Aren't people that tweet that the fucking worst? It's like, "Hey, look at me, I'm going somewhere! My life is more exciting than yours! Look I'm a double douche I use the airplane emotes instead of arrows now you know I have an iPhone too!" It isn't enough that people tell you where they are going, but they even use the airport codes just to make sure you know they're flying...because you wouldn't want to get confused and think that someone is traveling by the all so popular overnight train.
I'm one of those people and I realize I am the worst. I send tweets like that to upset people. I get a kick out of causing others jealousy. I'm going to Chicago (and flying Virgin) on Tuesday and you fucking aren't. But if you are let's party. I also send those warning tweets out to give all my midwest slam pieces a heads up, it's a courtesy thing.
So there you have it, those are my Labor Day weekend plans. One week to terrorize the midwest, sample the new Broad Ripple Kilroys and wear white. Then I return to perpetual summer in Venice and I can throw as many fucking footballs on the beach as I want (the football beach ban only goes Memorial Day - Labor Day)
But what does one do on a trip home? Slip back into old habits? Round up the old gang? It's funny a year is both a very short and a very long time. Do people still party at North Ave beach all day, go to Social 25 and then end the night at Beaumont? Do all my old friends still routinely wake up hungover on Sunday, accidentally black out and end up at Stanley's for live band karaoke? One would hope, but I wouldn't know because I am so brutally terrible at keeping in touch.
When I left Chicago I had a core group of about 10 people I kicked it with at least once a week, more often times closer to 5 times a week, the door to Burling was never locked and we would routinely stay up drinking playing ping pong until 8 in the morning. Of that roughly 10 person crew, I have talked to maybe 2 of them in the past 6 months, because I am awful (see first paragraph) Sure there are circumstances, you don't talk to someone as much when you live thousands of miles away, everyone has their own shit going on with work, girlfriends, etc but even if it does sound a little lame, I shouldn't be afraid to pick up the phone once in a while.
I think I've had good buds get engaged and what not and I found out via accidentally stumbling upon their Facebook wall. In fact there are probably people that I will hope to see next week and then I will find out they moved to Denver or something but in my self absorbed world west of Lincoln in Los Angeles, I didn't get the memo. My time in Chicago will ultimately go down as my lost years. I had a dead end job, I got into some questionable things and basically wasted years 22, 23 and 24. But I fucking raged, and had the time of my life. Now that I live in LA, I have gotten into some more noble pursuits, writing, producing and surfing (Jesus that sentence makes me seem like an Aaron Sorkinesque ass hat) and I have my Los Angeles crew here but that's not to say the years 2009-2011 didn't kick some serious ass. I mean I was flying on G5's to the Bahamas on the reg, I lived in a multimillion dollar condo with a steam room, and oh yah, I was the fucking man. If I throw parties in LA I'm lucky to get 10 people to show, some of the Halloween parties at Burling and the 4th of July 2010 will go into the Hall of Fame (but not quite on the level of Shingles Snow Day)
This is a brutally self serving blog post, but the point I'm getting at is, I am getting the fucking band back together. People of Chicago you are all on notice. I know that most of you are like 26, and you may even live with a person of the opposite sex. It's quite possible many of you have been promoted twice and have a director or vp somewhere in your title. I write shitty coming of age scripts and test actors' grapes, but we have one week to celebrate the dog days of summer and a more reckless time. Yes we will go to Trivia Tuesday night at State, of course there will be Wednesday karaoke at Kincade's. Thursday I'm megabusing to Indy and I will probably open to close Kilroys on Friday. Saturday, it's back to Chicago for some rolling at North Coast and Sunday we'll throw back some bourbons on the roof of the Wit. Join me.
Next Tuesday, summer for all intents and purposes adjourns. Chicago will start to get a bit colder, football will dominate weekends and bro tanks will be exchanged for sweaters, swimsuits for jeans. But fuck next Tuesday. You're not going to get another 3 day weekend until the end of November and most of that weekend you'll be forced to hang out with your family. We are all laborers this weekend is for us, whether you have a 9 to 5 where you punch the clock or you hustle people to name drop you at the door for 5 bucks a head I invite you to join me on one last summer bender. If we haven't hung out in a while, I assure you, nothing has changed be that a good or a bad thing. The sun is setting on party season, let's have a tall night cap before we call it a day.
Sunday, August 26, 2012
Monday, August 20, 2012
The PA diaries
What a Monday. I wake up after a 12 hour food poisoning battle to learn that Tony Scott has swiftly told his brain cancer to go fuck itself via danger zoning off of a San Pedro bridge and that gashes are now allowed to join Augusta. Some quick thoughts on both: Tony Scott was the man, I was trying to get a job to read his scripts, clearly that is not going to come to fruition now, but needless to say his movies were shamelessly awesome. He is responsible for Cole Trickle and Maverick (two pre-gay Tom Cruise roles) and basically everything good Denzel Washington has ever done. He was working on a remake to The Warriors, one of my favorite movies ever and I am shitty that it will probably never be made now. Also I can't imagine a better way to go out, brain cancer surely would suck, so I think to go ocean base jumping sans a parachute is a pretty rad way to go.
Next, chicks at Augusta...here is the thing, I am not for the discrimination of women, but why would a woman want to join a boy's club. I don't try to join women's clubs. Men at Augusta want to talk about fucking their mistresses while their wives vacation in France, liberally use the word cunt, talk about masturbating to the leaked photos of Carly Rae Jepsen's massive nipples (Side note: I almost constantly use nude photo leaks as a selling point when I try to get girls to send me pictures of their tits. But Blake Lively and Scarlett Johansson did it! Are you better than them? They almost always reply, yah and look what happened to them. Fair point, but no one is trying to hack a PA's phone. I figure if I go through all of the chicks in my phone and ask everyone I'll get about 5% if I haven't asked you yet, don't worry I'm only on the letter B.) Bringing women into this environment effectively squashes this locker room talk. I don't give a shit about the integrity of golf, but there is something to be said about letting some grown ass CEO's bro out a little bit. Now onward to the post!
