Politik

I don't know when it happened.

I grew up a staunch supporter of everything that the Republican party had come to represent. I dreamed of marrying a gorgeous Christian girl in a large church and spending the rest of our lives making fun of poor people and Democrats.

Then there was the whole, 'oh I'm a "social moderate" but I still believe in fiscal conservatism thing.' Really this just meant I was largely apathetic about social issues and I wouldn't go out of my way to bash gay marriage, legal marijuana or abortion. But selfishly, I didn't care, those things don't affect me.

But then one day I just stopped caring about anything. People should be able to do whatever they want, even if I think it's stupid. I think it is stupid to self-identify as a fish. But if self-identifying as a fish makes you happy, then you should fucking do it. I do a lot of stupid stuff. But it makes me happy, and no one tries to stop me. So I figure this is a fair trade.

This doesn't mean I can't root for certain things. And while I don't have much of an agenda, there are a few things that I hope for, one of them being anarchy.

Like what if...

Donald Sterling was in the middle of his legal battle with the NBA and LeBron James pulled a Samuel L Jackson by storming the court room and shooting him in the fucking face with a shot gun.

"YES I THINK HE DESERVED TO DIE AND I HOPE HE BURNS IN HELL."

Of course the surface result of this is that Donald Sterling is dead and the best basketball player in the world goes to jail (unless he has McConaughey for a lawyer) but deeper down there are the questions of, well shit. The King just murdered Sterling in cold blood and now his wife is the owner of the team.
But clearly you can't take the team away from the widow of a murdered husband while the HazMat team is still clearing pieces of his brain off of the judge's gavel. The case is halted, the Sterling family retains ownership, and only half the players decide to strike the following season. Chaos.

And what if, on that VERY SAME DAY, a sex tape of Michael Sam and Kendall Jenner surfaces, mind you it is timestamped 2012 OMFG she's 17!!! And then a bunch more girls come forward claiming Michael Sam hit them raw when they were in their mid to late teens. What happens then?

Or, Aaron Hernandez is acquitted of triple homicide and goes on to have a career season with Oakland.

This is the shit that I am into. Things that make the collective head explode. I love a good scandal, and the only thing better than some athlete killing his wife, is a crazy twist in which his wife was actually an international drug warlord.

Sure maybe I'm a monster, but I'm fair. I universally loathe inflated public outrage. Twenty years ago you could speak your mind, now if Jennifer Lawrence makes a rape joke it becomes an international incident. And I think that's silly.

All of the faux outrage is silly, and it's largely an indictment on the internet and social media as a whole. And if it was just a collection of people getting overly worked up over things that in no way impact them. Fine. Look, Aaron Hernandez is a dick. Donald Sterling is a dick. And Michael Sam? I wish him the best.

But the groupthink is not contained exclusively to hating on dicks. Nay, there is collateral damage...and I am here today to say one thing...

Leave Coldplay the FUCK alone.

Honestly, let me tell you fucking hipster contrarians something. If you think it is an original thought to hate on a popular band, you need to trade your skinny jeans in for a nice pair of croakies. I will concede that Coldplay is a band that has made a living off of an affable lead singer making formulaic radio-friendly hits. But there isn't necessarily anything wrong with that.

I think there is a clear distinction between the people that have jumped on the Coldplay-hate bandwagon and those that enjoy it when they find an old iPod mini (lime green) and see that they had 3 different live versions of "In My Place."

You either did or did not get a hand job at a Coldplay concert in high school. That's all there is to it.

It's not that the Coldplay hating hipsters were incapable of receiving hand jobs in high school, only that to do so at an outdoor concert would pose a challenge due to the tight constriction of the denim and the awkward design of the button fly. Abercrombie and Fitch shorts though, the definition of convenience. They may have been lambasted by the screenwriters of Superbad, but my guess is that a pre Freaks and Geeks Seth Rogen never tore a whole in the lining of his shorts so he could get jerked off through a cargo pocket.

Ahh, nostalgia.

The truth of the matter is, I'm not even THAT big a fan of Coldplay, but I like them enough that I felt the need to stand up for them when their album dropped this week and they were given a collective FUCKKKK YOUUUU. Maybe people don't remember the first time they heard 'The Scientist.' Or when they heard 'Don't Panic' in Garden State whilst simultaneously falling in love with Natalie Portman.

And in the same year that Chris Martin divorces megacunt Gwyneth Paltrow, I thought for sure, Coldplay would be embraced now more than ever.

In 2005, Coldplay dropped X&Y which escalated them from British alternative pop band, to international superstardom. 'Speed of Sound' was all over the place, 'Fix You' became a melodramatic anthem that they rode to 15 million albums sold and deeper cuts like 'Swallowed in the Sea' I would play on repeat while driving home from a girls house.

Looking back, this was my emo phase. While many of my contemporaries were blasting Simple Plan and Dashboard, I was listening to Coldplay (and lots of rap music) In my opinion there was nothing else better to drive to, super loud with the windows down.

In 2008, I was living on my own for the first time. I had a house in Wrigleyville and I was selling cigs. But it turns out, I didn't do much that summer aside from listen to Viva la Vida amplified on airport through the whole house...drinking copious amounts of vodka. Coldplay was finally a band that you could party to! I remember people coming over to my house and doing coke off the counter during 'Strawberry Swing' and thinking oh shit, this is NOT your older brother's Coldplay.

At their concert at the United Center that summer, I remember sitting outside a liquor store in Garfield Park at the corner of Madison and Western (not a nice area!) I was with 2 dudes passing a handle of vodka around a circle while someone played 'Clocks' on an iPhone first generation. The only explanation for us not getting stabbed/robbed must have been that the local hoodlums legitimately thought we were crazy. We snuck a second handle into the United Center and then moved down from our seats in the upper deck to the lower level right before the intermission.

Somehow the band went down some sort of secret elevator that lowered them below the stage, moved them across the arena and raised them, right in front of me, where they played 'Green Eyes' (unfortunately I was no longer wearing cargo shorts at this point or the nearest girl to me would have immediately given me a handjob...I assume)

My friends and I met some 19 year old Wilmettte chicks on the red line back to Wrigley and had an after party until noon the next day. It is largely agreed upon that this was one of the greatest nights in Chicago.

So maybe I don't subscribe to musical theory, but I associate my appreciation of music with the life experiences that accompany them. And sure this was a pretty crude account of my Coldplay experiences (a majority which were fabricated) but I can say with certainty I have had a good time whilst listening to some of their songs.

