Winnebago Man Day 1 (Morning)

I like to think of myself as rather adventurous, at times even a free spirit. Therefore I've done some pretty bizarre things in my life. Thus far I've taken a solo vacation to the French Riviera to try to write a book, only to end up in a brothel with 8 Swedish girls I met at my hostel. That was pretty out there, but thats what happens when you roll to a foreign country on your own, you meet interesting people and do weird shit.

Then there was that time I emptied my checking account on a one way ticket to Austin for a float trip. After the weekend I had $120 in my bank account that I liquidated for a $119 plane ticket back to LA the next day. (The remaining dollar was spent on a McDonald's double cheeseburger) With no tangible assets left to my name, I figured I would sleep on the streets for one night, I mean how bad could it be, millions of people do it every day. However through some sort of miracle I discovered couch surfing and slept in a stranger's guest room, drank her beer and got a ride to the airport at 4 in the morning. It was an incredible experience and I would eventually write my first screenplay about this wild new social network.

And now there is today. I'm working on a movie and the script calls for an ultra specific RV, one that only exists in a small suburb of Dallas, TX. Now you may think that there is some magic transportation service in the entertainment industry that makes things apparate from point A to point B.

That is not the case.

Unless you call a PA taking a 1 way flight to Dallas to pick up an RV and drive it 22 hours back to Los Angeles "magic."

So that's what I'm doing today. Myself and some dude named "Bo" are about to go on a cross country adventure in a Winnebago. I have never driven an RV, my travel companion has no vowels in his last name, needless to say I am fucking thrilled. This is just the type of adventure that I live for...a journey of epic proportions. Needless to say I will be chronicling my entire journey west on interstate 10. My boss has given me a wad of cash with instructions only consisting of "be back by Thursday" whatever we do in the interim is completely up to us. Whether that be making a pit stop at a frat party in Tempe or finding a random RV park and completely immersing myself in the culture. I have no idea what the next 72 hours holds in store for me but I assure you, you will be kept in the loop.

I'm not sure what kind of internet access I will have in rural West Texas, or New Mexico, but I will be chronicling every single detail. I might end up in Mexican prison, I may detour to Vegas, all I know is that I get a real thrill out of the great unknown. Some people fly first class internationally for business, I fly in group C on Southwest and then spend 3 days driving an oversized vehicle back to Hollywood, it's just the life I've chosen.

So prepare for Due Date 2 (I suppose the stakes are a bit lower since we aren't dealing with child birth or anything, but I have a feeling this guy is going to be quite the Galifinakis character his email has "bong" in it) and come with me on this quest.

Mind you I have never driven anything larger than a sedan before and my New Orleans trip has left the Adderall well dry. Red Bull friends I know you have today off, feel free to leave a case outside my apartment. I'm leaving the office in an hour.

This should be interesting...here we go!

131 dollars a week

There comes a point in everyone's life where they figure out what's important and what's not. You learn how to prioritize. When you work in my industry, you work on a show or a movie or a commercial, it ends you go to Vegas or something bang a bunch of hookers come back take 2 days off and start on something new...OR SO I THOUGHT.

Recently many of you read all of my exploits about Mardi Gras and blacking out and sucking on boobs and having seizures in the airport while waving a finger at horrified toddlers whispering "don't turn out like me." What you didn't read in that was that during my vacation I had the diligence to follow up with diligence several times on the "job" that I thought I had. That's because it didn't happen because I'm retarded. During said Mardi Gras blackout I thought, if I just keep drinking, turn my phone off and make it back to LA alive, everything will work out.

Well as you might have imagined, it didn't well not yet at least, but that's ok because I have a little bit of money saved up in the bank, the number one song in the nation is about how awesome it is to be poor ("Thirft Shop") and I live in Venice. My lack of current liquidity is basically celebrated in this neighborhood. People around here don't congratulate each other on their successes, but on their failures.

Guy 1: "How'd rehab go?"

Guy 2: "Not well! I'm back on the wagon"

Guy 1: "My man! Let's go under the pier and shoot up.