I've been MIA lately because I have been working on a movie. Now most of my life I haven't worked very hard at all. I get by on my intelligence, wit and the fact that I am cooler than everyone. It's ok, we can admit it..I'm fucking sweet. But unfortunately a solid chill to pull ratio only takes you so far. At some point you have to find something you are half way decent at and at least put up the appearance of giving a shit. So this past week, I was on set doing normal PA stuff, namely trying to fuck the art coordinator. But also managing craft services driving all over California and other menial tasks that an indentured servant would perform. But it's cool, I am better at most at doing random tasks and lifting heavy stuff. The problem is though, that most of the crew is either gay or vegan, or even worse a gay vegan.
Now I know I give them lots of shit, but I have no problem with the gays. But by being gay you are going to take some shit, it's like being a Mets fan, that's probably considered an appalling and ignorant statement, but whatever, people that are different occasionally get ripped on this blog. So I am cool with the gays, but the vegans...I have no tolerance for them. I was in charge of something called craft services, basically this is the guy that runs the snack table. Immediately, I celebrated my post. I thought I would thrive in such an environment. My snacks consisted of Pringles, Cheez-its, beef jerkey, kettle cooked potato chips, Gushers, Rockstar, Red Bull, Five Hour Energy and a shit ton of Pepsi Throwback. Sounds like a video game marathon in a 12 year old's basement. I was in heaven.
I come back to set bearing gifts, thinking I will be celebrated as a hero. As I stood at attention at the table ready to receive my compliments and possible tips a strapping young bro walked up, I expected an immediate high five. Instead I was greeted with, "Where's the fruit man?"
Fruit? This motherfucker wants fruit? What followed was 45 minutes of sharp critiques at the lack of healthy food. Fruit, veggies, sugar free sodas and dry nuts. Apparently people in this state, especially in the film industry are super health conscious (Read: gay vegans.) No one even appreciated my supersize pack of triple stuffed golden Oreos. Nope, it was "Hey thanks for playing you Btown hick, now go get me some Diet Vernor's and a fiber bar AND TEST THE GRAPES PLEASE.
Add that to the list of responsibilities for a PA, grape tester. It's funny because I come from a world where the taller and more athletic you are usually leads to popularity, power and a plethora of disposable vagina. Such is not the case in Hollywood. In fact my boss thinks that barely straight Bradley has a better chance with art girl than I do. He is dainty and talks like a chick and crosses his legs to the point where he cannot possibly have balls, but he has perfectly quaffed hair and skinnier jeans than me and that's what matters in tinsel town. But aside from the point that my suggestion to order 1000 wings from B dubbs what else does a PA do?
Well I'm a glorified pledge, but much like when I was an actual pledge, I get away with more than your typical PA because I am physically imposing and I make people laugh. Petty cash is probably my biggest responsibility. Unlike a regular work environment, no one on a movie set is allowed to leave except for me. They sit there acting or video taping for 12 hours and in 12 hours people need stuff: Cigs, food, props, waters whatever. I am that guy. I saw a Dennis Quaid interview (if you jumped off the Quaid train after The Parent Trap remake, you need to get back on, he's a fucking bro) a few years back about how he was a raging coke head in the 80's because all of the petty cash spent on drugs. I am sad to report that that is no longer the case, as cocaine dealers hardly give receipts (there is a market for a dealer with square!) but that's the thing, you can literally buy anything with a receipt and then bill it to the studio. I went to a sex shop and bought a purple vibrator (second time I've done this) to make the camera shake. I bought like $100 of beer every night for the director and the crew. That's not really a big deal, but the idea of it is awesome. It was my responsibility to go out and buy beer for the crew. Needless to say, it was a hoppy affair. And fortunately, our director was a g so he would let the PA's drink with him every night after the wrap. We would watch shitty horror movies and have hypothetical debates about which slasher icon would win in a royal rumble style match...no one is fucking touching Michael Meyers.
Another thing that rocks about being a PA is mileage. For every mile you drive on various errands, you get 56 cents. I averaged about 200 miles a day, so that's an extra $112 tax free per day in addition to my day rate and any over time I incur. Do you know how much money that is? That could finance a Chicago drug habit for 3 no problem. And going on runs is fucking great because you aren't being bossed around by 30 different producers/directors/department heads. It's just you, a Rockstar and Skrillex driving around for hours. Sometimes I would throw on a little NPR so I could learn something. Off topic: I seriously think if someone just listened to NPR 2 hours a day for 4 years they would be more knowledgable than most college grads.
So ya, I mean that's pretty much it. Drive around, carry shit, ask the script girl if she wants to give you an otphj in the pool during lunch. Oh yes, the set. We were shooting in this little forsaken pocket of Los Angeles county named Santa Clarita. It is located in the Antelope Valley about 20 miles north of Los Angeles, temperatures averaged about 112 degrees. It was hot as fuck but at least I had a reasonable excuse to wear nothing but bro tanks the entire shoot. But the reason people build houses in Santa Clarita is because you can get land about as cheap as the homes in Detroit. The particular house we shot at had a pool, basketball court, tennis court and batting cage. In fact one night after a few pops I took some bp and lined a rocket up the middle breaking our director of photography's nose. Apparently he didn't get the memo that I was the clean up hitter for the Skiles Test All stars when I was 12. I'm happy to report that I've still fucking got it.
Pretty much the only downside of working on a film is your days go 1pm-2am and you shoot Monday-Saturday effectively ruining your weekend. We were welcome to stay at the house and drink every night, but when it's 5 sweaty guys all gunning for art girl it's probably best to drive home google Carly Rae Jepsen leaked nudes and call it a night. (Call back! Dear aspiring writers, just throw like 1 or 2 call backs per blog post and you'll kill it)
So ya, that's basically it, I spent the better part of a week standing by the snack table crushing everything in sight because all the health conscious fags wouldn't touch my bro snacks. Just as I planned it. Now I'm well versed in film production, I know what a gaffer is and a best boy and a grip. They all make way more money than you. $1000 a day to hang some lights. Dear aspiring writers, quit, learn how to rig electrics. Profit.
