The Purple Rose of Culver

I apologize for the lateness of this article. I did some recreational drinking on Saturday night. That's probably underselling it. I got 'forget how to use a map' drunk on Saturday night. I've been incapable of doing anything other that watch tv since. I'll just briefly encapsulate my evening for you.

My neighbor had a dinner party because she thinks she's classy or some shit. We were going to have a nice dinner, some wine and then go to this weird ass warehouse party type thing called Purple 33. I took the opportunity to mold her evening into something more to my liking, because while I am pretty bad at planning things, I am great at instigating mischief.

There's a scene in The Dark Knight where the Joker says 'Look what I did with a few drums of gas and a couple bullets." That's me at your party. Look what I did with a few bottles of whiskey and a couple grams.

I blacked out at the pre game, came out of my black out and realized almost everyone was gone. While a less enterprising young man may have taken that as a sign that it was probably time to just call it a night, your hero decided that it was time to load in an uber and chase the night.

Purple 33 is located, well to be honest, I'm not quite sure. It's in Culver City somewhere, but not in fun downtown Culver, more like Inglewood adjacent Culver City by the Fox Hills Mall and the secret Chick Fil A. That said, I took a total of 3 ubers to go maybe 5 total miles. Apparently when you pass a certain point of drunkenness you lose complete ability to read a map. I would jump out at stoplights and think, I MUST be close, only for my traveling companions to tell me that we were still 3 miles away.

We finally arrived to Purple 33 a 'member's club' that is able to stay open and serve drinks until 6 o clock in the morning. They don't take cash or card, instead you 'make donations' for mysterious tokens that can then be exchanged for drinks at a later time in the evening.

So here I am, wandering around this treehouse of a building in the rotten underbelly of LA's raver sub culture. It's like the magic castle but with less light. There are trap doors and hidden rooms, secret stair cases that take you to exclusive areas. All the time you are holding this big ass coin hoping you find a bar and don't get jumped by the creepy burning man types all around you. Wait a second, you know what the best example is?

Purple 33 is like a very drunk version of Legends of the Hidden Temple.

At around 3 o clock in the morning I found myself in a sub basement that only contained neon green. I felt like I was in some sort of Wizard of Oz themed Emerald City acid trip, but not necessarily a good one. I needed to get out. On the way out I felt a jingle in my pocket. I had two tokens left, apparently none of the temple guards had shaken me down for my pendants. I asked for 2 tequila shots to go.

"We don't do that here."

She looked at me like the savage I am. I scowled. I bet she wouldn't say that to me if I was wearing my Blue Barracudas shirt.

"Whatever, I'll take them here."

"But you're leaving, maybe you should just stop?"

I reached behind the bar and poured myself a double shot of vodka and flipped her my coins. I couldn't tell if she was horrified or impressed. I saw something that I wanted and I took it, because that's how I live my life.

Like a true Baratheon. Do you know who is definitely not a Baratheon? Ben Higgins.

***

Your head is probably spinning right now. You're thinking, wait, that 700 word diatribe about after hours bars in LA and Legends of the Hidden Temple was only an intro into a something that will be tangentially related to Game of Thrones? 700 words is like double the length of an entire Buzzfeed article. Why don't you just split it up into multiple pieces of content?

This is not Buzzfeed my friends. This IS however my final Bachelor recap of the season.

Benny Higgins just couldn't help himself. He flirted with the idea of taking Jojo and half of her trust fund, but at the end of the day, he just couldn't do it. Ben Higgins is a good guy.

Ben Higgins is a Stark. He's just a simple man from the North who believes in some core principles such as loyalty and honesty. Hell, he lives in Denver now where Winter is always coming.

The episode itself was a bore. Ben introduced each girl to his parents and neither girl completely embarrassed herself. Then he took each girl on a date and they cried because they found out he was in love with two people. There were lots of 'I'm scared,' and a bunch of bullshit from Ben about how HE IS GOING TO PROPOSE TO ONE OF THESE WOMEN TOMORROW.

Spare me Ben. It's a fucking reality show.

Instead of spending his last few hours in Jamaica back flipping off of waterfalls and getting wasted in hot tubs, Ben pulled his old "Tell me how you're feeling!" SHARE YOUR EMOTIONS WITH ME. It appears to be the only way he knows how to connect with women, he's like a bad therapist.

