Life's too short for decaf

Proof of my current situation

It's Friday and I'm trying to do about a million things at once. Let's rank them in order of importance.

1. Acquire drugs for this weekend.
2. Acquire a ticket for this weekend.
3. Buy a new pair of Rainbows for this weekend.
4. Source a Pikachu costume from China.
5. Think of a witty way to tell all of the haters of my post yesterday that it was clearly fucking sarcasm.
6. Scheme a way to steal some registration tags in lieu of a renewal fee.
7. Convince Gatorade to bring back the flavor Cherry Rush.
8. Purchase web domain AlwaysWestofLincoln.com
*
*
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1,000,981. Pay my parking tickets, credit card bill, back taxes and car insurance premium.

But really none of that shit matters because right now I am getting sick. I can feel that dull pain growing behind my eyes. My boss has been displaying symptoms of full blown ebola for 3 days now but she won't go home, because her boss is a tyrannical dictator. Every time she sneezes billions of micro particles carrying Ebolic Hemorrhagic Fever disease come shooting in my direction. I'm pounding Airborne like I was smashing mushroom caps last weekend, yet somehow I feel like I'll still come up short.

The obvious course of action is to stay home this weekend and rest up. I mean, I'm traveling cross country next weekend for a wedding. I'm going to a big college football game with my dad, don't I want to be 100% for that?

Alas, promises have been made and I am not in the business of flaking. I will go to this music festival in San Diego and I will have fun. But of course I will take it easy right? I mean I've done hard drugs 2 weekends in a row, God knows what Chicago has in store for me. Maybe I can just rotate beers and waters at the concert and enjoy the music tomorrow. That would be the prudent option.

Fuck that. The only concession I will be making this weekend is that I may mix in a little Super Orange Emergen-C in with my coke. I will go balls to the wall Saturday and Sunday, this will artificially keep my illness at bay, but when I board the SurfRider home Sunday night my body will collapse like a house of fucking cards.

By 6am Monday morning at Manhattan Beach studios I will look akin to a decomposing corpse. People will see me looking like dog shit and I will be sent home. I will spend the day in bed doing my classic Netflix and chill/triple masturbation marathon and then I will sleep until noon on Tuesday. Then I'll come in for a half day in a performance that will be considered to be braver than Caitlyn Jenner's transition.

But why would I do this to myself you ask? Because life is too short for fucking decaf. (OOOOH you like that title pay off? Is it cathartic? Almost like that Killers song where he goes the entire FUCKING song and then he finally says it….ALLL THESE THINGS THAT IIIIIIII HAVE DONE bow bow doo doo bow...bow bow doo doo bow)

To be fair I've been obnoxiously selling the shit out of this all day. If I fail to show up Monday, no one will assume it's because I found a San Diego State student that dragged me out to Gaslamp. They will actually think I am dead. Then I will answer from the Best Western Plus in San Diego when they call and I will tell them I am in the emergency room and I am so sorry I forgot to call.

All will be forgiven, they'll probably even offer to pay. This ebola is THEIR FAULT. It has nothing to do with the fact that I was borderline coming down with something and then went on a bender that would make Amy Winehouse blush. But I digress.

Eventually I'll recover, I'll go to work for a few days, I'll go to a wedding in Chicago, I'll fly back and hopefully my Pikachu costume will have come in the mail. I'll probably senselessly repeat this cycle of absurdity until my world comes collapsing down all around me. At which point, I'll go to rehab, join the military, quit drinking and turn into an adrenaline junkie. This could happen tomorrow or it could happen in 12 years, but until it does, I'm living every day on 11.

See I have a plan.

Life ends. I will die some day. Before I die, I want to do things that most people haven't done. I want to hike half dome, I want to fly an airplane, I want to dive the great barrier reef, I want to travel the world, I want to write a movie, I want to hunt a bear, I guess a bit of partying too. And I want to fucking chronicle all of this shit and spend the rest of my life telling stories.

I don't know how to get paid to do all of that stuff, so it appears that I'm on my own. It's fine, no one promised me the key to life's adventures would be easy. I was promised a 60k Market Research job that never came, and sure it would be easier if I was some sort of #brand guy that traveled around the world going to cool events with an expense account. But to quote indie auteur Mark Duplass "the calvary is not coming." There is no all inclusive package planned by burn-out college students that will help me experience life, so I press on.

Every weekend night I stay in and 'relax' I am racked with guilt. I think about all of the people all over the world doing cooler things than me. I think about a cheap Spirit flight I could have hopped on that would have taken me to a city I've never seen. I could have stayed in a hostel for $7 a night and met a bunch of people from all over the world. But I stayed in and watched a re-run of the Bojack Horseman Christmas Special.

That's not a terrible night, but it's a Monday. Saturdays are for doing stuff.

This Saturday, I am going to do stuff. Every Saturday for the rest of my life I am going to try to do something I have never done before. This Saturday I am going to roll at sunset while Kygo plays Firestone next to the Pacific Ocean. Next Saturday I'm going to tailgate on the Union Pacific North to Ryan Field for Iowa/Northwestern. Two Saturdays after that I'm going to party in a Pikachu costume.

You know what that means?

I have a free day! The 24th! What should we do? You want to go sailgating? Should we rent Houseboats on Lake Mead? I've never been to Terranea in Palos Verdes. I've never seen the LA roller derby girls.

I'm going to feel like dogshit on Monday. I'm going to feel like dogshit most Mondays the rest of my life. But I'll get through them and then one day when I'm 50, I'll sit back and think…damn, I did a lot of cool shit.

The Surprising Feminism of ATO

By now you have undoubtedly seen the infamous video clip of a bizarre 'sex party' happening at the Bloomington chapter of Alpha Tau Omega or ATO. Mere hours after the video went viral, the national fraternity had shut down the chapter indefinitely. The hot takes and think pieces came rolling in.

Allegations of sexual hazing ran rampant as the video appears to show a man being encouraged to go down on a woman in front of all of his shirtless, chanting bros. Some took it further, asserting we were witnessing some sort of sexual crime. The problem with both of these trains of thought is that we are once again, not taking the female perspective into account.