I would love to make the PA diaries a consistent section. You know, peel back the curtain for my friends back home and let them know what it's all about. Unfortunately, it looks like my reality show (I'm not the creator, just a character and associate producer) looks like it's going to sell, so I'll be casting some PA's of my own (my cockiness must be nauseating, why do people read this) It's not illegal to make girls give you blow jobs on a casting couch in order to get a job right? People always joke about that in this town but it has to be based in fact? But if said reality show fails to gain traction, or some producer decides that I am a douche (fact) and feels the need to kill me off or something, I think I'll be happy being a PA for now, as long as the gay vegans keep their distance.
Next, chicks at Augusta...here is the thing, I am not for the discrimination of women, but why would a woman want to join a boy's club. I don't try to join women's clubs. Men at Augusta want to talk about fucking their mistresses while their wives vacation in France, liberally use the word cunt, talk about masturbating to the leaked photos of Carly Rae Jepsen's massive nipples (Side note: I almost constantly use nude photo leaks as a selling point when I try to get girls to send me pictures of their tits. But Blake Lively and Scarlett Johansson did it! Are you better than them? They almost always reply, yah and look what happened to them. Fair point, but no one is trying to hack a PA's phone. I figure if I go through all of the chicks in my phone and ask everyone I'll get about 5% if I haven't asked you yet, don't worry I'm only on the letter B.) Bringing women into this environment effectively squashes this locker room talk. I don't give a shit about the integrity of golf, but there is something to be said about letting some grown ass CEO's bro out a little bit. Now onward to the post!
I've been MIA lately because I have been working on a movie. Now most of my life I haven't worked very hard at all. I get by on my intelligence, wit and the fact that I am cooler than everyone. It's ok, we can admit it..I'm fucking sweet. But unfortunately a solid chill to pull ratio only takes you so far. At some point you have to find something you are half way decent at and at least put up the appearance of giving a shit. So this past week, I was on set doing normal PA stuff, namely trying to fuck the art coordinator. But also managing craft services driving all over California and other menial tasks that an indentured servant would perform. But it's cool, I am better at most at doing random tasks and lifting heavy stuff. The problem is though, that most of the crew is either gay or vegan, or even worse a gay vegan.
Now I know I give them lots of shit, but I have no problem with the gays. But by being gay you are going to take some shit, it's like being a Mets fan, that's probably considered an appalling and ignorant statement, but whatever, people that are different occasionally get ripped on this blog. So I am cool with the gays, but the vegans...I have no tolerance for them. I was in charge of something called craft services, basically this is the guy that runs the snack table. Immediately, I celebrated my post. I thought I would thrive in such an environment. My snacks consisted of Pringles, Cheez-its, beef jerkey, kettle cooked potato chips, Gushers, Rockstar, Red Bull, Five Hour Energy and a shit ton of Pepsi Throwback. Sounds like a video game marathon in a 12 year old's basement. I was in heaven.
I come back to set bearing gifts, thinking I will be celebrated as a hero. As I stood at attention at the table ready to receive my compliments and possible tips a strapping young bro walked up, I expected an immediate high five. Instead I was greeted with, "Where's the fruit man?"
Fruit? This motherfucker wants fruit? What followed was 45 minutes of sharp critiques at the lack of healthy food. Fruit, veggies, sugar free sodas and dry nuts. Apparently people in this state, especially in the film industry are super health conscious (Read: gay vegans.) No one even appreciated my supersize pack of triple stuffed golden Oreos. Nope, it was "Hey thanks for playing you Btown hick, now go get me some Diet Vernor's and a fiber bar AND TEST THE GRAPES PLEASE.
Add that to the list of responsibilities for a PA, grape tester. It's funny because I come from a world where the taller and more athletic you are usually leads to popularity, power and a plethora of disposable vagina. Such is not the case in Hollywood. In fact my boss thinks that barely straight Bradley has a better chance with art girl than I do. He is dainty and talks like a chick and crosses his legs to the point where he cannot possibly have balls, but he has perfectly quaffed hair and skinnier jeans than me and that's what matters in tinsel town. But aside from the point that my suggestion to order 1000 wings from B dubbs what else does a PA do?
Well I'm a glorified pledge, but much like when I was an actual pledge, I get away with more than your typical PA because I am physically imposing and I make people laugh. Petty cash is probably my biggest responsibility. Unlike a regular work environment, no one on a movie set is allowed to leave except for me. They sit there acting or video taping for 12 hours and in 12 hours people need stuff: Cigs, food, props, waters whatever. I am that guy. I saw a Dennis Quaid interview (if you jumped off the Quaid train after The Parent Trap remake, you need to get back on, he's a fucking bro) a few years back about how he was a raging coke head in the 80's because all of the petty cash spent on drugs. I am sad to report that that is no longer the case, as cocaine dealers hardly give receipts (there is a market for a dealer with square!) but that's the thing, you can literally buy anything with a receipt and then bill it to the studio. I went to a sex shop and bought a purple vibrator (second time I've done this) to make the camera shake. I bought like $100 of beer every night for the director and the crew. That's not really a big deal, but the idea of it is awesome. It was my responsibility to go out and buy beer for the crew. Needless to say, it was a hoppy affair. And fortunately, our director was a g so he would let the PA's drink with him every night after the wrap. We would watch shitty horror movies and have hypothetical debates about which slasher icon would win in a royal rumble style match...no one is fucking touching Michael Meyers.
Another thing that rocks about being a PA is mileage. For every mile you drive on various errands, you get 56 cents. I averaged about 200 miles a day, so that's an extra $112 tax free per day in addition to my day rate and any over time I incur. Do you know how much money that is? That could finance a Chicago drug habit for 3 no problem. And going on runs is fucking great because you aren't being bossed around by 30 different producers/directors/department heads. It's just you, a Rockstar and Skrillex driving around for hours. Sometimes I would throw on a little NPR so I could learn something. Off topic: I seriously think if someone just listened to NPR 2 hours a day for 4 years they would be more knowledgable than most college grads.