And maybe you did too, or maybe there is another band that you reflect fondly on. Leave mine alone.

See the problem with keeping the status quo is you're essentially endorsing the message of a High School Musical song. You know who fucked with the status quo? Zac Efron! He started doing a lot of drugs and quit doing Disney movies and look at him now.

(Side note: I would be very interested in a HSM where are they now. We all know that Efron went to rehab for coke/heroin and every man in America has spent significant time with "leaked" photos of Vanessa Hudgens, but I really want to know what happened to Ashley Tisdale's gay brother or the piano player, what the fuck are they up to)

So in closing...I'm sure I've lost all of you by now, but in closing, the shitty (or not shitty) music from our youth's will always hold extreme sentimental value to us. I will never stop loving DMB, OAR, Coldplay, Third Eye Blind, Blink 182...etc. And you should equally treasure your Tool, ICP if you were one of those weirdos.

And let's save the collective outrage for a real tragedy, you know like a war or terrorist attack. If someone gets drunk and tweets something mildly offensive, how about we let them off with a free pass?

Life with a broken wrist

I used to wear crocs to the bar in college. I didn't do this because I thought it was a fashion statement, I did it because I took overwhelming pride in how few fucks I gave about everything. I wanted every person at the bar to know, that the same crocs I wore in the frat shower riddled with dip spit and urine were the crocs I wore to the bar.

Everyone kind of has that vibe in college though. People roll to class in sweat pants, drinking whiskey out of a water bottle playing Brickbreaker on their Blackberry Curve or pinging girls they want to fuck later. Hell my frat bought a car during finals week, parked it in the front lawn and smashed it to shreds with sledgehammers. The idea behind this was that it would become a philanthropy event. We would take money out of the fraternity's budget and buy some shitty car from a townie for $500 bucks. Then during finals week, for $5 we would let stressed out students blow off some steam by taking a few whacks at it.

Well as soon as the car pulled into the yard we immediately began drinking Jack Daniels and pulverizing this poor thing. I think within 3 hours we had set it on fire; the philanthropy netted -$500.

Not surprisingly one day, when I was wearing aforementioned crocs at Kilroy's some dumb chick wearing heels (I'm kidding, it's never dumb to wear heels, unless you're super hot and 5'11, find a nice pair of Tory flats, other than that every girl should always wear heels) stepped on my foot. She went right through one of those holes (designed for those LOONEY pins you could design your crocs with lolz) and about a half inch into my foot. I bled profusely for days, had a scar for a while, and the rest of the time I owned those crocs, there was a small tear in the shoe right where her heel had speared through the top of my foot.

But I deserved this. I'm sure I pissed and moaned at the time about how she was a drunk bitch and she should watch where she's going and not step on my foot. But who the fuck wears glorified sandals out to a bar and doesn't expect disastrous results? This one was all on me. Those who don't give a fuck are destined to stumble at some point or another. BTW it's all good, I think I went home with a Sophomore Kappa that night that wanted to "help out with the bleeding." College is full of negative reinforcement.

This concept of not caring has not gone away, let's just look to popular music. I think sometime between the release of the 17th remix of Ellie Goulding's "Lights" and the introduction of some Australian white chick rapper that tries to sound like Nikki Minaj; the recording industry is officially trolling us, and like the music business didn't learn their lesson after giving notorious lip syncers Mili Vanilli a Grammy, they gifted us Ashlee Simpson several years later. Time is a flat circle and history is doomed to repeat itself.

Thus it should be no surprise to anyone that under the guise of training for a triathlon 2 weeks ago, I through on my douchiest cycling kit, put on an aggressive dubstep Playlist from Songza and set out to smash all of my records on MapMyRide. I am the guy on the Santa Monica bike path that everyone hates. When you bring your toddler to the beach on a Saturday I am the one speeding by way too fast, endangering your family. I am the dickhead that screams "ON YOUR LEFT!" to drunk Mexicans leisurely pedaling by on their stolen beach cruisers. I do this for two reasons.

1. I legitimately like to go very fast, because adrenaline. It is fucking thrilling to take a turn at 20 mph at a 45 degree angle where your knee almost scrapes the pavement.

2. I don't like outsiders coming to the beach. If you're from Santa Monica/Venice go to the beach every day. It's yours, you earned it. What I do not approve of is these family outings from the valley on the weekends. You crowd up the bike path, cause unnecessary congestion and cause the wait at Venice Ale House to always be over an hour. You decided to move to Woodland Hills for affordable Housing and decent public schools, you made your grave, now lay in it. You can't have the best of both worlds. Therefore if I give just one outsider a bad experience when they visit the beach well then I feel like my obnoxious behavior was all worth it. As Charlie Hunnan so eloquently says in Green Street Hooligans "WE DON'T LIKE OUTSIDERS."

And so on this particular day when a certain Zedd song came on my headphones, I decided to pedal my little heart out rounding a corner just north of the Santa Monica pier. An Australian jogger cut me off EVER so slightly, forcing me to turn my wheel just a hair, but at that precise moment I hit a patch of sand, went over the handle bars and SNAP.

Broken, bloodies and covered in sand...and you know what? I deserved it. In a world of Karma you can only get away with being an asshole for so long, until life kicks you in the ass and gives you a little wake up call.

So now I'm in a brace and have a broken wrist...and it kinda sorta sucks. Lots of things I used to be adequate at, I now struggle immensely with. Things like using a pencil, plugging in my phone charger, masturba...I mean mustering the strength to take out the trash. All of these things are now enormous undertakings.

Now...it probably didn't help that I took a vacation to Phoenix and went to a wedding before, you know...getting an X-ray. The O.A.R. concert that Sunday night probably didn't help, I've spent enough time on Web MD to know that jumping up and down, showering people with beer is not the ideal way to let a bone set.

And of course, my first day on my new show was the Monday immediately following wedding/concert/broken wrist. Like why the fuck do I do this to myself? I truly must be a sadist. The last 3 shows I have started this is the activity I did the night before my first day.

1. Mardi Gras New Orleans
2. Coachella
3. An OAR concert (on cinco de mayo)

I promise before my next show I am going to stay sober the entire weekend in anticipation of my big first day. The sweet irony will be when I watch 16 hours of Lost, lose track of time and end up sleeping in when I go to sleep at 4 o clock in the morning the day before I start a new job. TV binging can be just as unhealthy as unchecked alcoholism.