Since the beginning of time it has been a woman's right to operate her own body as she sees fit. If she so choses to leverage her sexuality to make a living, who am I to pass judgment? Just last week, former stripper turned Hip Hop fashion icon Amber Rose, hosted a Slut Walk through Downtown Los Angeles in an attempt to shine a light on the growing trend of slut shaming in America. It's bullshit, the double standard that exists between men and women. In a year when Magic Mike XXL becomes a top 10 film, we would decry these women and the men employing them.

What happened last night was not a crime, it was not hazing. What you witnessed in that video is female empowerment.

Let me walk that back a bit. The two women in the above video are trained professionals. As a former fraternity member at Indiana University, I can personally vouch that 'stripper nights' are not uncommon. It is certainly within a woman's rights to supplement the income she receives working the lunch shift at Night Moves with private gigs. I mean the lasering of shitty c section scars isn't going to pay for itself. The women WANT to be there. The women are paid to be there, and god dammit the women are in charge.

Let's break the video down:
From seconds :01-:19 
We see our protagonist hold 'Tommy' in a UFC-esque full guard. She strategically uses her legs to keep 'Tommy' locked in her groin area. For those familiar with BDSM culture, you will recognize this as a traditional move used by many a dominatrix.

At the :20 mark, you will see that the 2nd stripper punishes 'Tommy' for not putting forth enough cunnalingal effort via vicious kicks to his derriere. Again if there is any sex 'crime' happening in this video, it's that Tommy is half assing it. If Tanya wants to get to climax we're going to need more effort from our pasty boxer shorts wearing Tau.

At the :25 mark we finally get some real brotherly encouragement for Tommy via the classic butt tap. Football players have been using this forever. You can see that after a hetero, non sexual tap to the bottom Tommy really starts to kick into 5th gear.

The truth is, this video is a natural display of repressed sexual adolescence. If anything I'm offended by Tommy's pitiful technique. The real story on display though is not of a bunch of frat bros acting like pigs, it is the bravery of a couple women who subverted gender roles, thus empowering female sexuality.

Enough will be said on the blogs about Tommy in the coming days. Tommy meanwhile, well he's busy putting ATO on his back so we can excuse a little sexual inexperience on his end, so again we will focus on the women.

The line between strippers and prostitutes in Bloomington may be narrow, but the line between shame and empowerment can be blurred to nonexistence.

Call her a fourth wave feminist, call her a hero…whatever you do, don't call her a victim.

The Takeover

Last night I 'played' tennis. I played insomuch as I attempted to hit a green ball with a racket over a net. But in reality I played worse than Andy Samberg in '7 Days in Hell' before he discovered cocaine. I was firing errant shots all over the court, I felt fat. Twice I rocketed balls over the fence onto the Penmar Golf Course in frustration. The only solace I took from the evening was a $5 Blueberry Tart Yogurtland covered in Fruity pebbles and Gummy Worms.

What a fucking mess.

The truth is, that the snacks on my new show are out of control and I am frequently bored as fuck at work. The way I deal with this boredom is either hitting on the hot accountant or walks to the kitchen to grub on God knows what. A few days ago I discovered that hot accountant is married, so my kitchen excursions became even more frequent. Sure summer is over, but when you're single there is really no reason not to be absolutely shredded. And since I am skipping the Rock n Roll half marathon to go get blasted in Chicago next weekend my cardio has bottoming out. The only solution to this problem calls for drastic measures.

Amphetamines.

This morning I took 30 mg of Adderall to render myself unable to consume food. While it worked, it did have some unintended consequences.

1. I decided this morning I am going to get my pilot's license. I'm going to get my LSA. Do you know why? Because it's the lowest barrier to entry to something bad ass. It's the BMW 1 series of pilot's licenses. You can get it with 20 hours of flight time for around 4 grand. This license enables you to fly anywhere during daylight hours. You can only go like 200 miles per hour in a light plane with one passenger. But riddle be this, what chick isn't s'ing your D after you fly her from Santa Monica airport to Santa Barbara for a wine tasting?

2. I'm going to South or Central America for Christmas. I can't go to Indy, I just can't. I apologize to my family, it's just a waste of vacation time. I was just there, it was fun, I got to swim. It was hot out. Dad grilled! The concept of going there when I could just as easily get a $500 round trip flight to El Salvador and hike in some Mayan ruins and live in a hostel for $2 a day. I just ordered a massive world map for the wall in my room. The goal is to put as many pins in that bitch as possible. Anyone can come, but this trip is going to be down and dirty and cheap as shit.

3. I want to expand the blog.

Obviously, I am a man that requires instant gratification. I am yet to order a fan off of Amazon because I can't possibly imagine going another night without a fan…even though I KNOW that every retail shop in Los Angeles is sold out. It's been 4 weeks and I still don't have a fan. I can't get my pilot's license today. I can't fly to Ecuador today, BUT I can lay out a plan for expanding this here blog with the ultimate goal of gaining enough notice to write for one of the big boys.

So here's the deal, for the first time I want to open up the blog to other voices. I'm sure you are all sick of hearing the ramblings of my drunken misadventures at this point. I'd like a fresh perspective. Tell me your tales of #CrimingWhileWhite. Write recaps of Party Down South. I don't give a shit, use this as a forum to flex your creativity. I'm sure you have questions, so let's move down to a hands FAQ I made.

What can I write?
Whatever the fuck you want. I don't have ads on this site, no one makes any money. It's for fun. I won't publish hate speech, but you can be as UN-PC as you want. (Example of Hate Speech: "Why I hate Jews" Example of something UN-PC "Why I love dating Jewish chicks") You don't even have to agree with me!

But I have a corporate job bro, I can't be running around talking about cocaine benders…
All good, use a pseudonym. Send your articles to me and I will post it anonymously on your behalf. I'm extremely good at keeping secrets. Unless it's some juicy gossip about someone having an abortion or something. I'll probably leek that. But for the purpose of anonymously writing on this site, I got you.

Will you edit me?
Not really. I will probably correct your spelling and grammar so you don't look like an idiot. But I would never change your content without consulting you. If something you submit isn't funny enough we can work together to make it better or just bury it. It's surprisingly harder than it looks to make living like an absolute degenerate entertaining.