So ya, I mean that's pretty much it. Drive around, carry shit, ask the script girl if she wants to give you an otphj in the pool during lunch. Oh yes, the set. We were shooting in this little forsaken pocket of Los Angeles county named Santa Clarita. It is located in the Antelope Valley about 20 miles north of Los Angeles, temperatures averaged about 112 degrees. It was hot as fuck but at least I had a reasonable excuse to wear nothing but bro tanks the entire shoot. But the reason people build houses in Santa Clarita is because you can get land about as cheap as the homes in Detroit. The particular house we shot at had a pool, basketball court, tennis court and batting cage. In fact one night after a few pops I took some bp and lined a rocket up the middle breaking our director of photography's nose. Apparently he didn't get the memo that I was the clean up hitter for the Skiles Test All stars when I was 12. I'm happy to report that I've still fucking got it.
Pretty much the only downside of working on a film is your days go 1pm-2am and you shoot Monday-Saturday effectively ruining your weekend. We were welcome to stay at the house and drink every night, but when it's 5 sweaty guys all gunning for art girl it's probably best to drive home google Carly Rae Jepsen leaked nudes and call it a night. (Call back! Dear aspiring writers, just throw like 1 or 2 call backs per blog post and you'll kill it)
So ya, that's basically it, I spent the better part of a week standing by the snack table crushing everything in sight because all the health conscious fags wouldn't touch my bro snacks. Just as I planned it. Now I'm well versed in film production, I know what a gaffer is and a best boy and a grip. They all make way more money than you. $1000 a day to hang some lights. Dear aspiring writers, quit, learn how to rig electrics. Profit.
I would love to make the PA diaries a consistent section. You know, peel back the curtain for my friends back home and let them know what it's all about. Unfortunately, it looks like my reality show (I'm not the creator, just a character and associate producer) looks like it's going to sell, so I'll be casting some PA's of my own (my cockiness must be nauseating, why do people read this) It's not illegal to make girls give you blow jobs on a casting couch in order to get a job right? People always joke about that in this town but it has to be based in fact? But if said reality show fails to gain traction, or some producer decides that I am a douche (fact) and feels the need to kill me off or something, I think I'll be happy being a PA for now, as long as the gay vegans keep their distance.
Thursday, August 9, 2012
It's bright and hell is hot
I should probably get used to the heat. Due to my lifestyle choices I can believe in Christianity as much as I want but I feel like if I were to OD at any given minute and I got to the gates they would be like, naw man sorry. "But wait, I totally believed in you the whole time!" That makes you worse, at least all the other sinners thought they were worm's meat.
Fuck.
But unfortunately for you I'm not dying anytime soon because the worst always live the longest. That said, it is hot as shit in Hollywood today. Hot to the point where my thighs are breaking out in heat rash and my balls are no longer sweating because my body is out of moisture...that's dry heat homey. August is pretty shitty right? It signifies the end of summer which is sad, even though that doesn't really mean anything anymore. It will still be 72 degrees in Venice all day every day, and football season will be here, that's great, but there's just an inherent sadness to the end of summer. Not like I'll be losing some awesome summer fling, losing some intern fuck buddy...in fact hopefully it will cool the fuck down so that when I'm running my pledge-esque PA errands in Hollywood, I can do so without risk of heat strokes.
Quick side note: The 3 worst places in the world to wake up are as follows. In ascending order...3) You wake up in bed with an ugly girl that has vomited on you in your sleep. 2) You wake up in prison sans a jail buddy and you badly have to take a shit. Not fun to drop logs in front of an overweight gay man and have him critique your ass wiping skills. 1.) Waking up in a tent in 100 degree heat hungover. Nothing is worse, not even facial ringworm is worse than waking up in an unshaded tent at 6 in the morning with nowhere to run to or hide.
I have just reversed my stance on summer, fuck you I'm over it. I think people get hung up on seasons a lot. Back in the day I used to subscribe to the theory that you had to go balls to the wall during summer because it was nice out and that was not to be taken for granted. Even controlling (that's science bitch) for the fact that I live in a climate that never changes, even the midwest is kind of pissing on the old idea of seasonality. What did you have 3 cold days last year? It was 50 during the Super Bowl in Indianapolis? The truth is, using summer as an excuse is just a coping mechanism that people use to do what it is they really want to do, it's called rationalization.
For example, you are a chick that works in consulting, it's a Wednesday and you call your girlfriend and lament about how much fun it was to go to karaoke night when you first graduated college. "Remember we would go out until one in the morning and get blitzed and then stumble into work a little late on Thursday either drunk or hungover from the night before, wasn't that fun? Let's do it tonight." So what happens is you both say, well summer is almost over and you go out and get slammed by some Boston College bro on the last week of his internship and you chalk it up to summer antics.
Girl in example one may think that her whacky Wednesday is a once in a while type affair and is really "so unlike her" but when you lean on the crutch of excuses, it turns out, you really are a slut that likes to party midweek, even if you don't do it often, you want to, and there is nothing wrong with that. It' just what gets you off.
The big reveal is that people are going to find excuses for their borderline amoral behavior and questionable decision making because to say "I felt like getting fucked up and finding a dick" is generally frowned on by society. Unless you are someone comfortable in their own skin such as myself, it may seem a bit nerve racking to publicly declare your debauchery without a reason for it. What are we celebrating? What is the special occasion? What commemorative event are we honoring? Not enough people say, I'm going to get drunk and have sex tonight because I'm a human being and it quells my physical, social and mental needs. I for one am still impressed that the human body goes to sleep and wakes up...No big deal, I just pressed the of button for 8 hours and then without flipping a switch I miraculously turned myself back on.
When you are young you have the luxury of doing whatever the fuck you want. That's the excuse I'm going to run with until I'm 30. Some people may find it disconcerting that I'm still acting like a 19 year old Sophomore living in a party room, but at least I don't rationalize my existence. I'm probably not going to change the world, unless I release some novel that wakes the world up to generation Y's narcissistic and nihilistic leanings. I assure you I am not trying to shove my MFA down your throat, I am simply trying to put across to you the bleakness that I live in and how few a fucks I give.
The truth is, I am going to Santa Monica pier tonight for a beach party. The reason being is that I have no responsibility in this world to anyone but myself and it's going to be fucking awesome. No excuse, just my own selfish reasoning. Work your summer hours, get it while the getting is good, but even after the vernal equinox feel free to rage, and when your uppity friends give you a questioning "really how old are you" look tell them to get on their fucking face and eat a dick. There's my Ayn Rand Objectivism for the day, my self centered hedonism is my biggest asset.
