships go. I had to work 14 hour days (14 hour line-ups) so you are going to. People yelled at me, so I'm going to yell at you. Meanwhile the cool guys are just social climbing until they get to work on an HBO show (this is like the equivalent of living in Shingles or super frat)

But now that I'm done with my extended metaphor, what changes would I make to the world of Production? Funny you ask, I have a few thoughts.

First of all, life in production is pretty intense, and I am not cut out for it. The natural route for someone in my position is to become production secretary, assistant production coordinator, production coordinator and then if you're lucky you're a unit production manager getting a lowly co-producer credit by the time you're 50. On my side of the office it is printing scripts, re-printing scripts on different colored paper, collecting release forms, dealing with insurance, budgeting camera rental equipment...fuck that. I need to take a hard right to the end of the hall where the creative staff hangs out. Writers meetings, nerf guns, writer's block beers, that's the shit I'm talking about. I don't even know if any of that stuff exists, but I fantasize what the week would look like if I were the show runner. I imagine there would be considerably more youth and exuberance and fewer vegan options on the lunch menu. In fact you would think that television shows that are trying so depserately for that 18-49 demo would skew young. In fact they do not. I don't know if my show has a single writer in their 20's, even the writers assistants appear to be in their 30s.

Maybe it's been tried before and it became a production nightmare. If the writers are just casually drinking all day and the tv show adopts a laissez faire attitude it must be a nightmare to get things done. But maybe that fun atmosphere on a television show transcends the television waves? Well hopefully we'll find out, because if the Glowfest show gets the greenlight and I'm a writing producer I can't imagine that I'll spend more than 5 hours and 3 four lokos on an episode outline before I say "fuck it, let's shoot it and see what happens." Television needs more of that.

When I think about you I touch myself

If you would have told me that at age 25, I would have a tv show in development at Red Bull, work on the Fox lot and have a BYOB Chinese restaurant and a beach less than a mile from my house I would probably have been quite thrilled with that outcome.

Yes look at me kids, a true American success story, proof that you can do whatever the fuck you want in life and if you're awesome enough you will get away with it.

OK so I'm a PA on a Friday night tv show, my tv series may or may not air on the web. And there is a 15% chance of getting stabbed on my particular beach if I go there after dark. That said, there is no knock on Mao's Kitchen, it is simply the best and if you pay your non-English speaking waitress 5 dollars she will turn the other way when you try to take shots (they are licensed for beer and wine only)

So tomorrow I take the next step in my journey to the top. Full of 6 am call times, petty cash and hopefully lots of meal penalties (you get extra money if you aren't fed in the first 6 hours of your shift, heyooo) the flip side of this is the blog will suffer. As people that have been reading me for a while you can probably make a direct correlation with how often I am writing and how little I give a shit about what I'm up to professionally. Now that I am actually a real boy in the entertainment industry the days of blogging about banging fat chicks and doing bathroom key bumps might be coming to an end (not to say I'm going to stop, but I likely won't have time to actually carry on my double life AND tell you about it)

But that's good, it used to be that when I needed to find a creative outlet I would vent about everything different in the world that I didn't understand. I couldn't fathom the idea of getting married or staying in. When Indy got lame, I jumped to Chicago, when I lost all my friends in Chicago to relationships and maturity I jumped to LA, fortunately there are 40 year olds here who behave the same way that I do, so I might get to stay a while. In fact, when I think of many of the people that swept me under the rug as they settled for a life of middle management and this I realize that my constant bitching about it will never change the way other people react.

Believe it or not, mediocrity is enough for some people. Some people don't have the desire to go for it.

Whatever it is I guess. I guess dreaming big for some people is "having 4 kids." Some people want to make a lot of money. I for one, want to make something that will be here forever. Even if I write the shittiest movie ever made, or am a low level producer on a really bad reality tv show. It will exist because of me, and there will never be anything anyone can do to take it away. Even if our society reverts to that of high morals and everything that I ever wrote is deemed obscene. Somewhere on a hard drive or a web address it will always exist. That is my motivation for doing what I do.

Again, the blog will never make me famous, so I've been scaling back my activity on here and diverting it to actual screenplays, television specs and basic pitches for things that I find interesting. As much fun it is to bitch and moan and create this megalomaniac of a character on this blog and try to once and a while show you a hint of humanity and intelligence that I as a person really have, it was generally created as an exercise for me to find my voice.

And I've found it. I hope lots of you continue to follow my writing career, and I will still check in here from time to time, it's just hard to work a 60 hour week, write a 100 page screenplay and still find the time to come on here and ask what the fuck those vuvuzella things are that hang on a Jewish person's door.

To any aspiring writers or people that just thought maybe it would be fun to give a shot once, lots of people will give you advice along the way. Fuck it. Fuck all of it. Do your thing, don't read any books, just start writing and see what happens. Even if you don't achieve a desired result, you'll know that you did things your way and that's got to be better than being a fucking hack.

So that's that. Not the end of a book, but the beginning of a new chapter for me. All you peeps better set your dvr's to Fox on Friday nights this January, not to tune in would be to intentionally destroy my master plan. (Season 3 writer's PA, Season 4 Writer's assistant, Season 5 promoted to staff writer. Show gets cancelled after season 5 but I have a WGA card and an agent and at the age of 28 my coming of age indie film wins Sundance and I get to go on a date with Jennifer Lawrence.)

Didn't someone say that if you write down your goals they are ten times more likely to come true?

Short term memory loss

I haven't found the time to blog this week because I've been working the early shift at Fox. I've been waking up at 5 am every day, coming home and falling asleep. Usually I come home at 5 am and fall asleep, so this has been a bit backward for me. By the way, I had an epiphany the other day while driving. The new last call song has to be "Here Comes the Sun" by the Beatles, except instead of some weird Eastern influenced metaphor about what George Harrison was going through at the time of Abbey Road, it's like, "oh fuck, the sun is rising, better take this slam home before I can see what she actually looks like."

But seriously, I haven't woken up at 5am since I think Little 5 my senior year, and that was to drink. I've been drinking these K cups called rocket fuel (which would be a great name for a street drug) they are like the double IPAs of coffee. I literally take two hits (sips) and I want to ride an elephant into battle.

I did want to take 30 seconds though today and discuss society's short term memory loss. 3 things happened in the last 48 hours that I found interesting.

1. Romney won the debate last night. I am not very political, nor is this blog, but just a week after he complained about not being Mexican and how poor people won't vote for him, every apathetic, upper middle class, candyflipping white kid is supporting him on Facebook now. (Or they are making a point to tell everyone how little they care) It just goes to show how little stock we put in things that happened yesterday. It's all about the now.

2. American hero Miguel Cabrera has a long history of getting thoroughly housed. As a fellow degenerate I completely support this behavior. However, unlike me, instead of playing house music and lowering his sexual standards a full 2 standard deviations from the mean, when Miguel gets drunk he beats women and drives around. Not to say I haven't driven sauced once or twice, but the only bruises I give women are to their inner thighs. (*Single handed snap*) But Miguel Cabrera won a triple crown for the first time since 1967. So...fuck it, he rocks!

3. The St. Louis Cardinals clinched a playoff spot. (This is in no way related to my overall thesis, it is just something that I find interesting because I am a fan)

To recap, you can be a major fuck up in this country, but if the last thing you did was positive, society has about as good a memory as I do after 5 flatlines...and that's good, because so far I've done a lot of bad, but some day I plan on turning it around. Everyone loves a comeback story.