Will I get paid?
Ha! Negative. But you will get first dibs on my couch when you visit LA. But I'll probably buy you lunch and then not Venmo you later for half of it, because people that do that are the fucking worst.

But for real, why are you doing this?
Well to be fair, any time someone else posts about my blog I get a few hundred more views. It's an easy way of growing exponentially. But also I know a lot of people like to write but need a forum. So many people ask me "hey will you write about this?" or "I want to start a blog." Well now you don't need to start one, you don't need to send your shit off to BroBible or Betches. Or you can do that, but you can start here with incredibly low stakes. Stop bullshitting about how you're going to write a novel some day and just throw up some word vomit on my blog. It's incredibly easy.

Fuck yes, I'm in…what now?
Email me (dbmoelle@gmail.com) an idea for a post…or just send me a post. Think of a creative pseudonym if you can't hide behind 'satirical comedy writer' in your chosen profession. I'm relying on you guys. I only have one weekend a week, which results in one post about one person's drunken debauchery. Remember, style is important but you don't have to mimic me. Don't use names unless your homies are cool with it. Outside of that, the world is yours. Let's do this! The takeover begins now.

Tripping Sack

Certain feelings are easier to describe than others.

For example, this morning when I put on a new pair of 6 inch inseam polo chinos that cost more than most car insurance premiums, I could literally feel centuries of white privilege and arrogance cascading over me. Honestly, I expected a Kappa girlfriend and a Fiji bid to spontaneously appear. This is a feeling I know well. It's easy for me to paint a vivid picture for you.

What is a hell of a lot harder to describe is the feeling of going to the desert and eating a fuck ton of mushrooms. It's an experience rather foreign to me, but if you'll stick with me, I'll do my best.

A plan to go to Joshua Tree was concocted at 12:30AM last weekend while standing in line for James Beach. I think my molly was just about to kick in and I was trying to convince everyone that we could just drive to Yosemite and hike half dome. (According to the over confidence there was likely cocaine involved too)

"I don't give a fuck about any lotteries. We drive up Friday night, sleep outside the park. Enter at 4am and just go climb that thing. I climbed Mt. Whitney with a permit but I didn't see a ranger the entire time. Permits are a hoax."

-We can't just drive to Yosemite and do half dome on a whim. It takes months of planning.

"Yes we can! We'll dress appropriately, bring a lot of water and then at the top we'll take a picture that will get lots of intstagram likes."

-You know people die there…

"Ya people die from drugs and drinking and driving too fast. Has that stopped us before?"

*Silence*

"Ok well how about we go to Joshua Tree?"

-Deal.

And that's how an LA mmi-trip is born.

Going to Joshua Tree is easy as shit. If you go during the busy season you have three options.

1. You can wake up at like 5am and get to one of the coveted campgrounds in the park on a first come first serve basis.
2. You can hike your shit a mile off the road and back country camp (for free) Note: Coolers do not roll well in the desert.
3. You can camp at Black rock which allows reservations and has running water.

For this particular trip we chose option 3 because I like sleeping in and I liked the idea of an actual toilet to vomit in if the shrooms didn't agree with me.

Once you have established a place to stay, you just need to steal a bunch of camping gear from a friend and stop at a grocery store in Yucca Valley for Whiskey and beer. Then you're done! You can go into the park, rock climb, trail hike or just start getting fucked up. There are no rules!

***

My roommate decided to join our quest at the last minute which was cool because she has a jeep with no doors or roof. A vape pen and a few sour patch edibles assisted us on our two hour journey east toward the desert.

We arrived and rendesvoued with the rest of our group. At the Hidden Valley campground we participated in some light bouldering/heavy scrambling. At this point we may have smoked a little too much pot, because we somehow convinced ourselves that there was a native american named EagleHawk that lived on top of a very steep rock, but if you could successfully climb to him, he would give you the strongest mushrooms in the world.

Ya, probably not a good idea to smoke and climb.

After a day in the park, we did a quick Walmart run for necessities. I think that trip went something like this…

"We need Hot Dogs, buns, firewood and ice."

-Oh and beer.

'Whiskey too!'

: Guys I think we better get a box of Franzia.

Can we get Cheez it Duos?

"Guys, I don't give a fuck what you throw in this cart, go nuts."

Cut to $200 later…

Case of Bud Light, liter of Bushmills, box of red Franzia, 24 pack of hot dogs, Jalapeño kettle chips, 3 flats firewood, 2 bags of ice, dozen donuts, 1 can chili, sriracha infused ketchup, 3 diet Rock Stars, a loaf of bread, trash bags, wet whipes, a 5 pound bag of Skittles, Mean Girls 2 and a BB gun.

"Wait a second, why the fuck did we get a box of wine?" Whatever.

I'm kidding, I put back the BB gun, but I really didn't want to.

As one does when you get back to the campground we immediately started drinking and then assessed the neighbor situation. To our right was a high school field hockey team, it was not immediately clear if this was some planned team bonding activity or a full blown lesbian orgy. There were 6 of them in one tent, so it really could have gone either way. To our left was an entire fucking Bangladeshi village.

I'm typically not a stickler for the rules, which clearly stated that there were to be no more than 6 people and 2 cars per campsite, but when you have 30 naked children running around shouting hindu catch phrases in Bengali…that can border on absurd.

So, no neighbor involvement, whatever. We had a solid group of five and we had a fat sack of magic mushrooms waiting for us.

I had never really 'done mushrooms' before. Sure I had eaten them, I had some just a couple weeks ago at a concert, but it has never really been the catalyst of my entire weekend. I would describe the time right before it as similar to when you went to your girlfriend's house in high school when her parents were out of town…

'Soooo, should we have sex now?'

-Sure.

YAAAAAAAS.

Now I had spent the week in Yahoo Answers forums (the most reliable place for advice on the internet)   researching exactly how much I should take for an optimal experience. The general consensus from teenagers in Iowa seemed to be right around 1.5 grams. I was understandably thrown for a loop when I was distributed my allotment in 'caps and stems.'

Start with 2 caps and 2 stems, you can always do more.

