Permanent Douchebaggery

Thursday night I was supposed to stay in. I don’t really love hitting the town on a school night. I always wake up the next day in a panic, wrecked from the night before, and shamefully show up to work about 30 minutes late and then spend the rest of the day miserable with a crippling hangover. Of course all of that is null and void if it’s summer and the previous night involved blacking out at the pier and/or Big Dean’s. But it is not summer, during spring I am a recluse Monday-Thurs.

That said, how dangerous can one lesson of ballroom dancing really be?

Apparently very dangerous, because that ballroom dancing lesson initiated a bender that ended late last night. If you asked me to describe how I’m feeling right now I would say, ‘eh about a C-.‘

After said ballroom dancing lesson I went to three bars, of course ending at Townhouse which of course happens to be the inspiration of this post.

Friday morning I woke up late (shocking!) did not shower, went to work, suffered through the day and came home.

Friday night I was supposed to stay in. I don’t really love hitting the town on the night after a day long hangover, but against my better judgment I walked to the First Friday food trucks on Abbot Kinney, hit three bars and went to bed wasted (again.)

However, something magical happened on Friday, my Townhouse stamp from the night before was still emboldened on my wrist. Though one may find it less than hygienic that I was now over 24 hours without a shower, I saved a solid 20 minutes NOT waiting in line.

The rest of the story is that Saturday I was supposed to stay in and I didn’t because I’m a glutton for punishment. I did, however, enter the Ocean Saturday, erasing my Thursday night stamp, so what this post presupposes is…maybe I didn’t?

Ok, so Saturday I had to wait in line to get into Townhouse. I was angry. Why couldn’t that stamp just stay there always? There is rarely a weekend night that goes by that I would rather be anywhere in the world other than that disgusting basement sweating all over a skinny twentysomething.

What if I got the Townhouse stamp tattooed on my wrist? It’s not that absurd is it? I mean at least juxtaposed against some of the other absurd tattoos I have considered…

11.  The Polo Horse - Chest

Era: Sophomore Year College

Douche Factor: Extreme

It is amazing how every single thing I came to idolize in college was the brain child of some Jewish dude named Ralph Lipschitz. Simply put, I used to think that Polo and pastels were God’s gift to the world. I called my closet the stable and would not leave 1200 N Jordan without a fresh horse, or a wrinkly horse or one of my roommate’s ponies.

Sophomore year, at the peak of my physique (I was working out the glam muscles daily at the SRSC) I frequently drank in the courtyard sans a shirt. The problem therein was that no one could possibly tell how fratty I was without a polo horse. The idea then, obviously, would to get a small black polo tattoo on the right side of my chest so people would know. THIS GUY IS PHRATTY AS PHUCK (get it? Because phi begins with a ph) Of course before I could actually go through with this preposterous idea I simply had my art major pledge bro draw it on in Sharpie for Little Five. I think I would really regret that ink today. (Note: I promise this photo exists somewhere on my FB, however, I could not find it after 2 minutes of effort.)

22.  AWOL - Shoulder

Era: 2012

Douche Factor: Medium

The year was 2012, the kids were transitioning from coke to molly and I was transitioning from solid colored polos to very loud bro tanks. Dubstep was at it’s peak and I was starting to get really into Venice. I started REALLY shit talking Los Angeles’ east side and started to refuse going east of the PCH.

Oh you want to play Penmar? Can’t even fucking do it bro. ALWAYS WEST OF LINCOLN.

I didn’t invent the mantra but I repped it super hard. I would only go to bars on Main Street and Windward and I finally thought that I found something that I was passionate enough to get inked. I even came up with this shitty back story about how AWOL doubled as my life mantra…something about going off the grid or blah blah blah NOW I CAN NEVER LEAVE VENICE.

The one thing that stopped me was what if one day I buy a house on like 10^th street. AWOL could stand for Almost West of Lincoln? Nope unacceptable, could not stomach the hypocrisy.

33.  Frat letters – Back

Era: Freshman year of college

Douche Factor: High

After I was initiated in the spring of 2006, I was pretty fired up about all things frat. I spent nearly the next 40 nights blasting Backstreet Boys in the party room and getting fucked up with the other guys who were ending six months of slavery. A few of us got frat tats, I never strongly considered it and I’m glad. I saw the movie Neighbors yesterday and surprisingly hated it. They found this middle ground of mocking frats but also trying to make it look kinda cool, they needed to decide which way to go with it. Either realistic or more over the top absurd would have made a solid flick, but shirtless Troy Bolton yelling at Dave Franco for not taking partying seriously rang hollow to me. Also his horrible frat tat gave me anxiety.

44. Townhouse – Inside right wrist

Era: Yesterday

Douche Factor: Unknown

When I was in high school this kinda strange guy transferred to Cathedral his Senior Year. I remember being quite leary of him because I didn’t want him to steal my starting spot on the Lacrosse team. (Spoiler alert: Because of my tendency to commit major penalties I spent a lot of time on the bench that season) Anyway, during two a days that year I saw that he had the “your name” tattoo on his ass. I believe it was originally a Steve-o joke, details are hazy. But I found it oddly endearing. He also drove a 1970 Jeep, which I thought was totally rad. I remember making a conscious choice that even if he took my spot, I wouldn’t hold it against him. He quit the team like a week later, I got demoted, we won state…I guess we’ll call that a wash.

Anyway, I think people would have a similar reaction to a person that gets a bar stamp tattooed on his wrist. On one hand, it’s fucking stupid. It’s an obnoxious, degenerate alcoholic move. But it’s also kind of awesome.

That said, I still enjoy trying to have sex with conservative white girls and this would set me back. I’ll just have to be that guy that shows up to the bar before dinner for the pre-stamp only to return at midnight and bypass a gigantic line. No use in reinventing the wheel.

Sunday night I was supposed to stay in. God dammit, I feel like shit.