I am not a human being II

Pictured: Middle of fucking nowhere

NOTE: I wrote this earlier this week and just got around to posting it now, it is now dated, we'll call it a period piece.

I’m sitting in my car right now 200 miles from Los Angeles in a blistering hot desert. My air conditioning isn’t working so I am dripping sweat onto the keyboard of my laptop. If you’re wondering where all those car commercials with a 50,000 dollar car ripping through the desert at supersonic speed are filmed, it’s here. Or rather 5 miles from here. Set is about 5 miles away, I am not there yet, because I accidentally arrived an hour early today. I could go to set, you know help out a bit, but I’m not into going above the call of duty. If I go over there now, I’ll have to lift heavy shit and get even sweatier than I am now. I can’t just cruise up and be like “yo, I’m not on the clock for another hour.” They will tell me to go fuck myself. Thus, I am on the side of this country road blogging.

Commercials suck, I think everyone involved in them hates them, but there is so much money involved. No aspiring filmmaker wakes up every morning and says “I can’t wait to film a car driving really fast through the desert, this is really going to be a great opportunity for me to express myself creatively.” They probably wake up and say, “Shit I’m making $20,000 a day, I’m going to go get 4 Taiwanese hookers when this is all over and take them from behind. Then just for kicks I’ll murder them and then pay someone to hide the bodies.”

Or maybe they are excited to stop working 16 hour days and get back to their wife and kids. Sorry, I’m just getting really excited for the American Psycho screening at Hollywood Forever next week.

So I’m in Target yesterday on a “run.” In PA’ing, a run is basically when anyone on set needs something. I’ve had to get tampons for a bleeding costume supervisor, I’ve had to get crystal meth for a grip, yesterday someone really wanted Sprite Zero,. You may think this work sounds remedial, but runs are fucking sweet. I get to get in my car (paid by the mile) and listen to sports talk radio while all the other PA’s carry heavy shit around the set and sweat all over their 100 dollar Brooks Brother’s shorts (scratch that, I’m the only one that wears pink seer sucker to set) I saw Little Wayne’s CD I am Not a Human Being for sale. Now to be honest with you, I’ve never been a Weezy fan. I liked the Hot Boys and all of Cash Money in the 90’s because I thought I was ghetto fabulous and I wanted the black kids at Belzer Middle School to accept me, but ever since the Carter 1, I think he kinda sounds/looks like a mumbling rat…and to take this even further, I was kinda hoping he wouldn’t make it a few weeks ago after that stroke.

We haven’t had a good celebrity death in a while, sometimes I hope for chaos.

Alas, he survived his purple drank overdose and now he’s touring promoting his new album I am Not a Human Being.

I thought about it for a minute and I realize, he’s probably going for the same definition I am. Every night, he crushes a bunch of Xanax and cocaine (this ingredient is optional) throws it in a cup of vodka, adds Nyquil and Sprite and drinks this shit until he goes insane. He has kids that he doesn’t really give a shit about (watch the 60 minutes interview) all the money in the world, goes to jail regularly due to various infractions against responsibility and is just generally someone that doesn’t give a fuck.

I can totally relate.

For example, Saturday night I had the Bones wrap party. I didn’t work on Bones, but I work at Fox a lot and I’m homies with some of the people there and I was really looking forward to this wrap party. Meanwhile my best friend had been in town the previous 2 days and I was in the midst of a hard bender. I think I singlehandedly went through 3 bottles of vodka at Lure on Thursday, committed felonies on Friday and Saturday was supposed to be the big grand finale. Hollywood wrap party, OPEN BAR. This should get interesting. The only problem was, I had a 4 am call time. In the desert. On Sunday.

I am then tasked with this. How in the fuck am I supposed to  black on on Saturday night at a wrap party, then pick up a truck, pick up 3 motorcycles, transport said motorcycles 2 hours to the desert all by 4 am on Sunday.