If you've never been between jobs before, let me tell you a little bit about it.

The first week is AWESOME! You work out every day, you read on the beach, go on 50 mile bike rides, listen to porn with the volume cranked ALL the way up and get so beyond black out every night, you start to think that you'll never work again. You sleep until noon, get Thai massages. The world is your oyster. I mean shit I wrote 2 pilots and squeezed in a vacation and that was just the first week!

And then you realize the following Thursday when you don't get a paycheck...oh. Well that sucks. Then everything that you were doing that seems awesome makes you start to feel like the world's biggest degenerate. Sleeping until noon, beating off and playing 7 year olds in Halo starts to seem pathetic. The calming effect of working out, going to the spa, starts to stress you out because you aren't busy looking for a job, and drinking by yourself just turns plain sad.

BUT it's ok...this is California. My president is black and the liberals won, HANDOUTS FOR DAVE! I mean isn't this just sweet payback. Me, a bleeding Republican my whole life is finally going to benefit from these social programs I have so often denounced. I marched my ass to the unemployment office (somewhere an elephant shed a single tear) and although I was conflicted I took the Romney defense of his tax records. "Hey if it's within the legality of the rules, wouldn't it be insane NOT to use them to my benefit." And basically I decide that this little life loop hole is going to be able to let me write full time, which I warp myself into thinking will actually HELP the government. I'll sell a script faster, I'll get rich faster and then I'll pay them thousands if not millions of dollars in tax revenue.

I'm starting to feel better about all of this.

I get to the guy at the counter all proud, speaking articulately so he knows I'm better than the rest of the schmucks who got fired for smoking crack on their lunch breaks. "Hello, I'm here to claim by benefit."
He takes a look at my driver's license and types a few things into the computer. "131." He replies stoically. Oh, cool...so is that like my ID number or something? "No, that's what you get per week. Next in line." No, no sir...there must be a mistake. I work in TV. "The state's broke son, you're lucky you're getting anything at all."

131 dollars a week...? That won't even cover half my rent! What happened to my life as a full time writer? This is BULLSHIT. This whole red/blue political debate is about $131 a week???

It's ok though, I hold my head high. I am crafty, I can get by on $131 a week...how's that lyric go? "Only got $20 in my pocket?" Well if I were to break down my 131 into a daily allowance, surely I could be holding an Andrew Jackson every day right? Wrong. Only got $18.71 in my pocket...this is fucking awesome! Except it's not. Now all my time that I was going to spend writing awesome coming of age dramedies about college frat guys trying to grow up (has it become obvious yet that every feature I write is some version of me just in a different setting) is going to be spent on Craigslist looking for MTV reality shows that pay audience members $100 a day, sperm banks that prefer blondes and maybe god forbid another tv show to work on.

And it's all good though, because it's all just creative ammunition for me. Such an inspirational story he survived on less than 20 dollars a day! All he could do was ride his bike, surf his board and write in a steno notebook (saying macbook ruins it,) hoping one day he would catch his big break.

You know what though? I'll come out of this on top because I always prevail. Shit I mean, I can take some cash bribes from contestants on "The Roommate" next week, I've got some savings bonds I can cash in, stock I can sell (and not even get taxed on capital gains HOLLA BACK RED) and I'll probably get a job next week. It's only been 10 days.

And the last time I checked 7 11 was selling 2 four lokos for 5 bucks. Shit that's 13 dollars left over 3 trips to Taco Bell a day? See...I always win.

The Roommate

When I lived in Chicago, the apartment on Burling went through more tenants than Henry VIII went through wives. It was ridiculous, someone would see a steam room, a pool table a 3 story greystone on the border of old town and Lincoln Park and think, my god this place is incredible. And the rent is under a grand! Deal. Then he got to know his roommates and their behaviors (as well as their friends Dante and Sami) and after about 6 months, he had enough and bailed...only for another sad sack to come along and do the exact same thing. Eventually I moved out, no change. Some people just don't think it's an acceptable lifestyle choice to stay up until 6am every Thursday-Saturday.

I digress.