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Joshua Tree
One of the worst things about being gainfully employed is I start to slip into familiar patterns. I stop writing, I stop working out. Basically I come home from work all day and turn into a couch monster from 8 to midnight. Some nights I'll try to jack myself up and buy a coffee on the way home or a bottle of wine, but it's usually worthless. I WILL WRITE TONIGHT. I end up getting drunk to old reruns of Gossip Girl and then jerking off to Blake Lively's leaked nude photos and calling it a night. See that's what you do as a 25 year old ex frat guy living in LA. You destroy your nostrils on the weekends and you relax during the week. At some point that reverses, the weekends are used as rest but for now every week is just a grind until 5 pm on Friday when you can begin the 72 hour rave again.
There was a time in my life that I thought I was awesome because of this. Fuck ya, I go to the Santa Monica Pier and beach party on Thursdays while you losers watch Storage Wars, my life rocks! But it's nothing to necessarily be proud of, it is just what I do. I behave a certain way because I get a certain degree of cheap thrills by it. Some people get cheap thrills by blowing their loads in their wives every night and hoping to make her temporarily fat, but whatever, different strokes. However, not every Saturday can consist of taking 172 shots on a Yacht in Marina Del Rey. Sometimes you just have to get away for a bit. This past Saturday was one of those weekends.
After a brutal Vegas trip the week before, and an unforseen blackout in Manhattan Beach the evening before I vowed to go to a part of the world where I would be protected from my Lollapalooza FOMO. No tweets, no Facebook updates, no drunken calls from my old roommate's little sister. I wanted to get lost. And what better way to get lost than to go to a 1000 square mile national park in the middle of the desert? Saturday morning after waking up on a bathroom floor in Hermosa I drove home to Venice, packed up a blanket a change of clothes my bike and a case of beer and my roommate and I absconded to Joshua Tree national park. 3 hours, a brick of firewood and a pack of hotdogs later we had successfully pitched our tent at Hidden Valley and the first PBR's had been cracked.
The first order of business as always with camping was to meet the neighbors. It's always important to establish how loud you can be, if there is a potential to party with those nearby and if there is any potential for a sexual encounter. Most of my camping trips end with me in a tent with a chick but then again most of my camping trips take place at the Coke lot at the Indy 5. To our left were 6 graduated high school seniors on their last weekend together before college. They were all going to random schools: Utah, UC Riverside (middle of desert) UC Irvine (Orange County) UC Santa Cruz (Smoke a ton of weed) UCLA (Frat) and UC Santa Barbara (Surfer bros hangin loose.) They informed us they brought 10 cases of beer and an ounce of pot. We assured them we would return.
Next we decided to climb a 500 foot rock, because nothing is as bad ass as climbing a fucking mountain. Aron Ralston just shouldn't have slipped, he would probably still have his arm. I climbed the rock in sandals (poor choice) and suffered no such amputation. At the mountain's summit we found a couple promising Russian 6's. You quickly realize that when there is no civilization within hundreds of miles of you, a 6 is quite an impressive score. I don't think the Russians were feeling my vibe though because they never came to the party I invited them to.
After returning the the ground we took a long bike ride through the trails and dirt paths of the desert. It really is one of the most beautiful places on Earth, by the time we returned to base camp to catch the sunset though it was time to party. We quickly killed our case and it was time to hit up the teenagers. Of course as soon as we roll up to their base camp a park ranger arrived to bust up their party. How fucking classic to be part of a high school party bust at the age of 25, it felt like the Goodwin bust of '04. Ranger Rick only managed to abscond with about half of the bud and none of the beer so we ended up staying awake until 1 in the morning giving them college advice. Basically I gave them two rules: Join a frat and always say yes (I also urged them to give up smoking and start drinking more)
That's what you find in the desert. Grilling hot dogs, hiking trails and narrowly avoiding attacks from sidewinder snakes. By the time I returned back to LA Lollapalooza was over and the Newsroom was on...perfect timing. If you ever find yourself in Joshua tree do not underestimate the amount of drugs/booze necessary and make sure to find Hidden Valley #21. You will have your own smoking cave.
I had a rough week and sometimes you just need to get away. The desert is a good place to get lost with your thoughts. It's amazing how much fun you can have sitting on a rock and talking to some kid born in 1994 about WCW vs WWF and then kicking the shit out of him in beer pong or just hitting a roach and seeing a shooting star. I strongly recommend everyone do more camping or just make an effort to be more outdoorsy in general, I know I will. Electricity is overrated and so is a comfortable bed, getting piss drunk in the great outdoors with a 10 dollar tent will set you free.
There was a time in my life that I thought I was awesome because of this. Fuck ya, I go to the Santa Monica Pier and beach party on Thursdays while you losers watch Storage Wars, my life rocks! But it's nothing to necessarily be proud of, it is just what I do. I behave a certain way because I get a certain degree of cheap thrills by it. Some people get cheap thrills by blowing their loads in their wives every night and hoping to make her temporarily fat, but whatever, different strokes. However, not every Saturday can consist of taking 172 shots on a Yacht in Marina Del Rey. Sometimes you just have to get away for a bit. This past Saturday was one of those weekends.
After a brutal Vegas trip the week before, and an unforseen blackout in Manhattan Beach the evening before I vowed to go to a part of the world where I would be protected from my Lollapalooza FOMO. No tweets, no Facebook updates, no drunken calls from my old roommate's little sister. I wanted to get lost. And what better way to get lost than to go to a 1000 square mile national park in the middle of the desert? Saturday morning after waking up on a bathroom floor in Hermosa I drove home to Venice, packed up a blanket a change of clothes my bike and a case of beer and my roommate and I absconded to Joshua Tree national park. 3 hours, a brick of firewood and a pack of hotdogs later we had successfully pitched our tent at Hidden Valley and the first PBR's had been cracked.