Most people would probably advise, “Hey, skip the wrap party, duty calls. Drink a little for the derby on Saturday and then get to bed early so you can take care of business.”

But like Little Wayne, I am also NOT a human being. Even after my boss called me and told me that I would never work in Hollywood again if I was late (I would be costing the production $50,000 for every hour late I was with the motorcycles) I decided the PARTY must go on.

Long story short, I crushed it. I raged at that wrap party, I taught young and old alike the value of the double dutch dance floor and I got those fucking motorcycles to the Antelope Valley at 3:45am. Why chose when you can have both right?

You might be wondering how this was all possible? You always have 2 options, sleep it off or pull a Denzel at the end of Flight.

So Mr. Wayne, I apologize for briefly hoping for your death. I’m glad you didn’t die, someone else will Amy Winehouse it soon and give me an enjoyable hour on Twitter (I love the inappropriate jokes made in the wake of a celeb’s death) but you and I are kindred spirits and we should hang out soon…I’m even going to buy your album, probably listen to it tonight before I crush my daily purple drank.

Schizophrenia

Today at work we got in a heated debate about whether you would rather fuck an average Coachella raver or a Stagecoach boozer. Stagecoach is the country western version of Coachella, same location, same set up, one weekend later. Valid points were made on both sides. But you have to take the good with the bad. For every molly popping sorostitute, there is a armpit hair bearing hippie. Conversely at Stagecoach for every jeanshort, white tank blonde from the midwest there is a redneck who is wearing that outfit unironically. For me it all comes down to who is less likely to have pubic hair. Is that taboo still? Danny Boyle's new movie Trance I'm fairly certain is about a guy who will only fuck girls with waxed vaginas. That's it. That's the entire plot. The whole subplot of the New York Times Best Seller Gone Girl is about a girl who goes insane after trying to put on the persona of "Cool Girl" her whole life. I'm pretty sure the straw that broke the camel's back is the fact that "cool girl" has to get her "pussy waxed raw once a week so it's optimally fuckable" (I paraphrased) But if talking about the state of a female's pubic hair was considered off limits before today, I didn't plan on being the first, but I'm glad I could start the conversation.

Yes I think that dude is actually gay, but he seized the opportunity to go down in history not as a 5th man off the bench who averaged 3 points per game for his career, but the Jackie Robinson of gays who will become one of the top 10 most famous athletes of all time.

He'll also become a folk hero and very rich. He knew what he was doing.

But Coachella vs. Stagecoach, whoyagot? Well as much as I prefer beer drinking blondes to strung out raver girls, the fact of the matter is that no one at Coachella is over 29...and stagecoach attracts lots of adults. I'm pretty sure all females stop waxing at 30 so odds are better of getting a clean one at Coachella.

That said it's going to be sweaty gross tent sex so does the issue of well kempt even matter? What is the policy on tent fucking by the way?

It's not like you can make your buddy go sleep on the couch. Do you shamelessly rail her in the sleeping bag not 6 inches from your sleeping friends, do you boot them to the car? Maybe you just go find a random secluded area, get your nut, and then go about your day. This issue did not come up this year at Coachella. However, in my younger and more vulnerable years I was quite adept at Indy 500 camping. I twice had sexual experiences in the famed coke lot. One with a girl I had been dating on and off throughout the year and another that was totally random.

She puked mid-hookup.

I wish I could say that is the only time anyone every puked in or around me mid-hookup. It also happened once during the middle of a shingles post-tailgate party during parents weekend. I'm fairly certain several of the superfrat parents watched me get dome at 2pm. But why the vomit? It would be easy to say that I just routinely hook up with girls that are WAY too drunk, but the truth is, I have a penchant for punching women in the stomach when I near orgasm.

That's a lie. But the vomit part is real, I didn't clean it up for 3 days. I threw newspaper over it bought 5 cans of Febreeze and when I brought a different girl home later that night I said there was a dead animal in the intersection of 7th and Indiana. Roadkill. I am a terrible person.