Anyway, eventually Ben goes to talk to the jewelry guy and picks a truly hideous ring that 'speaks to him.' Upon talking to the ring he is convinced of who he now needs to pick. This was the moment I became convinced that Ben was an unusually tall Hobbit.

Ben dumps Jojo, she cries. I cry because Jojo looks fucking phenomenal.

Ben calls Lauren's dad who is happy to give his daughter away after one in person meeting and a 30 second phone call. No word on whether or not Lauren's brothers found out that Ben fucked his sister (and 2 others!) the week before.

Ben proposes to Lauren, she cries. I cry because Jojo looked fucking phenomenal and after two hours of utter mediocrity, the show ends. Smash to After the Final Rose.

WILL BEN GET MARRIED LIVE ON TV?

Spoiler alert. He will not. He'll wait until his fame has waned and then take a big pay day for an ABC primetime special, but in happier news. Fuck diversity, Jojo is the new Bachelorette!

My final thoughts are this. Lauren was fine. She was a cute inoffensive girl next door. Her Game of Thrones character equivalent would probably be someone like Margery. Margery is whatever. She's definitely not anyone's favorite character, but most people don't actively hate her. Portland seems a little Highgardenish. Right?

But Jojo…Jojo was a star. Her family has more money than God. She has an extremely tight family with a castle set up in the South? Of course she's a Lannister. But like young princess Myrcella she was murdered, right before her triumphant return to her homeland.

But she deserved better than Ben. Hopefully on her season she will find some bad ass Targaryen to ride off into the sun with. I still haven't received my casting call after sending in my Bachelorette audition. I even promised them that I would drink too much and that my borderline personality disorder might come into play. Unfortunately she'll probably have to settle for Aaron Rodgers' brother.

All in all, it was a fun season. It made Mondays slightly more tolerable and I can't wait for this summer's Bachelor in Paradise to get all the bullshit going again.

Lastly, If we learned any lessons this year it's that if you want to win The Bachelor tell your brothers not to cock block you and if you don't want a 4 day hangover, avoid Purple 33.

Friday Night Pep Talk

When I lived in Chicago I was convinced that the cure for any sort of unhappiness was to party harder. Because of this, I would often try to convince people to come out with me on a Wednesday or Thursday night.

It was easy in the beginning. Everyone was single, most of my friends hated their jobs, and a few of us were still on the family payroll. Why not go out? It will make us forget for a few hours that this is what the rest of our lives look like. Maybe we'll bring home a chick, it will break up the week a bit.

Over the years it became harder and harder. Guys had girlfriends or an early meeting. Even worse as it turns out, some people had lost the desire to get wasted in the middle of the week. Apparently when you're happy with your current lot in life you don't feel the need to drink yourself retarded on a Thursday. Being hungover at work sucks!

I decided it was time for drastic measures. Every night I wanted to go out, I would write a pep talk. I would use my linguistic powers to get people so hyped up they wanted to fight a fucking shark. I had them do my bidding via the power of persuasion. I was like one of the founding fathers that got the colonists all riled up with pamphlets and shit. But instead of using my powers for good, I used it for evil.

I don't have a burning desire to rage particularly hard this weekend, but I think it would be fun to see if I can inspire you to rip it this weekend. Here goes nothing…

It's raining outside right now. What a perfect weekend to stay in and be lazy. Maybe catch up on that DVR.

I heard there were some sparks on The Bachelor: Women Tell All. Sounds like a great way to spend a Friday night. Maybe you'll be bad and even have a glass and a half of white wine. I think a bunch of new Netflix shows just dropped as well! This is shaping up to be a crazy weekend.

Maybe you'll go visit your coworker's baby tomorrow. You've been promising to do it forever but just never got around to it. Saturday is the day. Drive up to Woodland Hills and visit the new baby. Maybe you'll even stop on the way to get a little baby gift. Perhaps you'll be referred to as uncle/aunt. Then Sunday you can finally get around to cleaning up the apartment. Sure it won't be the MOST fun at the time, but think about how good you'll feel when you're done. Yep, this sounds like one of those great, realizing yet productive weekends.

Counterpoint: No.

Need I fucking remind you that you are almost done with your 20's. Do you know what happens at 30? People give up. You give up. At 29, at least girls will stop eating for two weeks before Coachella. At 30, hey she's just a natural size 6 and that's that. At 30 you go home with a woman you met at a bar and find out that she is divorced with two kids and hasn't seen an esthetician since before Paul Walker died.