Fortunately for me, things in my life seem to be turning around. If the glorious state of Indiana can get me a new title by Friday, CarMax is going to buy my car (because apparently they were looking to invest in a bomb) I'm shopping around for a replacement and now that I have this brace, no one at work asks me to lift heavy shit.

Also to my surprise, the brace is a social asset. I went out both nights this weekend and just stood in the corner while girls came up to me and introduced themselves and inquired about my hand. GAAAAHH ICEBREAKER MUST BREAK MORE BONES!!!! (or I can just wear the brace forever mwahahaha)

Caveat: It is also possible that girls approached me because of my hair. A while back a girl asked me on a date for the following day. That day I got my hair cut, because I dunno, that's what I planned to do that day. I showed up for the date and was told that due to the change in my appearance, she no longer wanted to go on aforementioned date. I vowed to never cut my hair again. That was like 4 months ago, I have "hair popping through the lacrosse helmet" flow at this point. Though I'm still a couple months out on the full Gordon Gecko slick back.

So as much a pain in the ass having a broken bone is, it has taught me lessons. (Don't be a dick), has garnered me some degree of sympathy (easier tasks at work, my dad wants to help out with a car) and I now have a universal excuse to stay in, take Vicodin and watch copious amounts of Netflix. Sure eating crab legs might be a little difficult should I decide to go that route tonight, but that's a #firstWorldProblem if I ever heard of one.

I went to 3 doctors in the last week, and what I thought was going to be a career ending injury requiring 17 surgeries ended up being something that cost $250, got me out of about 8 hours of work and will allow me to be back on the bike in 4 weeks. And I learned a valuable lesson, ride with caution on the bike path, share the beach. Maybe be the guy at a stop sign that waves a car by even if I got there first. And maybe if I focus on being a generally better person in the next few months the Karma bug will boomerang me back some good news, like I am secretly 1/32nd cherokee, I will get staffed on a show next TV season...

AND THEN I WILL PARTY LIKE JOHNNY FUCKING MANZIEL with my outrageous weekly salary.

And then that show will get cancelled after 2 episodes, because karma and history is guaranteed to repeat itself, because time is a flat circle and shit.

I'm so fucked.

The White Wedding

Pictured: My dream closet

There have been probably five seminal moments in my life that drastically affected the future.
- The discovery of Lawry's seasoned salt
- The moment I first walked into Kilroy's on Kirkwood
- When I read The Alchemist
- The first time a girl licked my ear
- The Parisian going out of business sale

So we have everything covered there right? Food, Alcohol, Inspiration, Women...and wait what?

Oh yes. In 2008 there was no Nordstrom at the Indianapolis Fashion Mall. You would have to trek downtown for Nordy's, on Indy's north side was the now defunct Birmingham, Alabama based Parisian. (Many of these locations have been spun of to Bon Ton stores such as Carson Pirie Scott) Anyway, when Parisian was shut down to clear the way for a brand new Nordstrom flagship store, there was a legendary going out of business sale. Polo, Lacoste, even some Burberry shit was 90% off.

The unemployed housewives of Indianapolis nearly murdered each other, fighting over the last few large shirts and 34x32 designer jeans. By the time I returned from abroad that summer the store was pretty picked over. The only items left were 4XL or waist size 26. Twas a pretty dire scene. I grabbed a nice Polo golf hat listed at $3.99, a pair of pink shorts and made my way toward the check-out when I saw a hint of yellow grab my eye.

I sprinted to a corner where I saw a full yellow and white seersucker suit untouched. I was fairly new to the seersucker game, I think I was unaware of its existence until I saw some Fiji walking down 3rd street with his white polo shirt tucked into some 5 inch inseam white/blue seersucker shorts. It remains the one time in my life I have been impressed with something a Phi Gam has done. I didn't even check the price tag of this hidden gem, I immediately proceeded to run to the check out and buy it. I believe I paid something like $15 marked down from $300. It was the happiest moment of my life.

I only wore that seersucker suit twice. The first time was to my cousin's outdoor wedding. I don't remember much about that night, other than the minister that oversaw the wedding kept asking me if I had accepted Jesus Christ and inquired as to whether I was a virgin. I thought it was weird so I blacked out and danced inappropriately with one of the bridesmaids.

The second time was at the sales conference of my internship for the summer, which had been selling cigarettes for Philip Morris. If you ever asked me about that job in the past I probably took some bullshit moral high ground and told you I felt guilty about selling something that harms other people. The truth is, if I wouldn't have done what I am about to tell you, I would be making 100 grand a year, driving around a mini-van and slanging cigs all over the place...

We were out in Naperville celebrating the end of the program, we were holed up at whatever hotel one stays at in Naperville and the hotel bar was a pretty depressing scene. I decided that we should hit the town, we landed at some divey karaoke bar where I attempted to recreate one of my classic Thursday nights at Bear's in Bloomington: Consume 45 shots of vodka, sing a Britney Spears song, have my pick of any girl in the bar.

As you can imagine, this did not work...at all. I woke up the next day on the floor of my hotel room with 37 missed calls, 3 hours late for my performance evaluation and somehow my seersucker suit had ended up in the fountain at reception. The staff had deemed it ruined and thrown it away. My management team was unimpressed and thus I was not extended a full time offer. And because of that I now live in Venice, CA blogging and working as a peasant on TV shows. I feel comfortable calling it an even trade because, well...beach.

Why this long set-up about the seersucker suit? Although I have clearly not had the best luck in said attire, I do think there is a certain stigma to wearing it. It kicks things up a notch, it's the same logic behind someone that does the stuntman shot at a bar (snorts the salt, takes the shot, lime in the eye) it says, let's fucking go and brings a new aggressive energy to the situation.

I am going to a wedding on Saturday in Scottsdale, Arizona. Of the 400 people going, I have never met a single one save for my father. A month ago my dad called and said "Your mom is going to Florence for two weeks in May and I never get to see you, will you come to this wedding with me."

My immediate response was, "Can I go with mom?"

Unfortunately not. But my dad offered me a plane ticket, a sick hotel and it's an open bar. It would be nice to see him and hey what's one more trip to plan to take my focus off of the fact that I should probably get a job.

So I'm going to a wedding where I know no one. Furthermore, I am one of 10 people going from the groom's side. Yes you read that right, of the 400 people going to this wedding Saturday 390 are with the bride. The groom is bringing his dad, my dad, some random uncles probably and me.

I have no clue how I'm going to interact with anyone at this soiree.

"So who are you with?"

"Um, the groom I guess."

"And how do you know him?"