Speaking of being a terrible person, I often wonder if I came up in the game Marry/Fuck/Kill. I think I was likely either married or killed routinely. But maybe I got a fuck once or twice, but I'm pretty polarizing and when you are polarizing you either get the "marry" option because she loves you so much as a friend, "you're great" all that bullshit.

Or.

In real life you fucked her or her friend and inevitably dicked them over and now they have a neverending vendetta with you, in which you will hitherto be killed in all future games of Marry/Fuck/Kill. Even though I would prefer to be chosen as the fuckee in almost all scenarios, it probably represents a fairly nonchalant opinion about someone. "I would let them inside of me, but like only once because they aren't fun enough to marry or loathsome enough to kill."

Let's be honest, I almost always got killed. Maybe a couple marries from the Tri Delt girls in like late 2008.

I was driving down the street today and I saw this very bizarre left turn only sign. I was coming out of a Trader Joe's and it was clearly in my best interest to go right. Like left led to eternal doom and trafficy frustration, right led me through this perfect little neighborhood short cut...and I immediately realized that the sign probably existed because some cunt of a mom was afraid that if too many people became privy to said short cut that one day her child would be playing in the middle of the street and get straight up Rabbit Hole'd.

The death of a child is a tragedy, but so is 1 more second in the car than I absolutely have to be.

I turned right.

Those overprotective mothers remind me of those stupid fucking child at play signs that people used to put out in my neighborhood when I was about 16. These people would literally go to like Toys R Us and get these non-legally binding "Stop, Children at Play" signs and they would be appalled when I would roll through them like it wasn't fucking nothing. APPALLED! I'm sure I was brought up to the Geist Harbours neighborhood association for failure to observe FAKE traffic signs. It ought to be illegal to have these! Honestly, and this gets back to me being a really awful human being, but every time I saw those, for a split second I wanted to fucking Grand Theft Auto the shit out of that intersection (whether you interpret that as me wanting to just drive recklessly or actually treat playing children as bowling pins is up to your demented mind to figure out) but really at the end of the day I'm not an overly fast or reckless driver, I'm just a guy who is confident enough to drive with his knees and throw emotes to chicks at the same time.

Last thing.

After I left said Trader Joe's I drove back to work in Hollywood and I saw a girl in a beat up Acura with Ohio plates. The license plate read "FIDM GRL." I couldn't help but think of the failed Hollywood dream. This chick drove out here in her 1992 Acura legend probably listening to Sheryl Crow's Tuesday Night Music Club on repeat and is just about at that point in her life when she realizes that not even blowing a producer can guarantee her a spot as the costume PA on his latest independent feature, and now she has 100 grand in debt, an associates degree in Fashion Merchandising and a moderate cocaine addiction.

Mine's basically the same story except my license plate reads KEL E BOI.

Just kidding...but seriously, all this talk about dicks in the mainstream media today (not on Fox, they chose to ignore it) when some guy/girl has gauged ears does some erect cock somewhere fuck it? It doesn't seem pleasurable at all, but the idea that you could legit ear fuck someone is enticing to me. I just watched the Sopranos episode when Artie Bucco has his ear ring ripped out. Do you think anyone has ever been ear fucking and ripped through that thin layer of cartilage keeping the lobe connected to the rest of the ear.

Oh, it definitely has.

5 things to keep in mind going into this weekend.

Monday afternoon I was ready to swear off alcohol. But not only alcohol, I was ready to quit uppers downers, lefters, righters, red meat...fuck it I would have vowed to go gluten-free if it would have meant I would have felt even 2% better.

It's amazing what a couple days will do.

Now I'm ready to slay dragons. I could drink more than I drank last weekend. I mean fuck it, there is perfect weather here in LA and I have a bed that I can sleep in until noon. Is it possible that I would feel differently had I worked 60 hours this week instead of laying around in my boxers watching 3 seasons of the Sopranos? Oh you call that lazy? Fuck you, I'm a writer...that's research!