The first order of business as always with camping was to meet the neighbors. It's always important to establish how loud you can be, if there is a potential to party with those nearby and if there is any potential for a sexual encounter. Most of my camping trips end with me in a tent with a chick but then again most of my camping trips take place at the Coke lot at the Indy 5. To our left were 6 graduated high school seniors on their last weekend together before college. They were all going to random schools: Utah, UC Riverside (middle of desert) UC Irvine (Orange County) UC Santa Cruz (Smoke a ton of weed) UCLA (Frat) and UC Santa Barbara (Surfer bros hangin loose.) They informed us they brought 10 cases of beer and an ounce of pot. We assured them we would return.
Next we decided to climb a 500 foot rock, because nothing is as bad ass as climbing a fucking mountain. Aron Ralston just shouldn't have slipped, he would probably still have his arm. I climbed the rock in sandals (poor choice) and suffered no such amputation. At the mountain's summit we found a couple promising Russian 6's. You quickly realize that when there is no civilization within hundreds of miles of you, a 6 is quite an impressive score. I don't think the Russians were feeling my vibe though because they never came to the party I invited them to.
After returning the the ground we took a long bike ride through the trails and dirt paths of the desert. It really is one of the most beautiful places on Earth, by the time we returned to base camp to catch the sunset though it was time to party. We quickly killed our case and it was time to hit up the teenagers. Of course as soon as we roll up to their base camp a park ranger arrived to bust up their party. How fucking classic to be part of a high school party bust at the age of 25, it felt like the Goodwin bust of '04. Ranger Rick only managed to abscond with about half of the bud and none of the beer so we ended up staying awake until 1 in the morning giving them college advice. Basically I gave them two rules: Join a frat and always say yes (I also urged them to give up smoking and start drinking more)
That's what you find in the desert. Grilling hot dogs, hiking trails and narrowly avoiding attacks from sidewinder snakes. By the time I returned back to LA Lollapalooza was over and the Newsroom was on...perfect timing. If you ever find yourself in Joshua tree do not underestimate the amount of drugs/booze necessary and make sure to find Hidden Valley #21. You will have your own smoking cave.
I had a rough week and sometimes you just need to get away. The desert is a good place to get lost with your thoughts. It's amazing how much fun you can have sitting on a rock and talking to some kid born in 1994 about WCW vs WWF and then kicking the shit out of him in beer pong or just hitting a roach and seeing a shooting star. I strongly recommend everyone do more camping or just make an effort to be more outdoorsy in general, I know I will. Electricity is overrated and so is a comfortable bed, getting piss drunk in the great outdoors with a 10 dollar tent will set you free.
Monday, July 30, 2012
What Happens in Vegas
I've had a tumultuous month. I finished a pilot, two screenplays, started a new job and went to Austin for an ill-timed vacation. This doesn't even include the weekend/week/weekend sandwich July 4th bender. You may be saying to yourself right now...ok so you had a couple big weekends, big deal. The problem isn't necessarily the weekends, it's the writing. When I write a blog, I usually do it during the day and I drink 2-3 cups of coffee and then just write down whatever pops into my head. However when I write like a screenplay or television pilot or something like that I have the basic idea of a story in my head but I start drinking copious amounts of wine for creative inspiration. It is not uncommon for me to finish 2.5 bottles stay up until 5 in the morning and have no recollection of the last 20 pages I write on a given night.
So when the last weekend of the month came I decided it would be a pretty terrible idea to go rage in Vegas. This 15 bro Vegas trip has been brewing for roughly 6 months, the email chain that was started 4 weeks ago is 217 posts long. People were extremely excited. Not me. If Little 5 this year taught me anything it's that I can't party the way I used to. When people used to say things like "I was so drunk I couldn't stand," I always assumed they were over exaggerating. But I found out race day that it is definitely possible to get that drunk, pavement 1 me 0. I don't know if it's because gambling gives me terrible anxiety, my general hatred of strip clubs or the fact that I am routinely poor, but Vegas has never really been my scene. Every time I go there I get really fucked up and just leave with a terrible physical and moral hangover. Usually the debauchery gets past the point of fun.
Also Vegas is kind of "been there done that" if you live in LA. It's a 4 hour drive (there) people are going every weekend, it's just not as much an endeavor as it might be for someone from the East Coast. So I think to myself "hey, I just have to endure 3 days of tweets and a couple weeks of stories." This will be fine, I can do this.
Wednesday night the Chicago crew comes to L.A. We go out, they talk about Vegas all night. I develop slight FOMO. Thursday night, Team New York arrives in Las Vegas. Team LA drives to Vegas. Team Milwaukee arrives in LA and convinces my roommate to go to Vegas. I get super drunk at the Santa Monica pier black out and am an hour late for work on my 3rd day (I told my bro of a boss I was late because I had to drive a shacker back to Redondo Beach) My FOMO develops a bit further, but I commit to going to Disneyland on Saturday instead of driving to Vegas. Friday night I go to a hotel opening open bar, end up drinking and playing Jeopardy until 6am. I decided at 545 in the morning on Saturday that I'll come.
We arrived in Vegas at 7pm. On the way there we arrange lodging and book a 3 story bungalow inside of Marquee night club for a Krewella show. The bungalow comes with 15 bottles because apparently that's how much you need with 15 guys. I have to say the next 12 hours were the hardest I think I have ever raged in my life. I don't know if it's the atmosphere of Vegas or just the 14 people I was with bringing out the best (and worst) in me, but what followed was a blur of euphoria, highs, lows and questionable realities.
Part of the unfortunate thing about having a non-anonymous blog is that anyone who wants to can read this and know who I am. I would love to tell you who got laid, who lost thousands gambling, who passed out where, who attempted to score drugs from bathroom attendants, but I can't because despite the life that myself and people like me lead, most of us will probably be captains of industry some day. I would hate for a buddy of mine to lose a promotion because a blog post from when he was age 25 surfaced about him licking Sassafras off of a girls nipple in a club. Lucky for me I have chosen an industry in which personal skeletons don't really count for shit, you show me a high up in entertainment that isn't a terrible person and I'll buy you a beer.