"Uh, I don't. My dad manages his dad's money, and most of the groom's friends and family were too poor to fly to Phoenix...I got the invite because LA is close and they figured I would come for the open bar."

"Oh." (slowly backs away/thinks I'm a sociopath)

There are pros and cons to this situation of course.

The pros revolve largely around the fact that absolutely no one there will know me, nor will I ever see any of them again so I could say basically anything.

The cons revolve around the fact that likely no one will talk to be and I'll spend the whole ceremony drinking by myself at the table while my dad urges me to go talk to some girls on the dance floor.

What my father fails to comprehend is I rely almost exclusively on the energy of those around me. Any girl I am ever linked to is because we started out as friends or I met her in a group. I have zero ability to walk up to someone and start a conversation. In college this was easy of course because almost everyone (for terrible reasons albeit) knew who I was, in Venice people may know someone that I know, Saturday in Scottsdale I am anonymous.

This is why I need the power of the suit.

Remember the end of Space Jam? It turned out "Michael's special stuff" was just water all along, but it helped the Tune Squad overcome an almost insurmountable Monstars lead? The moral of that story was that they had the power inside themselves the whole time, they just needed to believe.

Well, I assure you, that is not the case with me. I went to a wedding in September with basically everyone I had ever known and I was still nervous because I hadn't talked to most of them in a year. So I did something to break the ice a little, I brought a bottle of Fireball to dinner. It was a huge hit.

If I wear a seersucker suit MAYBE someone will be inspired to come talk to the misfit. Oh joy it's going to be like those awkward family vacations all over again. You remember the kind? You're like 16 and want to party, but your little brother is just a little too young to be your wing man and it's not that cool to hang with your parents, so you go to the hot tub and hope like hell that there is a beautiful girl in there in the exact same situation...and then you two become best friends and make out on the last night?

Ya that was the dream that never came to fruition for me either. Or maybe it did once. My childhood is racked with false memories that I created later in life to convince myself it was more awesome than it probably was. Now I cannot distinguish between the truth and a lie, I could probably pass a lie detector test that said I really did hook up with all of those anonymous spring break girls I invented in my mind.

Anyway, off topic. Making friends at this wedding is going to be difficult, not impossible. Somehow, I have an invite to the rehearsal dinner (actually I'm sure all 10 of the groom's side got the call) so it's ALMOST like I'm on the inner circle. I can plant seeds Friday night, with the smaller intimate group. Maybe get a little day drinking going at the pool with whoever I meet Friday night. That way, by the time I finally get to the wedding reception everyone will be old friends with the random dude from Venice, CA.

I see it playing out like this...

INT. JW MARRIOTT RECEPTION HALL - EVENING

A couple of the COOL KIDS from the rehearsal dinner approach DAVE, 27 blonde, looking ridiculous in a seersucker suit. He downs a whiskey rocks as his FATHER silently judges him.

COOL DUDE 1

Holy shit Dave, you actually did wear that seersucker suit. Where did you find that thing?

DAVE

One of the benefits of being on hiatus this week was that I had plenty of time to scour Venice thrift shops for this beauty.

Dave signals to a server for a refill on his whiskey. Anyway, what did you guys get into today.

COOL GIRL 1

We were so hungover, I didn't get out of bed until 2pm.

Dave looks to his father who is engaged in small talk with some DRUNK NERD who seems to be blabbering about his tech start-up.

DAVE

Ya, pops was feeling pretty loops after his second margarita, and I knew I wanted to bag a few rays today, so I turned in a bit early. Tonight is going to be a different story.

COOL DUDE 2

Fuck ya man, we're heading up to our room to bang some lines, wanna come?

Off Dave, a devilish grin spreading across his face.

End Scene.

Oh drugs, the great equalizer.

I should mention that my 2 prior experiences in Scottsdale are that of Spring Training baseball and a themed river float entitled pirate day. But from what I remember about my most recent trip, there was a lot of tattoos and a lot of full flavored beer. I don't actually have any idea what affluent people from Phoenix are all about, it's like one of those cities that lacks a cultural identity. If I say rich kid from LA or New York you picture something entirely different. Rich kid from Chicago is a bit more down to Earth. Rich kid from San Francisco is like a socially conscious rich kid from Chicago. WHO ARE YOU WEALTHY WHITES OF PHOENIX? Are you like a U of A frat guy or a Flagstaff outdoorsman that vacations at Jackson Hole?

We shall see.

But then again, this is all a pipe dream, and a silly one at that. I should go, spend some quality time with my dad. Find a nice lazy river, maybe get a quick 18 in and relax. The only inevitabilities about this trip are that I will undoubtedly return with a full set of third degree burns due to my refusal to wear sunscreen. But honestly, I'll probably be surrounded by super nice people that treat me like I belong. And if it really sucks, I'm sure I can find a TV and watch some hockey. My dad will probably even come along with me even though my Hawks pwned his Blues.

But If I do find a seersucker suit in the next 24 hours, and I wear that bitch to a black tie wedding at the JW Scottsdale...I'm telling you, I will walk in and jaws will drop. Metaphorical shots will be fired. And everything, EVERYTHING, about this wedding might be different.

I mean, I suppose I should probably just wear a nice black suit, keep a low profile and NOT embarrass my family....but what's the fun in that?

Self Medication

The most frustrating invention of the 20th century was certainly the single cup coffee maker. Essentially you have to go through the exact process of brewing a pot of coffee, yet it yields only one cup. Who the hell has ever wanted just one cup of coffee? Perhaps there is some caffeine novice who requires only one cup to have a productive morning, but eventually we all turn into zombies that require the equivalent of crystal meth to walk 15 feet from the bedroom to the shower in order to wake up in the morning. For this reason, when I am perusing the K cup selection at work I always seek out the most intense titles.

For example, Jet Fuel is more likely to get you JACKED UP than Starbucks Blonde. Moreover I choose to fly with the Black Tiger any day before Donut Shop. In fact my real secret to success is to do a Revolution K-cup and then slam dunk it with a purple Nespresso capsule (the purple ranks 9/10 intensity and tastes infinitely better than the 10/10 black. It's very similar as to how 'Wild' wings at Buffalo Wild Wings are delicious whereas 'Blazin' is a flavor reserved for self loathing sadists) This is referred to by commoners as the 'Red Eye' a phrase that never made sense to me. When I'm flying on a red eye, all I aspire to do is sleep, and when the fucktard next to me throws on their book light and decides to read for the entirety of my flight I become borderline homicidal. In fact let's take the time now to rank the 5 worst people to sit next to on an airplane.