But I did vow off drinking this weekend...what to do...

5. Break the vow!
You made that promise to yourself under duress! You probably felt like shit, and just like a contract isn't honored if you enter into it while intoxicated or with a gun to your head nor so shall a drinking contract be honored when it is inked amidst a severe hangover. You feel fine now, fun things are happening, don't feel like you need to stay in to prove to yourself that you are capable of non-degenerate decisions. I trust you. And that juice cleanse you're doing? It's stupid. They just load that stuff with ingredients to make you shit. And you starve yourself. Want to starve yourself and take lots of shits? Coffee, cocaine and cigarettes. Do that for like a day and you'll lose 5 pounds. Boom!

4. You cannot avoid Monday
It's coming. Nothing you can do will stop the inevitability of time. Even if you spent all weekend trying to track down uranium and a Delorean, you wouldn't have time to perfect your machine by Monday. That said, you can make it seem like Monday stays away longer, fucking enjoy every moment of your finite weekend. Stay up until 5 in the morning...BOTH DAYS. Build some fucking memories. Monday is going to suck regardless, at least if you can zone out at points of the day and reflect on how badass your weekend was, it should move a bit quicker.

3. You have a limited amount of weekends left before...
THE EVIL JAWS OF RESPONSIBILITY CRUSH ANY AND ALL HAPPINESS YOU EVER FELT. You see it every day! Someone's fucking engaged, whoop di doo. Someone's having an ugly fucking baby. Isn't that nice? But while you are snarking away at how they are clogging your Facebook feed with feel good bullshit and taking away from the bikini pics you so crave. SOMEDAY ITS GONNA BE YOU! That's right. Not next week, not next month, but what if 2 years from now, you are the one getting engaged. 28? Sounds about right. Your life is over. No more casual drug use with the boys. No more one night stands with UCLA students. That shit is over. And if you work backwards from that point. This coming weekend represents roughly 1% of your remaining weekends as a free man/woman. SO the question is, do you want to waste that 1% on a "Mental health weekend?"

2. You will miss out
It might not be the best weekend ever. But at least one thing will happen. Tonight might be the night that your buddy Mikey gets so drunk he shits his pants. If you stay in watching reruns of Tosh you will not be able to give him a lifetime of shit for it, because YOU WEREN'T THERE. Tonight might be the night that hot chick Sarah from next door trips over the couch and her massive tits pop out of her poorly constructed top. LIFETIME OF SHOWERBATE HIGHLIGHT REEL. Missed. Or of course there is the classic maybe your soul mate is at the corner bar and had you gone tonight you would've gotten her number and 2 years from now lived happily ever after. You'll never know because you decided to stay in and "catch up on work" aka see how many times you can masturbate sans lube before your dick hurts.

1. Pain and Gain will still be playing in theatres Monday
All kidding aside, it's the beginning of Spring. It's fucking beautiful outside. It looks wonderful, it smells vibrant, your friends are cool that's why you chose to make them your friends because they are enjoyable to be around. Sure there are positives to take away from alone time, if you don't enjoy kicking it with yourself, no one else ever will. But that's not what Friday nights are for. Remember the agony of waiting for the phone to ring in middle school/high school? You don't have to deal with that petty shit anymore, you can grab life by the balls and go make a memory. So fire up a few beers, go out to a moderately priced meal and have the greatest fucking weekend ever. You fucking deserve it. Life is amazing but it's short, it would be a shame to waste even a single moment.

Now get the fuck out there and have a good time.

5 days in the desert

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Really short films series: Fan Mail

Does anyone want to shoot this with me? I think it's hilarious.

FADE THE FUCK IN:

INT. UTA MAILROOM - NIGHT

Superimposed: "UTA MAILROOM SATURDAY NIGHT 9:52 PM". A beat then OFF THE CLOCK appears along with a cha-ching sound effect.