But what is the weight? What is the difference between a cap and a stem? Peter from Dubuque didn't mention what to do if I didn't have a scale! I'm so fucked.

I ate my seemingly small portion and sat around waiting for something miraculous to happen. I continued grilling hot dogs, staring at the fire, drinking beer.

Nothing.

Clearly I hadn't taken enough.

I've been told my entire life to stop being so impatient. I've been burned a thousand times by this exact scenario. Drank too much to play catch up? Blacked out. Smoked too much before a 3d movie? Slept through it. Ate way too much molly before a show? Spent the entire concert sweating in a corner begging my heart not to explode. Learned my lesson right?

SO WHAT DO YOU THINK I DID?
A. Listened to my friends, enjoyed a few more beers while taking in the beautiful surroundings.
B. Took a small hit of marijuana to speed up the process, as recommended on reddit.com/r/shrooms
C. Taken a walk to my neighbors campground, discussed South Asian cultures and customs.
D. DEMANDED THE REST OF THE BAG AND FINISHED IT.

Well D, obviously…and a little B. I guess some A too, but mostly D.

What happened next was I noticed it was pitch black but for the stars. The stars were so bright and I felt like they were moving around. In fact the stars looked like they were little cars on a freeway driving around the sky. I stared at them for so long that I realized I was drooling on myself. I tried to snap to and then I noticed that the entire sky seemed to be an umbrella over my head, but wait a minute, no, I'm in a giant planetarium.

"Dude, Big Wave you are TRIPPING SACK."

Tripping sack? What do you mean?

"It's like tripping balls, but the word sack is way funnier."

This sent me over the edge. I fell out of a chair and started laughing hysterically.

"Omg, was that an actual ROFL? "(Pronounced roffle)

I was laughing so hard my insides were starting to cramp. The fire, the stars, the burning man Diplo set we were listening to. It was all incredible. I felt like my spirit was simultaneously occupying multiple universes.

"What time is it?"

8:30.

"Wasn't it 8:30 like 3 hours ago last time I asked?"

That was about a minute ago.

"Whoa."

I think you took too much man.

"Me too."

Now there can also be a dark side to tripping hard. At some point on a return trip from the bathroom, all 30 of the Bangladeshi children ascended on our camp. I know now that they probably thought they were just taking a short cut to their camp…at the time I thought I was under attack from the cast of Battle Royale or those creepy undead kids from Game of Thrones.

"Guys, we have to get the fuck out of here. The children are coming!!"

This was enough to spook my friends into following me. We sprinted for what felt like hours until…

"There, on the right! The abandoned tennis court, it's a safe place."

I don't know why in our warped state of mind, we all unanimously agreed that the abandoned tennis court was the best course of action, but we did. I looked back at our camp. Our fire was burning out of control. I was convinced the children were raping and pillaging the camp site. Pilfering our hot dogs, stealing out sleeping pads.

"Guys, I salvaged the Franzia."

Sarah holds up a bladder of red wine and I instantly knew everything was going to be ok.

The tennis court had rules of course too. (Everything has made up rules when you're tripping) You must not leave the tennis court. You can pee off the side of the tennis court. Every time you slap the bag and chug the wine, you must run a lap around the tennis court. For whatever reason I made the choice to only navigate the tennis court via army crawl and various body rolls. I imagine to the outside viewer I looked like a Jurassic Period Neanderthal. Drugs will do that to a person.

At some junction in the evening we were all seated next to each other talking, laughing, celebrating life. Out of the corner of my eye, I see some sort of authority figure speeding toward us on a golf cart.

"Oh no, he knows we're tripping sack. At the very least there has been a noise complaint and we are getting booted. GAH, I can't possibly drive right now."

As the ranger came closer and closer I started to notice he wasn't slowing down. My God is he going to bowl us over?

He flies past us and pulls right up to the Bangladeshi village, as do three more rangers/border patrol officers in golf carts. It was a god damn sting operation. I watch from the distance as our neighbors were read the riot act. Apparently the 6 people per site rule is something they take pretty seriously at Joshua Tree National Park. The hero rangers rolled up like Jon Snow to dispatch of the impromptu Khan family reunion and we were safe to return to camp.

We left the safety of our tennis court (which was really only about 25 feet from our camp site, so much for all that sprinting) and it was almost time to turn in for the night. As I was getting into my sleeping bag, my roommate grabs me.

"I need to show you something, come with me."

We jog 30 feet or so up a small hill onto a picnic table.

"The moon came out."

It did indeed and it was bigger than I had ever seen, illuminating the desert for dozens of miles in every direction. And at that very moment, it only felt right to howl. I heard a few coyotes in the distance echoing my sentiment.

***

Packing up the next morning, I see one of the field hockey players at the dumpster.

Me: "Did you guys have a nice night?"

Her: "We come out here to smoke weed and not get in trouble. Our parents just think we're super outdoorsy. Last night we smoked too much and went to bed early."

Me: "Ya we were a little inebriated."

Her: "Are you kidding me? You guys were SACKED. Between you and that daycare center next door, we're lucky we smoked enough to kill an elephant or sleeping would have been impossible."

Me: What does sacked mean?

Her: You know, like drunk as balls…

Me: "Is this a common phrase that people use?"

Her: "I dunno, but you guys are going to have a lot of fun driving back to LA in that jeep."

Yes of course, it rains one day a year in the desert and it's the day I drive out in a jeep with no roof or  doors. I spent the entire drive back hungover, crying, trying to figure out a way to connect the sleeves of my sweater directly to the Jeep's heating vent.

Driving 50 up the PCH in a stripped down Jeep is enjoyable.
Driving 90 on the 10 in a torrential downpour is how people contract pneumonia.

We stopped for a corned beef hash at the Crossroads Cafe on our way out of town and I realized how incredible Los Angeles really is. Two hours east, I'm in the desert. 2 hours west and I'm at the fucking Catalina Wine Mixer. 2 hours north, wine country. 2 hours northeast, I'm skiing. 2 hours south I'm partying in Gaslamp. It's really unbelievable that so many adventures are seemingly so attainable. It almost makes me feel guilty for being so content to booze in Venice and stumble over to a divey beach bar.