5. Overweight person.
I will forever maintain a certain level of physical fitness if only to not be the fat person on an airplane. I can imagine no shame greater than being told by Southwest that you need to purchase a second seat.

4. Someone that smells.
Oh I've been this guy, coming off of a NYC bender where I have slept 3 total hours, changed clothes once and showered 0 times. It doesn't matter if it's BO or alcohol coursing out of your pours. There should be a minimum accepted hygiene code of conduct for all flyers. Remember when people got excited and dressed up for flights? I promise to never say "Ok I'll do one more shot and then cab it straight to the airport" ever again. It's unfair to fellow humans.

3. A Talker.
Look, unless you are a 21-30 year old blonde female between 105 and 120 pounds I really have nothing to say to you. Even if you are, I might chose a few quiet smiles because I can't sustain conversation for 4 hours and I don't want to hit an awkward lull somewhere over Lawrence, KS. I prefer to read, sleep or fuck around with my personal in-flight monitor and send sexts to the smoke in 11C (on Virgin Flights only)

2. A baby.
I do not know how there isn't an airline yet with a minimum age requirement. Is it discriminatory? Crying babies are about the worst thing in the world. Some day I will (maybe) be a parent. I will have to deal with this inevitability at that time. I should not be subjected to it until I so chose to make that life decision. In church or a restaurant, the parent has the option of removing the annoyance from the public. Not so simple on an airline. As an alternative form of punishment I think the parent of said crying baby should be forced to buy drinks for everyone in the nearest three rows affected. God would it suck to be in that fourth row.

1. Red-eye reader/bathroom person.
There is an unspoken code among flyers. Lights out on a red-eye and if you sit in the middle seat or window you are allowed one bathroom break. If you have an overactive bladder you pay the 10 bucks to insure that you get an aisle seat. About the biggest affront to humanity short of war crimes is waking the aisle person up MULTIPLE times so you can fucking pee. The same with the red-eye reader. Who is this clown that is trying to finish a powerpoint before going into the office Monday morning, or catching up on the Divergent series? Do what everyone else in America does, bum an Xanax from a friend who goes to a Beverly Hills Doctor.

But back to my point about one cup of coffee, I don't sit at Starbucks all day and get quarter refills on my coffee or go broke buying a second latte (seriously I feel shame if my daily spending at Starbucks eclipses 10 bucks, if I do get a 2nd latte I always get an unflavored one to stay under this threshold) but if you are at the office or doing some work from home and you put forth the effort to brew a pot of coffee; you deserve more than one cup.

The problem is, I have gotten to a point in my life where I am basically a robot. I add certain things to my body to increase my energy during the day (30 cups of coffee, red bull, rockstar, adderall, pepsi) and then at night I power down with some Nyquil, red wine and an imperial IPA. This is not healthy, nor do I recommend it AND YES I KNOW BENZO ABUSE IS HOW ALL THOSE CELEBRITIES DIED LEAVE ME ALONE. This is just the way it is. That is my routine.

That said, I'm not so sure self-medication is a bad thing.
When I'm stressed out, I go for a run or vent on a blog post.
When I'm upset about girls, I drink a bottle of red wine and watch Forgetting Sarah Marshall.
When I'm nervous about my career prospects or what I'm doing with my life, I take a slow pensive walk to the beach and breathe in deeply because I don't have it too bad after all.

These are all forms of self-medication/self-preservation I suppose and although there are healthy ways of handling your problems and unhealthy ways, I believe there is something to be said for meeting them head on instead of pretending they do not exist.

There is so much good in this world if you make an effort to go find it, yet we spend so much time focusing on the negative side of things.

For example: I have a minor annoyance in my life right now. I am flying to Phoenix on Friday to go to a wedding with my dad. Flight prices inexplicably shot up 300 dollars overnight and I was faced with the grim reality that I was going to have to drive alone 8 hours to Phoenix or suck it up and buy a 500 dollar flight. Fortunately for me, I have ninja-like Priceline skills and I was able to lock in a flight of 200 dollars by naming my own price.

Unfortunately, the Sunday flight I was assigned gets back to LA at 9pm. How does this fuck me? I had plans to go pick up a new kitchen table Sunday and then tickets to OAR at the Troubadour. In order to rectify this problem, I need to standby on an earlier flight and for that "convenience" United will charge me $75.

I schemed all morning about how to get out of this fee.

"I'll take to social media! Airline Twitter accounts LOVE to engage the customer."
"I'll dress in a suit, I'll volunteer to sign up for their credit card, I'll offer to sit next to ANY ONE OF THE WORST 5 PEOPLE TO SIT NEXT TO ON A PLANE."

Just don't make me pay that 75 dollar stand-by fee!!!!!

Or. I just say fuck it and pay the 75 dollars because:  I'm going to a million dollar wedding in Scottsdale with my dad, whom I rarely get to see, Ikea dining sets are like 100 bucks and oh my god I'm seeing my favorite band in the world in front of a crowd of 200 people. Plus I know the secret to drinking for free on airplanes, so I'll totally make that $75 back.

Usually the best form of self-medication is a quick attitude adjustment. When I'm seated next to one of the undesirables listed above, I could bitch about it or remind myself how cool air travel is in general. I bet the majority of the Earth's population will never ride on an airplane, and I complain if I don't get an exit row? The worst.

The thing is, sometimes when things seem to be at their worst, the next big thing is right around the corner. My show ended 2 weeks ago and I haven't found a new job yet, despite having countless meetings and sending out a thousand resumes. So you know what? Instead of wallowing in my own misery, I'm going to grab my surfboarT and head to the beach, because last time I checked bagging rays is the only thing that is still free and never going out of style.* I'll probably get 5 job offers while I'm in the water and then I'll have a whole new set of problems.

*Wear sunscreen because chemotherapy is not free!

Advanced Haters' Guide to Misery

Pictured: Me at the Sahara tent.

You've seen it all by now.

There is the article that started it all.

There is the follow-up article that responded to a bunch of shots fired from the basic community.

And this article that was just mean. (But how much weight do you given the opinions of some motherfucker named Marlow?)

The gist of these articles is all basically the same. Coachella is full of a bunch of rich white kids getting super fucked up.

Now the general response from the accused has been, "No way am I fucking basic! I listened to Bastille's EP waaaaay before that shit played on The Vampire Diaries!"

I look at it differently. I say, "So what?" So what if Coachella is a mecca of rich white kids getting super fucked up and spending a ton of money that they did (or didn't) earn. That's what they're into, so let them enjoy it.