A lone MAIL ROOM EMPLOYEE is burning the midnight oil on a Saturday evening in the mail room. Why is he here working on a Saturday night unpaid? We have no fucking clue. Maybe he is brown nosing to management trying to get promoted to a desk, maybe one of the partners was expecting an important letter to be delivered to the office on Saturday and needs it immediately, maybe this guys is just a big fucking loser and has nowhere better to be on Saturday night...IRRELEVANT, he's there and he's sorting through some fucking mail.

He picks up a stack of letters labeled "Noomi Rapace fan mail." He unties the stack and non-chalantly opens a letter and pours it's contents onto the table. A small card and a bunch of white powder fall out onto his desk.

MAIL ROOM EMPLOYEE

Sweet, cocaine!

The Mail Room Employee then picks up the card to examine, the meaning of this...I mean obviously he is keeping the drugs, but who are they from? Some crazy fan? Is that how they role in Sweden, sending their role models grams of blow. We zoom on the card which reads. "Enjoy the anthrax you fucking cunt :) "

MAIL ROOM EMPLOYEE

Fuck...

AND SMASH TO BLACK

That's how short films are made bitches, simple premise, complete story with a beginning middle and end...and oh by the way, run time of 7 seconds. Coming to a film festival near you, please let me know if you would like to get involved.

Email me your ideas for really short films and I'll post them here and if a lot of people like the idea we'll shoot them and post them on the blog.

VLOG: Brochella

Why I put myself in a situation where I will be sharing a tent with 4 sweaty dudes in the 100 degree desert for 72 hours I will never know...I guess it's because I'm too old to go to Little 5 this weekend, so partying with 100,000 nearly naked 20somethings on ecstacy in the middle of the desert sounded like the next best thing.

Path of no resistance

Today I was minding my own business at work signing talent release forms as celebrities such as myself are wont to do, and I was blindsided with this little gem of awesome, Matchbox 20/Goo Goo Dolls ticket presale. You may or may not be down with the Goo, but I still have vivd memories of sucking some serious face of a girl I had recently mentored at my Catholic high school. I had prayed with this girl, I had been a sounding board on her day of recollection. But I was drunk as fuck, sweating profusely and committing misdemeanor statutory rape at good old Deer Creek.

That portion of the story is largely unrelated, but I just thought it important to throw that into the ether of the internet. I have never seen Matchbox 20, which is a shame because I hear they were good and popular in the 90's, a decade of classic music that I missed because I was too busy memorizing every lyric to Puff Daddy and the Family's No Way Out. I remember he had a song with Santana and a song with and the one where he complains about the real world hassling him.

I get it. For those of you that read this blog regularly, you know that I am oft at odds with this so called thing called reality. Growing up I was told things such as "You should be on the radio." Unsure if that was a compliment for my voice or a slam on my face. Likely both. I was also told once in a while that I should be on The Real World. It would be cool to be on tv I thought, but at this point in my life I was still worried about things like my "corporate career and image" clearly I have regressed because I don't give a fuck about those things anymore. Regardless, I never put much thought into it.

However, one day I was at my senior house (shingles) throwing one of my legendary post tailgate parties that was typically shut down by the swat team. I was still drunk from the Chi O bar crawl the night before and had recently Hulk Hoganed whatever shirt I was wearing. So here I am, sitting in a Walmart kiddie pool/beer bath wearing a swimsuit, half a shirt and pouring a beer on my face. My buddy Colin walks by and tells me that Real World is hosting auditions at Sports, a local bar nearby.
I am well beyond the social definition of intoxication at this point, but I like a drunk walk as much as the next person so I embark on a journey to said bar for my audition.

When I arrived I kind of waved at the bartender from afar and was immediately poured a double long island pitcher. An MTV producer saw this take place and immediately assumed I must be a big deal if a bartender knew my drink and gave it to me free of charge as soon as I walked in (this is how Steven from Laguna Beach was cast, he was the most infamous kid at the school.) I am rushed to the front of the line to sit down for my Real World audition.