We made it back to LA. My fucking cable was out, so I just laid on the couch watching my fantasy football live scoring. I took a xanax and passed out for a few hours. I woke up at 2 in the morning, sad that I would have to be at work in a few hours. Before I moved to my bedroom, I checked my email.

-CRSSD fest this weekend in San Diego? Kygo Headlining.

Fuck ya, let's do it.

Starbucks

When I was in 4th grade I was sent away to a weird school for smart kids (actually only one of 8 classes was for the 'gifted' kids, the other 7 were just local kids from the neighborhood going through a normal curriculum) It was unfortunate because this school was in the ghetto and had no funding. While the rich Geist kids got to do kick ass over night camping trips and go to Washington DC; Brook Park field trips were walks down the street to the local post office. The school was 80% black and likely led to my brief high school rap career. About the only thing this school had going for it was a kick ass theatre program.

One year, word came down that we would be staging a rendition of Moby Dick. I was super pumped because I was a shoe-in to play Ahab. I had always wanted to be a villain and killing whales sounded fucking cool. I obviously crushed my audition but when the cast list was posted I found my name not next to Ahab, but some clown named Starbuck the First Mate.

It was a scandal in what can only be rationalized as some sort of WGA-esque diversity casting effort, as some local was set to portray Ahab. I think it was even a girl, that's some Julie Taymor bullshit right there. I was obviously furious with my 4th grade drama teacher, I think I threatened to walk until she described to me the following.

"But Starbuck is the real hero of the story!"

"How so?"

"Ishmael is merely our narrator, really a one note character that exists merely to service the story of Ahab. Ahab on the other side is a mad-man hell bent on revenge. It is only Starbuck that shows any sort of moral complexity in the story, he is the only member of the crew that objects to Ahab's doomed quest and attempts to be the voice of reason. He even ponders mutiny but in the end is so duty bound by his honor and commitment to his captain that he goes along with the plan all the while knowing he is likely sending himself to an early grave."

"You just did this so the parents wouldn't think you were playing favorites to the rich white kids didn't you?"

(Yes, I've always been a piece of shit)

***

Years later affirmative action is still holding my acting career down but Starbuck has remained a major part of my life as it is the coffee chain that every basic bitch (myself included) is well acquainted. Nothing makes me happier than throwing down a 5 spot for a latte that will give me an hour of energy followed by a 15 minute trip to the bathroom.

I think I've had them all at this point because my mom sends me so many Starbucks gift cards that sometimes I don't even put them back in my wallet after I use them to cut lines on Saturday nights.

And because this blog is a public service to you, I have scientifically ranked every latte (seasonal included) option at Starbucks to ensure that you never have a bad caffeine high again.

10. Vanilla Latte
Look, if you're a petite white girl and the only Starbucks option to keep you from getting a thighbrow is a skinny vanilla latte, I respect your hustle…more on this later. But the OG vanilla latte? This drink has to be aborted with a coat hanger. I like lattes and I like vanilla, but this combination is about as inspiring as an inconclusive AIDS test.

9. Chai Latte
This needs to be taken behind the shed and shot in the face like a rabid dog. That's it. Chai Lattes are garbage and Old Yeller is an overrated movie.

8. Pumpkin Spice Latte
PSL season is something I look forward to like I fantasize about my next K-Hole, but for what? PSL is less a drink and more a lifestyle aspiration. A pumpkin spice latte says that you belong to a nice pilates gym, have missionary sex with your upper class white partner and shop at Crate and Barrel. Those are all great in theory, but at the end of the day are all kind of blah. Such is the case with the pumpkin spice latte. It's the epitome of basic…blah.

7. Latte - Iced
An iced latte is like a middle class blue collar friend that is always bitching about the illegals and the gays. You don't want him around all the time because frankly he's offensive. But on occasion he can be refreshing. I don't LOVE iced lattes. but I get it, just like I understand the plight of the middle class dude who wants to marry up. I literally stood up and applauded during the movie Match Point when Jonathan Rhys Myers blasted Scarlett Johansson in the fucking face with a shotgun. Never fuck with a social climber man.

6. Skinny Vanilla Latte
Every guy has gone to Starbucks and heard this order, "Tall skinny vanilla latte, 2 pumps at 132 degrees." I have had to order this for a girl before. It is soul crushing, but you know what? It's not as bad as being actually crushed by a plus sized woman when you're too tired to be on top. Let's face it, most Starbucks drinks are like 14,000 calories and it's tough to hide that shit when you aren't 6 foot 4. Embrace a bland drink so your girl can stay a size 0 and then you can both get on Reddit Voat's FatPeopleHate and shit talk hams together.

5. Latte - Hot
A classic stand by. Like jerking off into your favorite sock or a drunken blow job from your hoe on call; a standard latte isn't anything special but you feel extremely comfortable with it insomuch as you know exactly what to expect. Sometimes you order a drink for practical purposes; I'm tired, I don't want to be. Likewise, sometimes you go home with a chick for practical purposes. I want to have a story tomorrow at brunch. Not every trip to Starbucks needs to be a trip to the fucking spa.

4. Caramel Brûlée Latte
You know that extremely satisfying feeling that comes along with watching some SJW get taken down? The Rolling Stone rape story…watching Patrick Kane stick handle right past some trumped up charges from a University of Buffalo cheerleader? It is just SO fucking great to see someone's soap box evaporate under them, so to is the surprising Caramel Brûlée latte! This drink is almost perfect, in fact I often times go sans whip cream on these festive lattes as it typically just melts immediately, but when my barista offers me whip with the CBL? Oh ya, I treat myself.

3. Gingerbread/Egg Nog/Christmas Cookie Latte
Titty fucking a pair of 34 Cs, that moment when the molly kicks in and a god damn holiday latte…those are my three favorite things in no particular order. The reason these 3 are all grouped together/tied at third place is because they are all available around Christmas and they can be tough to track down. You want a CCL? Better be doing the holidays down under mate! Trying to get the GBL or ENL involved? Better hope they aren't market testing a new concoction homie (not always a bad thing…) But whenever you can track one of these bad boys down? Go for it, make it a venti. Fuck it…make it a Trenta! You remember Christmas morning when you thought all your presents were gone and you were kind of sad…and then dad comes out with a fucking Foosball table? That is the Christmas latte selection.