But Sunday, it always arrives whether you want it to or not. For a while you think this isn't that bad, we'll grab some In N Out and then cruise back to Cali. And then you see the traffic, and then the hangover begins to set in and then all those feelings of guilt. Oh I have done some very terrible things in my life. Many of my crimes have been victimless but I have definitely dragged some people down with me along the way. But nothing compares to the guilt one feels while leaving Vegas. It seems to manifest physically as you start pouring sweat (if there is any water left in your body) in the middle of the desert as temps soar to 110 degrees. Of the 15 of us that eventually appeared in the group picture Saturday night 12 of them went for 72 hours. Thursday party day and night. The same Friday. The same Saturday. And then 5 day partied Sunday before their red eye. Those are heroes. I am not a hero. 12 hours in Vegas is my max, and I think once every 2 years is also my max. I have no desire to go back there for a very long time. But I will always cherish the memories of this trip.
But until I make that brutal 7 hour drive home again some day, it's been real Vegas, thanks for kicking my ass.
Friday, July 20, 2012
Monday, July 16, 2012
Couch Surfing on 44s
Many places in the world have forgotten about Mike Jones. Not Texas. Swisherhouse still dominates that scene and so do confederate flag shorts. I'm not sure if I have ever shared this story on the blog before but I once got attacked in Gulf Shores, Alabama for burning a Confederate flag.
Let me explain. When I was approximately 16 I hit the peak of my random acts of violence. I set garbage cans on fire in my neighborhood, played mailbox baseball and was just a generally nefarious character. I started drinking that year and I think I dabbled in some light shoplifting. I'm probably more morally ambiguous now than I was then but raging until 7am routinely is a victimless crime, stealing police tasers from military surplus stores. Yes we stole lots of shotglasses, a pair of brass knucles a couple lighters and a taser. I'm not sure when we decided to burn an American flag, but we did because the North won dammit. Eventually a few locals that were quite a bit older than us surrounded my group and took their shirts off because I guess that's how southerners fight...I was drunk off Parrot Bay and feeling like a hero so I said something to their leader about him being unpatriotic. He took a swing at me which I dodged and in an instant sent 1000 volts through his neck. Haha, never fuck with a drunk 16 year old with a taser...unfortunately as he laid seizing on the ground I proceeded to get pummeled by his 8 friends...but by the time I was able to wriggle away their leader was still down for the count. I'll call it a draw.
Well that was an unrelated anecdote, but concrete story flow is overrated. Back to Texas, It was awesome, we raged. There was floating, float trips are less fun during a drought, but there was a rope swing...and a concert, and a 2:1 female to male ratio. But what I'm choosing to focus on today are the events that occurred after the party was over. On the bus back to Austin, I realized I hadn't booked a flight and I had pretty much maxed out the only credit card I bought, so I did the only thing imaginable and went to a Starbucks to sulk and think up tactics to get my mom to buy me a return flight. It's funny when you do things like buy a last minute one way flight, it seems super bold and spontaneous at the time, but when the dust clears and the party ends it just feels retarded.
Lucky for me, with my excellent Priceline skills I was able to sneak in a return flight back to San Diego with just enough cash on my person to buy the gas required to get back to Los Angeles. The problem was that flight was at 6 in the morning. It was 4pm. Now I've explored a lot of cities by myself. I travel alone sometimes when I want to relax/reflect/write. And usually I have a blast. No one wants to go exploring alone after 72 hours of perpetual partying. I know you no one likes the guy that tells you how many drinks he had and how he was "so fucked up and so hungover" but I was ya. I ate like a slice of pizza the entire weekend, I hadn't slept, I was in an unfamiliar city with dirty clothes a heavy bag and I just wanted a dark room to take a nap in. But I had a humid 90 degree park with uncomfortable benches and it looked like it was going to rain.
I had just about resigned to the fact that I was either going to sit on that park bench for the next 12 hours or I was going to have to go the airport and sleep in baggage claim (I've done it before.) I didn't know anyone that was in Austin, and the cheapest Hostel was out of my budget (rock bottom) but then I remembered this thing people used to talk about called CouchSurfing. It's exactly what it sounds like, you go stay on someone's couch...but they're a stranger. Interesting concept, as douchey as I appear in this blog and in person quite frankly most of the time, I have an uncanny ability to turn all that bullshit off and be a good dude once in a while. I generally like people and can usually find something in common with someone.
Of course I immediately doubled back to Starbucks and created a profile and started hitting up everyone in the Austin area. No success. There were some seriously cool people, well I suppose a social media account can make anyone sound cool. Dejected that no one had accepted my surfing requests I was resolved to go watch Magic Mike and then go to the airport and cry myself to sleep...then out of nowhere I received an email from a fellow surfer.
This was my original post:
Here's a fun story. I flew to Austin last minute for a birthday party in New Braunfels. We floated a river, it was amazing. However, I failed to book a return flight because I'm an idiot, this morning when I came out of my drunken stupor I realized that I needed to get back to LA somehow, flights were like severely expensive so I did the only sensible thing and booked one for tomorrow...at 6am...to San Diego...whatever I'll figure it out when I get to California. Anyway, I am at this Starbucks on 6th Street and I have nowhere to go until tomorrow morning and I'm out of money so a hotel is out of the question.
Sure maybe that was slightly over the top. Perhaps a little intimidating for a last minute Sunday night. The person that ended of hosting me was a 25 year old girl that lived with her boyfriend and his dog. He was skeptical of the whole situation but consented. I took a bus to a fairly shady part of Austin and had a doubt or two. It wouldn't be out of the realm of possibility for some psychopath to make a fake account and use a picture of a cute girl to lure guys like me only to brutally hack them to death with a sword. Lucky for me she was awesome. Owned her own graphic design company and built gourmet cakes on the side. Myself, her and her boyfriend tossed back Shiner bocks all night while watching the typical Breaking Bad, Newsroom, Weeds line up. It turned out that my host had couchsurfed all through Europe and dated a guy that I went to South Padre with in 2007.