As I sit down, I inform the producers that I will be drinking during the interview. They did not object.

Producer: What happened to your shirt?

Me: I ripped it in half.

Producer: On purpose?

Me: Yes.

Producer: Why...do you do this often?

Me: It's a phase, I guess I just felt like it. It's nice out...I suppose I wanted some sun. Do you have a problem with it?

Producer: No, but you could have just taken it off.

Me: That would be far less awesome.

Producer: I see...

Me: Hey man, I'm having a really awesome party right now, how long is this going to take?

Producer ignores question.

Producer: How do you get along with people different than you?

Me: Different? Like GDI's? I don't I hate them.

Producer: Thanks David, you can go back to your party now.

I realize now that he was probably referencing living with gays and minorities...or gay minorities. Anyway, that shows you how much of a Brobot I was back then, I assumed he was talking about non fratters. So I go back to my party thinking nothing of it. I pick up a girl, take her up to my room and halfway through our day shack she pukes everywhere so I bailed back to Kilroys. Eventually during the evening I saw a string of calls from the 212, I didn't answer because I was in a bar, it was loud and I had my eyes on a pretty rad sophomore that I thought I was close to converting on.

As is the case still, my voicemail box was intentionally full because fuck you text me.

Days later I realized it was probably MTV calling to cast me in real world. I called back finally on like Thursday, it was too late. I had lost my opportunity for stardom.

Years pass. I go through a really rocky period of my life that we will just call "The Chicago Years" those involved know about the atrocities that took place. One day I pulled my head out of my ass long enough to move to LA and surprise surprise, I hated it.

Until one day whilst sitting on a park bench in Westwood, whining to some girl from back home about how I want to come back, an old man offers me $400 for my sandals. $400 that could have changed my life. $400 that could've gotten me off the streets and change my future. But it turned out that a 90 year old woman was punking me and I was still living on a couch.

ALAS, 6 months later while having a barbecue to prep a new reality show that I had just written I made my reality TV debut on Betty White's Off Their Rockers, almost 4 years to the day after my Real World audition. That was fun, got a few random Facebook wall posts from friends and family (but seriously what the fuck are you doing watching Off Their Rockers) I went about my life continuing to work on my new reality series until it suffered the same fate as countless others. After shooting the pilot the series was shelved indefinitely. Dreams shattered.

I start doing PA work for all sorts of random low budget movies, tv shows and commercials and low and behold one day an actor doesn't show up.

But some of his scenes were already shot.

You don't see his face so we just need someone that is his height, who can we find last minute that is 6'4!

THIS GUY! They put me in a movie and because of non disclosure agreements I can't tell you what I do, but it's fucking awesome.

Sure I'm a glorified extra, but I'm in a fucking movie and you're not. I may not have made it on the Real World and I may not be a writer producer of a tv show and I may not make 100,000 a year yet, but I live in LA and when you work here sometimes cool shit happens.

I'm sitting in my office right now killing time before I walk over to Staples Center for a Passion Pit concert. The last time I saw a Passion Pit concert was in Bloomington. I pregamed in Fiji of all places and a lot of people in the house were doing Molly before the show. Due to my rambunctious personality and questionable reputation, the president of Fiji blamed me for the illicit drugs because heaven forbid a Phi Gam take party drugs before a rave. Allegedly there was an attempt to ban me forever from the house, an attempt that apparently failed because I have visited my brother since. But the main takeaway is, even though I have done PLENTY of things to wrong FIJI, in that particular case, the drugs weren't mine and I didn't even drink that night, and the asshat who blamed me while perhaps successful will likely marry a girl that won't suck his dick even on special occasions. And he will never be in a movie.

Take the path of no resistance, because while the cream may rise to the crop, so too do things that have been dead for a while.

Enjoy Coachella you degenerates.