2. Cinnamon Dulce Latte
My favorite line from the 1999 classic "Nas is Like" is 'I'm the feeling of a millionaire spending a hundred grand.' I like this line because it's irresponsible as fuck but probably feels great. Kind of like fucking a random rave girl at Coachella without a condom. Badish life decision. I mean it's not a great idea to spend 10% of your net worth all at once, but you still have 900 grand in the bank. Also the chances of a white girl from Calabasas having AIDS are low. And this is a secret menu item which makes you feel like you're in some secret exclusive club. "What's a CDL?" OH YOU PROBABLY DON'T KNOW ABOUT IT YOU PEASANT.

1. Chestnut Praline Latte
I feel this can best be described in a scene…

INT. Indianapolis Fashion Mall -Starbucks kiosk - DAY

A hungover YOUNG MAN (26) severely underdressed for the wintery weather of the midwest shuffles into the mall blowing on his cold hands. He carries with him a YANKEE CANDLE BAG because what the fuck else do you get your mom for Christmas. He spots the Starbucks and immediately beelines it to the front of the line. An eager young female barista (cute, 19) waits on his order.

BARISTA

Welcome to Starbucks! Would you like to try a Chestnut Praline Latte today?

YOUNG MAN

Um, no…Can I get a grande gingerbread latte.

BARISTA

I'm so sorry, we actually aren't offering that drink at this location but would you like a chestnut praline latte instead, it's really good!

YOUNG MAN

No I guess I'll just have an eggnog latte with an extra shot…

BARISTA

We, um…actually aren't doing that right now either…

YOUNG MAN

You've got be kidding me.

BARISTA

No actually Indianapolis is a test market for…

YOUNG MAN

For what? The fucking Chestnut Praline latte?

BARISTA

I promise it's really good.

YOUNG MAN

How good?

BARISTA

You know in movies when the guy scores with the girl out of his league and then has a shit eating grin on his face the rest of the day and his buddies know that he totally hooked up with the hot chick?

YOUNG MAN

Uh…ya?

BARISTA

It's like that but better, you might have an orgasm right in front of me. Seriously if you don't like it, I'll give you anything else for free.

CUT TO:

INT. Indianapolis Fashion Mall -Starbucks kiosk - DAY - Moments later

The YOUNG MAN is staring at the girl and down at his pants. He looks at the cup.

BARISTA

It can make an atheist believe in God.

YOUNG MAN

What are you doing later…

END ACT I.

So ya, a CPL might make you cum in your pants or fall in love or both. For real though, it's the shit. I give it 10 barre classes out of 10. And there you have it, the definitive ranking of Starbucks lattes. If your favorite is unranked eat a bag of dicks you basic bitch and better luck next time.

Party in the First

First-degree murder is any intentional murder that is willful and premeditated with malice aforethought

I’ve noticed as I’ve grown older there has been a distinct move away from the anticipatory joy of getting obliterated.

“I can’t wait to get fucking BLASTED at this pregame, do a metric ton of coke, rip it up at the club and then after party until the sun rises!”

has been replaced by…

“I was thinking of having a mellow dinner with friends, great wine and fun conversation.”

The truth is that the two above people often have a similar night. You can put out some shrimp cocktail at a pregame and call it a dinner party. You can finish an 8ball and discuss world geo-politics. You can smoke cigarettes on a patio with strangers until 7 o clock in the morning and just pretend you’re acting European.

The difference is intent. Trying to smooth down the implications of your partying is a natural progression as you age. There is an inherent shame in getting fucked up just for the hell of it. It seems irresponsible and dare I say, immature. Lots of people don’t aspire to be either of those things.

I am not most people.

I committed party in the first degree this weekend.

This is the story…

While it may not be apparent at first glance, I am a fairly well rounded individual with lots of hobbies. I like to cycle, I’ve run a few triathlons, I play tennis and I just started scuba diving.

Do you know what each of these activities have in common? The aforementioned sports are populated by wealthy people. If I ever want to marry up into high society and knock up some chick (this is the white person equivalent of an anchor baby) I figure it best to involve myself in pastimes that put me in close proximity of them.

5am Saturday I depart for Laguna Beach. I stayed in on Friday it was the only responsible thing I did all weekend. Literally my responsibility stopped at 5:01am, because despite staying in, I was tired AF. What do you do when you’re tired and have a 60 mile drive ahead? You snort an Addy bomb obviously. Oh what’s that you say? It’s important to be able to breathe through your nose when scuba diving? Why clog it with orange disco dust? Because I am a savage, and I routinely get away with my personal failings.

But whatever, I go on two dives, I’m in a 7mm suit, it’s 90 degrees out and after I’m done I am ready to die, BUT I PRESS ON there is pregaming to be done before the USC tailgate. I get to Manhattan Beach around 11am where I am issued 40 mg of Ritalin (did not know it still existed) and 6 shots of Jack Daniel’s. It’s a good start. Working a good buzz we hop in an Uber to University Park.

2pm: My jaw is moving back and forth like a crack addict and my lips are severely chapped. I arrive at a buddy’s tailgate and have my first run in with KIRKLAND LIGHT. Have you ever heard this before?

“Kirkland vodka is actually just Grey Goose re-packaged”

Me too! Kirkland vodka is great! That said, Kirkland Beer is actually the skunked urine of an aging alcoholic repackaged. It is that bad. I would not advise bonging it, especially 3 times in a row.

4pm: As the tailgate winds down and people head to the game I start to wander around the field poaching half empty cases of beer. You know the homeless people that look for cans that they turn in for .10 cents? I assume that’s what I look like during this quest. I find about 12 beers and a half empty bottle of Fireball, this can’t be sanitary. I also found an abandoned ice luge at this juncture in the day, I proceeded to destroy it.

530p: The people I came with have gone to the game, but new friends have arrived. We go to a bar at USC called ‘The Lab.” I’m probably 25 drinks deep at this point. Did I mention I have a concert at LA Live tonight? I’m going to see OAR, this entire day is serving as my pregame.