You wouldn't say "The West Hollywood Halloween parade is full of a bunch of gays frolicking around in crazy costumes and getting super fucked up! ARGGGGHHH" No, that's just what it is. And that's fine, because that's what the people that go to the West Hollywood Halloween parade are there to do. At what point did everything have to elicit some sort of redeeming cultural value? Coachella is basically Spring Break for adults and if you want to save up your money (and vacation days) to go have a debaucherous existence in the desert for 5 days, who am I to stop you?

I suppose I am a tad bit biased because I just got back from the desert yesterday. I am in the midst of recovering from severe dehydration, probable sun and alcohol poisoning and whatever the other substances were that I ingested over the long weekend. I have taken 2 showers today, shaved my 2 week beard off and scrubbed away any remnants of temporary tattoos. I even had the maturity to cut my wristband off today and not walk around for another 2 weeks rubbing it in to everyone that didn't go.

In fact if I combed my hair and put on normal clothes you might erroneously believe that I was a high functioning adult.

And as I neatly fold all of my bro tanks today and put them away until next Coachella season I find myself asking why?

Why do I do this to myself? I am essentially a thousand dollars poorer after the weekend and I don't have steady employment lined up. I will feel like shit until Friday and I have nothing to show for it.

Or do I?

I wrestle around with the idea of happiness constantly on this blog. What is it to be content? What are the things that make me feel good about my place in this world. I've come to the conclusion that it isn't fancy toys. I really have no tangible assets, except for a handful of Apple products I have acquired over Christmases and birthdays, I could likely wear the same wardrobe the rest of my life, so I chose to invest in life experiences.

The memories that came from this trip are priceless. Sure the crowds were annoying, the beer was expensive, but what about the fact that a member of my group broke their foot and continued partying hard for 12 hours. That's almost as impressive as Bob Gibson's famous broken leg game.

But let's just get down to it shall we? How rad was it to stay in a Palm Desert house with 14 people?
There are probably people out there that do not subscribe to the phrase the more the merrier. I happen to live by that motto though, so the fact that we had 3 beds in a house of 14 people did not phase me. Let me set up the scene of how our night would look.

Bedroom 1: One couple (2 people)

Bedroom 2 One couple (2 people)

Bedroom 3: 3 girls in one bed. 2 girls on one air mattress.

Family room: 1 guy couch a, 1 guy couch b, 1 guy behind couch b laying on the cushions from couch a, 1 guy behind couch a on a pool float raft

Outside: Me in a tent*

*Although I slept in a tent Thursday night, I did not put the rain cover up, because it's the desert obviously I don't have to worry about the rain. However, I failed to realize that since there is hardly ever rain there would be timer activated sprinkler systems. Friday morning I awoke to find my tent under siege. Shots fired from multiple directions, water pouring in from the top, I'm certain this is what it feels like to be water boarded. I escaped the tent and decided that sleeping on a floating raft on the floor was probably a wiser decision moving forward.

The nice thing about going on any vacation with 7 women, is that you wake up to breakfast. Believe it or not, there is this strange breed of people that like to get up before noon whilst on vacation, furthermore they don't mind shopping for mimosa ingredients and cooking pancakes and planning Easter Egg hunts. You should always go on vacation with these people. They are the best.

A breakdown of a typical day would look like this:

8:00a - First unit wakes up. I either continue to sleep or improve my sleeping situation by taking a bed vacated by a first unit.

9:00a - First unit returns from a supply run. In my head I am thanking them, but I continue to sleep.

9:30a- Breakfast is ready, I wake up, but decide to sleep 15 minutes longer.

9:45a- I press snooze once more.

10:00a- The alcohol embargo is lifted. First unit begins drinking, someone comes into where I am sleeping and bring me a mimosa. I decide to wake up and have breakfast.

11:00a- Swimsuits on, we play civil war, flip cup, kings, pong, and do awesome diving nerf catches into the pool. Meg Breaks her foot (Sunday only)

12p-3:30 Drinking escalates.

4p - The Blackhawks blow a lead with less than 2 minutes left (Thursday and Saturday only)

4:15p - Depart to sponsored party at Heineken House to continue to drink for free.

5:30- Throughly sauced, stumble into the festival. Put drugs in swimsuit lining. (didn't think of that one did you?)

5:45p-1a Rage.

2a-330a. Slam beers in hot tub.

Rinse and repeat.

It's hard to say what my favorite part of Coachella actually is. Based on who you talk to Coachella is about lots of different things. It's about the music or it's about the art, or it's about the rise of branding at festivals. But for me, Coachella is about laughing at the fucking Applebee's banner flying across the sky and talking to my friends about how much we loved eating good in the neighborhood when we were little. It's about trolling the VIP parking lot for 2 hours in search of a free backstage artist pass. It's about filling Easter Eggs with 3 ounce shooters (attempted, need bigger eggs next year) and it's about spending 96 hours with 13 people that I love to be around. (Ok and it's a LITTLE bit about rolling my balls off during Zedd)

Bloggers of the internet have a problem. They preach acceptance of every lifestyle imaginable under the sun. You read articles about why people should be able to self-identify as a man, woman or cat if it makes them happy. Yet the "douchebags" are not afforded the same courtesy.

If being a "basic bitch" is about doing things that make you happy, singing every one of the words to that one Lorde song you know, dressing up like an idiot in the desert and taking a bunch of stupid ass selfies in front of that astronaut and high fiving your friends when you eclipse 30 instagram likes, losing your SHIT when Pharrell brings Jay Z on stage...

Well then consider me BASIC AS FUCK.

Because here's the thing: All the hipsters and the haters, and the social media trend forecasters and the ultra liberal bloggers that just cannot appreciate MY lifestyle because it doesn't match up with theirs? They're becoming the exact thing they've been preaching against. When I took a moment of pause, to really survey the situation at the festival grounds, I didn't see perpetuators of intolerance, I didn't see any fighting, I saw a crowd of one enjoying a festival together, and I think there is some beauty in that.

You are never too cool to be happy.

But if writing 3,000 words trashing the establishment makes them sleep at night, that's fine. Misery loves company so their articles are certain to go viral on Facebook when everyone that can't go this year tries to shit on "the douchebags who have lost touch with what the festival is actually about"

No I know what the festival is about, at least what its always been about for me. Having a fucking legendary weekend with my friends and making memories that I will never forget.

And there is nothing basic about that.