I have a roommate moving out March 1st "to be closer to work" but I secretly think it's because I have figured out how to steal the Airtunes from his control and replace Phantagram with Skrillex. Thus I'm in a familiar situation, I need a new roommate. In the past I had never dealt with this, I made one of the other roommates do it. This time the task fell to me. As someone who has house hunted via Craigslist before, I know there are a lot of weirdos out there and also a lot of people that aren't quite like me. Some of the postings you will find on CL are fucking ridiculous, "I work from home, so I would prefer someone that is rarely around. No partying, no drinking, definitely no smoking." I mean if that is the case why in the fuck would anyone want to move in, isn't that the point of being in LA. In any event, I know we have a pretty ridiculous deal in Venice. I'd say average rent is around 1200 we pay 875, so I knew a thousand people would respond, so in order to screen the people that I would surely instantly ding, I wrote the following ad:

What's up? Our 3rd roommate is moving out at the end of the month and we need to fill his room. Let's get this out of the way if you do not like to drink heavily on the weekends, this is probably not for you (However we are fairly civilized during the week.) Best to have full disclosure now than cause a problem down the road. We are 25 work in entertainment and went to IU. Email if you want to come check the place out and if you can chug a beer in under 10 seconds you will move onto the second round of interviews. Rent is 875, I'm still not quite sure what utilities we pay and don't. You'll have to give the outgoing guy some sort of security deposit reimbursement too. 4 units in the building, all the neighbors are pretty cool. We have a dishwasher and shit, I'm not sure what else I'm supposed to tell you. Everything looks newish. Must have an affinity for HBO Sunday night shows. 6th and Westminster.

I didn't think the ad was that ridiculous, the point I was trying to get across was, my roommate and I are bros. We are basically not only recruiting a roommate but a homie. We want someone to party with and not lock themselves in their room all day. Fair enough right? I thought there was a fairly good chance I would wind up on the internet under the headline World's biggest douche. But alas, I was wrong, and within moments a flood of emails came in...and the best part, each responder was selling me on them.

The things these people said were so hilarious. It ranged from "Bro I can chug a beer in 4 seconds!" "I can find you the best acid/cocaine/ketomine/molly in LA" I don't even know what the fuck Ketamine is, but what I really loved was people that were like, "I have a 80 inch tv we can put in the family room" or "I'll pay $1000 a month, just pick me."

Thus a contest was born. I mean I have to right? I have something desirable, they want it, there is extremely high demand and almost 0 supply, it's simple economics, I have to leverage my favor in this deal.

What I have decided to do...and I'm serious. I have scheduled an open house for next Saturday. Every contestant has 5 minutes to impress me (Jack is out of town so it's ALL me) be that with awesome personality, party tricks, sexual favors gifts or whatever. Maybe I'll dress like the joker with a broken pool cue and say "we're gonna have...tryouts." Then I will make a LeBron-esque decision the following Tuesday, and in order not to hurt everyone else's feelings I'll just that one of my fraternity brothers moved to LA at the last minute and he's moving in. I was pondering first and second round interviews but I don't want to get too attached to multiple of these suitors, especially the girls (yes a handful of raver girls want to move in) in fact I'm considering pitching this as a reality show or web series or something. I would need a new title because of that awful Blair Waldorf movie, but still I think it would be great, it's basically like the bachelor except they are competing for a room instead of my heart.

Anyway, I am willing to hear any and all suggestions or challenges any of you can think of. I might quiz them on 90's pop culture. See how well they do while intoxicated, make me show a facebook picture of the last girl they fucked...or I could just go by who is going to bring the dopest shit. So far we've got people from all over the country (actually world there is a Frenchie and a Russian in the running) ranging from 22-28 years old. I may have to set up my iPad in the room to live stream it or at least live blog.

I guess this also an official announcement if any of you have any mutual friends looking for a place in LA let me know and with sadness I'll cancel the show, because it's probably better to live with a friend of a friend than a guy who puts on a good bro game but is actually a serial killer a la Nico on The Following.

Let the games begin!

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.