8p: LOL, USC lost. We ubered to Hollywood to go to ‘Good Times at Davey Wain’s’ This bar isn’t really that cool. You go in through a fake refrigerator and order beers out of an old Winnebago out back. At this point, I am beginning to crash. I knew I should have planned ahead and ordered drugs Friday night. I begin to loudly complain about my lack of cocaine, one of my friends says he thinks he has a solution and offers me a giant bag of Molly. Great, this is a good start.

9pm: I am back downtown now at LA Live, a homeless man outside asks me for a dollar. “I’ll give you 20 dollars if you have some coke.” He thinks for a moment. Buying cocaine from a homeless man is never a good idea, but I was pretty far in the bag at this point. I had been drinking for 10 hours and had at least 3 more to go.

“I don’t have any coke, but I’ll take $20 for this bag of shrooms.” He holds up an eighter of shrooms, I had him my 20 and ingest the whole bag in one gulp. Am I the only weirdo that actually likes the taste?

9:30pm: I am in the front row and OAR just opened with Untitled. I am rolling my face off and just dumped a beer on my head. I can’t tell if everyone in my immediate vicinity is loving me or that is just the overconfidence induced by the shrooms.

10:11pm: Just spilled my fourth beer of the evening, then slipped and fell on the floor. I swear the lead singer shot a concerned look my way. The chick that was dancing next to me just told me to open my mouth and poured beer in the direction of my mouth while I lay on the floor. This is the best night ever.

12am: Ok the concert ended and I’m heading to WeHo now to see some DJ or something. My friends checked with the bouncer to make sure it was ok for me to show up in shorts and sandals smelling like the inside of a dumpster.

12:21am: “Are you Dave?”

-Yes. How could you tell?

“Your friends said you’re on a lot of drugs and would probably be sweating, they’re in the back.”

I go to the back and immediately take 5 tequila shots and this is when I remember that I have to go back to Laguna again at 5am to go scuba diving again in the morning to complete my certification.

Whatever, I’ll just uber home with my friends and sleep for a couple of hours before I go.

1:38am: Lights just went on. I’m having trouble standing, also remembered my car is not in Venice. It’s in Manhattan Beach. Fuck.

2:10am: I am in an uber with 3 chicks. 2 of them are feeling me, one is definitely not. I just played Bieber, Taylor Swift and Katy Perry in a row…she wants to put on Tame Impala, I told her to go fuck herself, now she’s trying to get me thrown out of the uber.

2:41am: Well, now I’m about a mile from my car. I got kicked out of the uber after I solicited a threesome from 2 of the girls in the back seat and called the other girl a cunt. It’s ok, I had to pee.

3:30am I found my car, time to sleep for 30 minutes…sometimes I have snacks in my glove box, I’m really hoping for a bag of Cheetos or someth—OMG an old half gram that I hid that one time I got pulled over in Silver Lake. Christmas has come early!

4:30am I haven’t been able to sleep but I did listen to the entire soundtrack of High School Musical 2. What happened to Ashley Tisdale, are there any nude pictures of her floating around on the internet. I better right that down on my to do list for later. I might as well drive down to Laguna now, I’m probably sober…

I got to Laguna and did my last two certification dives. It was difficult and I also sliced my hand open on a piece of coral. It’s crazy watching yourself bleed underwater. I was positive a shark was coming to eat me but he did not. After the dive, I took my test and miraculously passed! I’m a certified scuba diver, yay! Now if I can just get home without dying, everything should be cool. Have I mentioned I start a new job tomorrow?

I get back to Venice around 2pm, roughly 32 hours after I woke up Saturday morning. I’ve had a long day (and a half) I snuggle up with a blanket, Xanax and a bottle of Dimeatapp, I feel as if I’ve earned it. No more alcohol, no more shrooms, no more molly, no more cocaine. Straight living for me for the next 5ish days. I’m going to wake up and exercise, I’m going to read up on world news and write inspired content. Tomorrow when I wake up I am going to grab the world by the balls and assert my place in it. I have been under achieving, it’s time to fuck shit up…

Until Saturday! There is talk of going to a water park. Water parks are fun right?

What if we get some edibles involved? What if we sneak in a flash to raging waters? What if we make purple drank? Let’s do it. I party with explicit intent and I should warn you that I am a repeat offender; I typically get away with it, just like a rapist with a Conn Smythe trophy.

$112.68

The last thing I needed after a bender in Europe that consisted of Hulk Hogan bachelor parties and xanax fueled debauchery through the streets of London...I mean the absolute last thing I needed after going to this fucking wedding was to continue drinking.

It's been 30 days since I last worked in any regular capacity and I've done some expensive traveling and some extensive partying. Sure Labor Day Weekend is supposed to be one last salute to summer before we become heavily entrenched in football season and the looming inevitability of winter. But this is LA, every day is summer. And I don't even have a fucking job, why am I getting jazzed up for a three day weekend? Every week is a three day weekend when you're unemployed. Hell it's a 7 day weekend, I could start drinking right now and there would be limited consequences.

Lots of people were out of town, most of my friends had prior commitments. Oh, and my starting account balance was $112.68 Thursday afternoon. This is the story of my easy, low key Labor Day Weekend told one dollar at a time.

$112.68 Well it's Thursday night and there are only two pier concerts left. Everyone on my group chat is talking about the cheeses they are going to bring, there has been no mention of alcohol. I know I talked about staying soberish this weekend, but I mean come on...going to the pier and not drinking is like wearing a condom during sex. I'll get 2 (cheap bottles) so there is at least a little bit of wine flowing at our picnic. End Balance: $104.71

$104.71 I dropped a bottle while getting out of the car. God dammit. Now I'm going to show up with one cheap ass bottle of wine and look like a fucking shmuck. The homeless man that lives in my alley offered to help me clean it up, but I ran away because then he'll want something. I just sent a snap of the broken bottle and no one in my group laughed. They must be pissed, I better get another bottle. The liquor store by me doesn't have any cheap wine...I'm already over budget for the night. Ending balance: $92.80

$92.80 So my entire group brought at least one bottle of wine to the pier, WAY TO BURY THE LEDE GUYS. Are there really people that get more excited about our varied cracker selections than they do about the wine? I didn't have to get that second bottle...and now we are all extremely drunk, so drunk that we go to Big Dean's, it's ok beers are cheapish here. I got one round and my ending balance was...$72.80.