Egomaniac pt 1

Despite accomplishing basically nothing to this point in my life, sometimes I get overwhelmingly cocky for some reason. It's as if the fact that cute girls showed up to my parties (really just for a semester) in college set in motion a lifetime of overconfident behavior. I don't have a great job (or any job at the moment) I'm terrible at women and well, I just don't have many skills (making buffalo chicken dip, telling stories may be the lone exceptions)

A perfect example of this is my search for Coachella tickets. Last year there was a notoriously bad line-up at Coachella, but I didn't care because the point of going to Coachella is doing MDMA with a bunch of trust fund kids and douchebags. (Note: The Daily Beast only gets away with this article because it attacks upper middle class white culture. That said, never has being a douchebag seemed so fun!)

So I just assumed that I would again pay $150 this year and go party in the Sahara tent for 3 days.

NOT SO FAST!

Apparently the trust fund douche bag culture is peaking this year as there are tickets currently selling on Craigslist for over $1000. Either that or there are some hipsters that REALLy want to see a couple washed up rappers or a middle-aged black person. So when I heckled all my friends that tried to sell me a weekend 2 pass for face saying "only an IDIOT pays full price for Coachella" well now I truly am the asshole.

It's nice though, to get knocked off your pedestal once in a while.

Sometimes, maybe on a morning where I have kissed a girl the night before, I will walk into a Starbucks with some sort of unearned swagger and spew out some bullshit like "I'll have a trip CDL grande no whip" and it just TOTALLY FALLS FLAT.

Everyone in the coffee shop will look at me like "what the fuck is that buddy? you just creating crazy acronyms for no reason?" Then I will feel immense shame and whisper cinnamon dulce latte and don't worry about the extra shot or the no whip...Um here's 5 bucks for the tip jar, I'm sorry.

I feel the same way about when I get coffee shamed by the snobs at Intelligentsia, like how could I not know which fair trade blend of beans I wanted, what a dickhead I am.

But it's nice. These moments remind me to be humble. Arrogance rarely gets me where I need to be, but sometimes when I color within the lines, things work out for me. Here is a story from my early childhood in which I wasn't a cocky fucktard and things worked out. I sent this out to all of NBCTV a couple weeks ago in a general office email, because...why the hell not?

May 10, 1994 there was a total solar eclipse in Indianapolis, IN. All the first graders at Amy Beverland Elementary were told not to look at the sun or you would go blind and die. I stared at the ground all day only to find out that all the other kids totally watched it. They made fun of me until I cried and I was devastated as there would not be another Indy solar eclipse in my lifetime.

Such a 6 year old perspective, to think that I would never move out of my home town. Almost a bit precious...we continue.

Nearly 18 years later to the day I was at the Hudson block party (what happened to that?) watching Haim perform "The Wire" and I caught wind that a total solar eclipse was happening. I stared right at that sun for a full 5 minutes, I was blind for two days but it was totally worth it. Now Haim is headlining Coachella and one of the kids that made fun of me lives at home with his parents.

And the moral of the story is...WAIT. I still don't have a ticket to Coachella. So let's rework that ending.

Now Haim is headlining Coachella and I will be live-streaming poolside while I wait for my 13 house-mates to come home and afterparty with me...still better than living in Geist.

Oh, who am I kidding, I'll totally pull a hail mary and get a ticket (or get in, I doubt that fence line is 100% secure) Enjoy the molly you douche bags!

The Cold Never Bothered me Anyway

Ok, slightly larger than three ounces

Sometimes I get really frustrated when things don't work out a certain way for me and I go into a tailspin of despair. In the past, any number of a certain things have caused it. Personal problems, professional angst, physiological lack of endorphines or sometimes (usually) a perfect storm of everything that could go bad, going bad. I get really down on myself, think about all the negative decisions that led me to where I am and then I pout for like a week.

Last week I wrote some mundane droll about how the older I get, the less I know and that we are all con men trying to hide our real feelings from the world because if our true colors were actually seen by the people around us, we would all be exposed as borderline sociopaths. No one has anything in life figured out, everyone is just trying their best to fake it.

Thank God I didn't publish that bullshit. Because last Saturday I woke up and the sun was out, the beach was open and the 21st Amendment was still going strong. This is the new positive message SingleDudeinLA where NO ONE, including the author will be allowed to whine about the pretty girl in class not liking them. Now I know that a lot of this blog has preached questionable treatment of women in the past, so if you've ever been offended please accept this sincere apology and listen to about how hanging out with a bunch of chicks helped me pull my head out of my ass.

I've been telling my roommate for weeks that I would go to Beer Fest with her.

"Buy your ticket now, it always sells out."

Sure, I will I promise.

Beer Fest is something that is held about every 3 months in Los Angeles. You go somewhere that is far as fuck away and super inconvenient to get to and pay $40. For said $40 you are allowed to chug as much craft beer as possible in 3 hours out of a 3 ounce sippy cup.

I never had any intention of buying a ticket. But Saturday morning, when my roommate and her friends were literally jumping on my bed trying to get me to wake up like they were my brother on Christmas morning of 1995 or my roommates on every little 5 race day in college (Christmas mornings 2006-2009) I caved. I log onto the website to buy a ticket and of course, it's sold out.

Fuck. I then sauntered on over to Craigslist where every dipshit seller wanted to charge me 4 times the value of the ticket and drive to Pasadena to pick it up. Actually, I believe in a free market, mad respect to people that flip beerfest tix for a living. Alas, I did what anyone in a rut would do when met with mild adversity, I gave up.

But this was unacceptable to Stephanie, who told me to "stop being a pussy and get in the fucking car" or something like that. So at her urging, I got in the fucking car. Riding in the front seat, I continued to search the bowels of the internet for a ticket when some good samaritan responded to one of my texts, "My roommate got to fucked up last night, do you want his ticket?"

I went through my mental Craigslist check list to see if this person was going to scam me or not.

1. Believable back story. If someone tries to tell you their cousin died, and they are just SO heartbroken that they have to travel back to Kansas with their fiance to attend the funeral, they're full of shit. They're trying too hard. "My roommate got fucked up" seems refreshingly honest, this is LA people party. Check.

2. Blue Texts. I realize that Droid now has a larger market share than Apple, but I will always mistrust green texts on my iPhone. Sure, the GS4 is a lovely device, I'm sure the Android interface integrates seamlessly with your Chromebook...but you know what other phones have green texts? BURNERS. No one is putting together a long con with an iPhone to get $50. (10 coachella tickets could be a different story) but again, I inherently trust Apple users. Check.