That is the reality you are speeding toward. And like that fucking tree, when you hit it things are going up in flames. I do not fucking care that you booked air travel to 7 weddings last weekend. No one put a gun to your head and said that you need to fly to Raleigh on June 8th for your Grammar School BFF's wedding. It's not even going to be open bar. It's going to suck. Your friend is going to try to set you up with someone unattractive because at a certain point beggars can't be choosers.

No fuck that. Fuck ALL OF THAT. Your youth is but a drying grape and you need to squeeze all of the fucking juice you have left until it turns into a god damn raisin.

That nephew that your family is guilting you into visiting? That nephew doesn't give a shit about your visit. He won't remember. That nephew has his entire life ahead of him. He gets to get high for the first time, have his first beer, touch his first boob. You know who does NOT have their entire life ahead of them? YOU!

I get it, there's nothing wrong with slowing down a little as you get older. And hey, you're fun! You took that trip to Thailand 6 months ago. #Wanderlust right? Well here's the thing, you've been living off the TBT of that trip ever since. Face it, you're in a rut.

But tonight could change everything…

Tonight you could say yes.

You could accept that invitation from your odd coworker to hang out. Maybe you'll end up at a house party up in the Hollywood Hills and meet Aaron Paul.

Maybe you'll meet a indie director who will offer you an acting part in her next film. Maybe you'll meet the man/woman of your dreams. Maybe you'll meet a group of cool new people who you will be friends with for the rest of your life.

Or maybe you'll just have a mediocre time and wake up with a headache. At least then you'll have an excuse to skip out on Woodland Hills. You can watch all those new Netflix shows in absolute darkness. You'll realize the Venice one sucks and be super thankful you didn't waste a weekend night on this garbage.

The fact of the matter is, if you stay in like an old Grandma tonight, you'll never know what could have happened. The entire rest of your life could be altered in some minuscule way.

Of course now I'm merely identifying the general principles attributed to the fear of missing out or FOMO. But I would argue that your decision to punt this weekend, the decision to just crawl closer to death without immersing yourself in experiences would be something much darker; a fear of living.

Follow me down this path here for a minute. Tonight doesn't have to be a drug fueled bender that concludes with you watching the sun rise over the beach. You don't have to hop in a car driving to Vegas at the last minute with nothing but a 100 dollar bill in your pocket and the clothes on your back. Just leave yourself open to the possibility of something magical happening. Host an impromptu party, go on a bar crawl, sing some karaoke, DANCE ON TABLES, drive to a beautiful vista point and listen to your favorite album of all time. Do something.

You've undoubtedly seen this video about stranger writing their regrets on a board. It's some rah rah bullshit click bait that is supposed to tell you that it's not too late to chase your dreams. But the underlying theme is as such: you will always regret NOT doing something more than doing something.

Maybe a heroin addict regrets the first time they tried smack but it seems like most people regret letting their life waste away from the comfort of their couch; watching reruns of bad reality television while they stroke their cat.

You're better than that.

Throw on your best outfit tonight and break some necks. Grab life by the balls and make a memory. Find a member of the opposite (or same!) sex and do butt stuff. WHY NOT?

You know what is low key super braggable? Always losing in 'Never Have I Ever.' When you lose Never Have I Ever it's because you've fucking LIVED man. I always judge the prude that's never drinking. Like, why haven't you ever had a curable STD? Didn't you see the 'Girls' pilot ALL INTERESTING PEOPLE HAVE HAD CHLAMYDIA!!!

So that's what I want you to do tonight. I want you to go contract Chlamydia.

Ok, don't do that. Let's walk that back a bit.

What I want you to do tonight is text a friend and ask them if they want to go get a drink. Whatever happens from there? That's up to you.

Tonight probably won't be the best night of your life, but it could be. I promise though that if you stay in, you'll never remember this night 20 years from now, and that to me just seems like a night wasted. But I'll let you be the judge of your own destiny, I'm heading to happy hour.

The Ryan Gosling Experience

Mistakes were made.

Let's just get that out in the open right now. When you book a trip to a music festival, it is often a good idea to buy tickets.

In my younger days, I may have been able to sneak in, buy a ticket, hop a fence. But trespassing is a young man's game, and I am quickly exiting that phase of my life.