$72.80 Jesus I don't know what the fuck happened to me last night. It's not Friday morning and I am drenched in sweat. I now remember when I got home I started texting ex-girlfriends song lyrics and posting Wicked videos on social media. What is it with my black out affection for musicals, my phone is telling me I played "One Day More" seven times at 3 o clock in the morning. I am hungry now, but I just spent a quarter of my money at a stupid Jazz concert. Time to walk to Ralph's and buy 2 things of ramen, one for lunch, one for dinner. End Balance: $72.10

$72.10 I wrote a pilot! I am proud of myself! I wrote an entire fucking pilot about that god damn wedding and it only took me three hours. I deserve a beer. I'm going to Waterfront for Happy Hour. And guess what? We only stayed for one beer and someone bought it for me! Success! Ending balance $72.10.

$72.10b Turned out one beer wasn't enough. We decided to do a BYOB dinner afterward. Mao's is cheap as shit and you don't HAVE to drink to go there. But going to a BYOB restaurant and not drinking is like having sex with a condom, I'll get us a couple bottles of shitty wine. End balance $58.73

$58.73 Dinner was fun as always and even better? It was like $5 a person. God Bless you Mao's Chinese Kitchen. End balance $53.73.

$53.73 So I could have just called it a night after Mao's, but my neighbor was drinking with 2 other girls, obviously I stopped by for a drink and THEN we decided to go out for a night cap. A guy it hitting on one of my friends, uh oh. Now she has told this large Mexican that the two of us are dating. He moves onto one of the other girls. She tells him she is also dating me. He moves onto the third, she is also dating me. "What the fuck is going on?" It's Venice man, we're weird here. He still thinks he's being fucked with, I hand him a shot of tequila as a peace offering? He accepts. He now tells all of his buddies to 'check out this pimp with the three hot bitches.' These Lawndale imports are fascinated by me and buy me shots all night long. "How you do it homes?' 'You must have a huge dick.' 'You rich or something?' 'Tell me your secrets!' Um...I listen, it's all about listening boys. End Balance: $37.21

$37.21 It's now Saturday morning and I'm hungover again. Why? Why did I drink a bunch of tequila with a bunch of idiots from East LA that took the bus into Venice to pray on white girls? Because I am a savage with no self control, that's why. Anyway, we are going tailgating today at USC, yay! Obviously you don't need to drink in order to hang out on campus, but tailgating without alcohol is like having sex with a condom. After train tickets, a fifth of fireball (split 2 ways) and a stick of beef jerky (my meal for the day) ending balance is $25.20.

$25.20 I just drank a bottle of Fireball, I bonged two beers at the ZBT tailgate, they are asking me about ZBTs from IU, how do I tell him politely that I didn't kick it with a lot of jews? I shotgunned a beer and almost threw up. I feel unwell. But we're downtown, this is rare, this is fun! Let's go to a bar. We go to a little spot called Public School downtown. Looks expensive, I was lobbying for a shitty hole in the wall. Two microbrews later...$5.00

$5.00 It's now Sunday morning, all hope is lost. I have enough money in money in my account for 15 things of ramen. A check is supposed to arrive on Tuesday, maybe Wednesday. That will pull me out of my dire financial straights. I'm also realizing that I was a tad more intoxicated than I thought last night, I can't find my wallet. For some reason I find it in the freezer, my cards are stuck in it. I shake everything out of my wallet and a small miracle occurs. Laying on the counter is a $25 Kroger gift card. I'm fucking back baby. I go to Kroger and pick up 2 bottles of $12 wine and 3 things of ramen.
Ending balance: $5.00 cash Gift Card $0.02

$5.00b I roll up to a Labor Day eve bbq with my wine in tow. People seem pleased with my selection. We drink and eat salmon, life is awesome! We play cards against humanity, people make insensitive jokes, life is awesome! We find an old Nintendo 64 and play Smash Bros, life is awesome! I leave at 2 o clock in the morning and expect to go home and go straight to bed. WRONG. At 2:30am I get a text from an old coworker. "I'm outside your house in a car, get in." And you know what? Because I'm a fucking idiot, I go outside and get in! He takes me to a Culver City rave, I don't drink anything more but he slips me a molly. I dance my face off and lose 10 pounds in water weight. I make my buddy stop at a 7-11 on the way home so I can get a water. This is at 8am. Ending Balance: $4.00

$4.00 Well it's Monday now, around 2pm. Everyone is enjoying their hard earned day off, I am depleting one of my last tangible assets, more ramen noodles. I think I'll just sit here all day and watch US Open. That sounds fun, maybe I'll do some laundry and clean my pathetic excuse for an apartment. "Come to Hermosa.' Hmm...This seems like a fairly innocent text, I have been sitting on my ass all day. I grab a bike and roll down to Hermosa Beach for their annual Labor Day party.  I look fucking ridiculous in an American Flag bandana, a Kilroy's shirt and compression shorts. I arrive to a Stevie Nicks cover band just as a 60 year old woman croons "Landslide" everyone there is my parents' age and they are dancing like no one is watching. I hope I'm that cool when I'm older. Nearby an Ohio State game starts, I pop into the bar for a beer. It's Happy Hour, only 3 bucks, I can even tip this guy. Ending Balance: $0.00

$0.00 I'm now riding my bike back to Venice as the summer sun dips behind the Santa Monica mountains one last time. Thus closes another chapter in my life, a chaotic summer that will be firmly rooted in nostalgia for me one day. I pull up to my apartment and take one look at my thrashed kitchen and the landfill of dirty clothes populating my room. I consider spending the evening getting my life together, preparing for the challenges of the week ahead, but I long for that sweet sweet ramen. Tomorrow the beaches will be empty, the tourists will be gone and I will still be unemployed, plenty of time to do some dishes then. But for now I'm going to lay on this couch, throw on Mad Max for the 3rd time this week and eat a bowl of 33 cent noodles. Man I hope that check shows up tomorrow.