3. Area Code. While it may come off as a prejudiced, I feel a lot more comfortable dealing with a 310 or a 323 as opposed to a 562 or 714. This guy had a 425. (Does quick Google search) Tacoma, Washington? Is there anyone in the country that seems more trustworthy than a Seattle hipster with a whispy blonde beard? They're not trying to scam you bro, unless for every con they pull, a child in Indonesia gets a Latin Book. It's all about the give bro. Check.

4. When you call to meet up. The only time I have ever been conned by someone on Craigslist was a white girl. And yes the fact that I let my guard down for a while girl is lingering latent racism on my part, but I would urge you only to see if they sound educated, would mind letting you meet at their house, or quickly take a picture of their ID. No one is fucking you over if you know where they live.
We met at a Von's next to his house. Acceptable. Check, check check.

I gave "Max" 40 bucks (under face!) and it was off to LA Center Studios to pound some IPA.

Ok so remember that daunting picture I painted about the beer fest? If you can get past the logistics of getting there, and you don't mind watching uberSTRECTH's unloading with USC frat bros wearing customized tanks (Name BARLEY LEGAL Number .08 Get it, it's a play on words for barely/barley) then it's pretty fucking spectacular. And frat bros, you're my people, I ain't mad at cha.

So we get there, sample about 40 beers (big ups to Breckenridge Brewery and Marin Brewery) and proceed to dance at the b106 tent while a bunch of black people pointed saying things like "OHHH SHIT, look at white boy!" I have moves, I am used to this. Needless to say those 3 ounce beers, add up. I had some more beer, smashed a lobster roll*

*Side note: The only way to get a Lobster roll, is Connecticut style. Maine style is fucking gross. Everything in the fucking world is better hot. Weather, coffee, sandwiches, icyHOT. Ok maybe not beer, but if they put melted butter on my warm beer I might change my mind. /endrant

Whatever. It's 3 o clock, I'm drunk, time to go home.

That day would have been good enough, but it gets better. There is magical place near mid-wilshire called The Boiling Crab. They will sell you a bag of boiled crawfish and crab legs and let you take it home.

We did this. And we ate 20 pounds of crawfish and crab legs while watching Titanic in standard definition on the Ovation network, and I'll be damned if it wasn't the greatest fucking night of my life. No molly, no fireball, not even Kate Winslett's boobs made an appearance, this was a 4 hour, grainy edit of Titanic and some cajun juice, and it was magical.

Fast forward to Sunday. Although the lion's share of the drinking was done with the sun up, that didn't prevent me from having a debilitating hangover. And if there is one thing I've learned that is a terrible mistake to make when you're hungover, it's to double down.

So I went to a beach party and resumed drinking.

Every day in LA is summer, but when April hits everyone freaks out and "holy shit Spring is here" like they weren't allowed to go to the beach before when it was still sunny and 75.

I have a theory.

People are content to be having just a little more fun than their friends. So even though it's nice here year round, we don't feel the need to shove it down everyone's throat in the winter when it's negative 10 degrees in Chicago. In a certain solidarity, we keep the Sunday fundays to a minimum, but once those midwesterners post one photo of "Sluggers after the Cubs game #wrigleyville" it's all OH FUCK THAT, I LIVE IN PARADISE AND WILL NOT BE OUTDONE.
Cue epic day that includes, kite surfing, Malibu Wines and a Game of Thrones themed beach party.

Oh yes, unfortunately we ran out of beer on the beach around 3 and had a few hours to kill between beach and Thrones. So I did what any enterprising young man would do, I ran to the store, bought 6 cheeses with some friends and hosted a cheese draft. I remind you, none of this is metaphor. Cheese draft is not cocaine, titanic is not an indication of orgy, I'm growing up...we went to the store, bought cheese and put on Frozen.

I have a bone to pick with men now.

I know you're not into musical theatre. I know you probably think it would be more fun to plug in the Nintendo 64 and play Mario Kart. But seriously buddy, I'm putting you on blast. Do not pout and leave the party when a Disney movie goes on. We are at a birthday party, for a mid 20's girl. She likes Frozen, her friends like Frozen, and most importantly, I like Frozen. It's a great fucking movie, and if you don't like the song "Let it Go," well then you don't have a fucking soul. Everyone needs to check their 'man-card' at the door. Being a man, is being able to admit that you dig things that aren't traditionally manly, and if you leave the party when something doesn't go your way, that is an allegory for how the rest of your life will play out. /endrant2

And you know after Elsa saved Anna by an act of true love, and me and 8 girls polished off several gallons of white wine, well then Jamie Lannister tried to fuck his sister, there were some gay whores and an 8 year old girl stabbed two guys in the neck and laughed while they bled to death.

It was a perfect evening.

Tied the whole thing in a bow with my favorite BYOB restaurant in Venice Sunday night and I was officially out of my funk.

Late 20's is a volatile time in everyone's life. I don't really know what I'm doing, I'm not sure I'm where I thought I would be or if I should be doing something different. But that's fine. That is what growing up is about. You're allowed to just be sad sometimes, just fucking feel...something. Wallow in your own misery, it can feel, dare I say, therapeutic? I'm still pretty young, there is a lot of good and bad left to come, so when you feel cold, bitch about the weather for a minute and then throw on a fucking scarf. (Ok now that was a metaphor, allow yourself to be sad for a minute and then go do something about it)

I wrote most of this on Monday, and then I got completely sidetracked with my Coachella planning.
By the way, I still don't have a ticket, but I think if I create 20 email adresses next Tuesday SELLING tickets for $200-$220 I can shift demand down, because people are stupid. Ask any of the chicks that sent their "best selfie" to some burner phone with the promise of a FREE WRISTBAND. Seriously, there wil be a Tumblr next week, "The dumb girls that send me tit pics for Coachella tix lol" it's despicable, wholly disgusting. But there should be an aptitude test required to use the internet.

Here's the thing. Tomorrow is the last day of my employment. Monday I will be a free agent for the 6th time in 3 years. It's a stressful part of the life I chose, but I don't regret it at all. Because Thursday, I'm driving 3 hours east, where I will take up temporary residence with 14 kick ass people, and we are going to have the greatest fucking four days of our lives. And really can you ask for anything more? Sometimes you'll feel like you're going through cold spells in your life, and sometimes you just need to rent a house in Palm Springs to turn everything around. Or have all the awesome women in your life remind you that things really aren't that bad. And all my friends that I'm heading to Coachella with next week, do yourself a favor and memorize the lyrics to "First Time in Forever" because I'm most definitely bringing the ice to the desert.