Overall my experience was life changing. People are good, people are interesting. Her boyfriend was nothing like me, he had video game controls tattooed to his arm and probably had a strong disdain for bros. But it doesn't matter. There is an ancient code of hospitality. The Greeks and Romans believed in it. If someone is passing through and you have the room, put them up you never know what could happen. You could meet a new friend for life, a significant other, or just have a great story to take home to your friends. My host was gracious enough to take me to the airport at 4:30 in the morning. I wouldn't take my brother to the hospital at 4:30 in the morning if he was bleeding out. And she knew me for 4 hours. There's a subculture of people who go...not necessarily people that travel, or people that always say yes. But people that just go. Sometimes it's scary not to ask questions, sometimes it pays to be a little cautious and keep your sense of adventure in check. But I say fuck it, it's about the journey, so I will sleep on a stranger's couch anywhere in the world and we'll probably have a good time. And if you're every around my neck of the woods, you needn't even ask.
Let me explain. When I was approximately 16 I hit the peak of my random acts of violence. I set garbage cans on fire in my neighborhood, played mailbox baseball and was just a generally nefarious character. I started drinking that year and I think I dabbled in some light shoplifting. I'm probably more morally ambiguous now than I was then but raging until 7am routinely is a victimless crime, stealing police tasers from military surplus stores. Yes we stole lots of shotglasses, a pair of brass knucles a couple lighters and a taser. I'm not sure when we decided to burn an American flag, but we did because the North won dammit. Eventually a few locals that were quite a bit older than us surrounded my group and took their shirts off because I guess that's how southerners fight...I was drunk off Parrot Bay and feeling like a hero so I said something to their leader about him being unpatriotic. He took a swing at me which I dodged and in an instant sent 1000 volts through his neck. Haha, never fuck with a drunk 16 year old with a taser...unfortunately as he laid seizing on the ground I proceeded to get pummeled by his 8 friends...but by the time I was able to wriggle away their leader was still down for the count. I'll call it a draw.
Well that was an unrelated anecdote, but concrete story flow is overrated. Back to Texas, It was awesome, we raged. There was floating, float trips are less fun during a drought, but there was a rope swing...and a concert, and a 2:1 female to male ratio. But what I'm choosing to focus on today are the events that occurred after the party was over. On the bus back to Austin, I realized I hadn't booked a flight and I had pretty much maxed out the only credit card I bought, so I did the only thing imaginable and went to a Starbucks to sulk and think up tactics to get my mom to buy me a return flight. It's funny when you do things like buy a last minute one way flight, it seems super bold and spontaneous at the time, but when the dust clears and the party ends it just feels retarded.
Lucky for me, with my excellent Priceline skills I was able to sneak in a return flight back to San Diego with just enough cash on my person to buy the gas required to get back to Los Angeles. The problem was that flight was at 6 in the morning. It was 4pm. Now I've explored a lot of cities by myself. I travel alone sometimes when I want to relax/reflect/write. And usually I have a blast. No one wants to go exploring alone after 72 hours of perpetual partying. I know you no one likes the guy that tells you how many drinks he had and how he was "so fucked up and so hungover" but I was ya. I ate like a slice of pizza the entire weekend, I hadn't slept, I was in an unfamiliar city with dirty clothes a heavy bag and I just wanted a dark room to take a nap in. But I had a humid 90 degree park with uncomfortable benches and it looked like it was going to rain.
I had just about resigned to the fact that I was either going to sit on that park bench for the next 12 hours or I was going to have to go the airport and sleep in baggage claim (I've done it before.) I didn't know anyone that was in Austin, and the cheapest Hostel was out of my budget (rock bottom) but then I remembered this thing people used to talk about called CouchSurfing. It's exactly what it sounds like, you go stay on someone's couch...but they're a stranger. Interesting concept, as douchey as I appear in this blog and in person quite frankly most of the time, I have an uncanny ability to turn all that bullshit off and be a good dude once in a while. I generally like people and can usually find something in common with someone.
Of course I immediately doubled back to Starbucks and created a profile and started hitting up everyone in the Austin area. No success. There were some seriously cool people, well I suppose a social media account can make anyone sound cool. Dejected that no one had accepted my surfing requests I was resolved to go watch Magic Mike and then go to the airport and cry myself to sleep...then out of nowhere I received an email from a fellow surfer.
This was my original post:
Here's a fun story. I flew to Austin last minute for a birthday party in New Braunfels. We floated a river, it was amazing. However, I failed to book a return flight because I'm an idiot, this morning when I came out of my drunken stupor I realized that I needed to get back to LA somehow, flights were like severely expensive so I did the only sensible thing and booked one for tomorrow...at 6am...to San Diego...whatever I'll figure it out when I get to California. Anyway, I am at this Starbucks on 6th Street and I have nowhere to go until tomorrow morning and I'm out of money so a hotel is out of the question.
Sure maybe that was slightly over the top. Perhaps a little intimidating for a last minute Sunday night. The person that ended of hosting me was a 25 year old girl that lived with her boyfriend and his dog. He was skeptical of the whole situation but consented. I took a bus to a fairly shady part of Austin and had a doubt or two. It wouldn't be out of the realm of possibility for some psychopath to make a fake account and use a picture of a cute girl to lure guys like me only to brutally hack them to death with a sword. Lucky for me she was awesome. Owned her own graphic design company and built gourmet cakes on the side. Myself, her and her boyfriend tossed back Shiner bocks all night while watching the typical Breaking Bad, Newsroom, Weeds line up. It turned out that my host had couchsurfed all through Europe and dated a guy that I went to South Padre with in 2007.
Overall my experience was life changing. People are good, people are interesting. Her boyfriend was nothing like me, he had video game controls tattooed to his arm and probably had a strong disdain for bros. But it doesn't matter. There is an ancient code of hospitality. The Greeks and Romans believed in it. If someone is passing through and you have the room, put them up you never know what could happen. You could meet a new friend for life, a significant other, or just have a great story to take home to your friends. My host was gracious enough to take me to the airport at 4:30 in the morning. I wouldn't take my brother to the hospital at 4:30 in the morning if he was bleeding out. And she knew me for 4 hours. There's a subculture of people who go...not necessarily people that travel, or people that always say yes. But people that just go. Sometimes it's scary not to ask questions, sometimes it pays to be a little cautious and keep your sense of adventure in check. But I say fuck it, it's about the journey, so I will sleep on a stranger's couch anywhere in the world and we'll probably have a good time. And if you're every around my neck of the woods, you needn't even ask.
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