Despite an email chain that had existed since my birthday, I was pretty sure the trip to San Diego wasn't going to happen. It was a trip that had been plagued with problems from the onset. The line-up changed 15 times before we finally settled on a group of 7 that would be going. We switched hotels 4 times and never established a firm itinerary. Even at 8 o clock in the morning on Saturday as I was checking out of Ralph's with mimosa ingredients, I had no idea who would show.

Miraculously, around 11am, 3 hours behind schedule, we departed Venice with all 7 confirmed travelers.

At 11:04 we had already made a pit stop. I had flashbacks to asking my dad if we could pull over on our annual drives to Disney World. "We'll be there in 12 hours, just hold it!"

We stopped. And then about 11:45 everyone decided they were hungry. We stopped again. It was an absolute disaster. I have never been in a more hostile car setting. Things were said, alliances formed, friendships nearly ended. But five hours after we left Westminster Avenue, we pulled up to the Marriott Gaslamp. The trip was by no means off to a good start, but at least we had arrived.

The initial tension was offset by the fact that I had picked up a fair amount of alcohol at the lunch stop. Red Bull vodkas and Fireball shots can typically improve even the most sour mood. I immediately began to binge drink while rooting through a gigantic bag of flash tattoos. Whether or not I was getting into this fest, I surely was going to dress like an idiot. I needed to have a good story at improv class when they asked me what I did over the weekend. Nothing says 'this guy parties' like a half faded gold heart on my cheek.

I made the statement, "Let's try to get out of here by 4:30." Everyone nodded in agreement and the party started.

Thirty minutes passed and I remembered that I was traveling with five girls.

If you are a straight male and you have always wondered why it takes girls so damn long to get ready, I can now give you a peak behind the curtain.

One girl tried on 5 different outfits.

One girl spent 20 minutes braiding another girls hair only for her to eventually say fuck it and throw it in a ponytail.

Every girl tried on everything they brought, then at least two items that someone else brought and then eventually switched back to whatever they were wearing in the car.

There were lots of 'getting ready pictures.'

Oh and then there was the 15 minute run down of how we were going to sneak in to the festival with false credentials.

When it was all said and done, we left the hotel room at 6, about 4 hours before the festival ended…
At least we were drunk.

We walked from the gas lamp district to Waterfront park. Upon arriving at the Will Call area my friend, who is an administrative assistant at a cool company, handed her business card to the guy handling the VIP desk.

"What's this?" He asked.

"I was told there would be ten comps waiting for me."

(Yes this was the extent of our plan)

"There are no comps for you."

"Ugh fine, we'll pay for tickets."

"It's sold out."

Fuck.

So we stood there with our thumbs in our asses for 20 minutes or so trying to find a weakness in the fence, trying to bribe some minimum wage security guards. The girls quickly grew tired of this and decided to head to dinner. But I wasn't ready to give up. I stalked the grounds of the park, checking Twitter for organized gate crashing, scouring Craigslist for some guy that had an extra ticket for sale. Nothing.

It wasn't until I saw a 16 year old girl try to jump the fence and be savagely taken down by a K9 dog and cuffed by an officer that I had an epiphany.

I am 29 years old, I am wearing a neck tattoo that says "I heart the doctor" and I have 30 pills of ecstasy in my pocket. Probably best not to do anything stupid. On top of that, I am in San Diego with the 5 most attractive girls I know. What the FUCK am I doing?

And like that, I abandoned my mission and took a cab back to Gaslamp. Sometimes you just need to cut your losses.

But was it a loss?

"Come to Bang Bang," was the text I received.

It sounded clubby and since I was wearing a black t shirt I made on the internet, pink swim trunks and flip flops I assumed I was hastily be told to go fuck myself. But maybe because San Diego is so laid back, the bouncer smiled at me and ushered me upstairs where my group of girls was in the midst of a 13 course sushi dinner.

"This is a night club?" I asked.

"Not yet, it's a sushi restaurant until 9pm, but we can't leave or we'll have to pay the $60 cover."

It's the same move I used to pull when I was underage in college, pop in for lunch and just stay.

So we ate sashimi and sake for a couple hours and waited. As they slowly began taking tables away from what I realized was turning into a dance floor, the sake and happy pills began to take effect. The turmoil and conflict from earlier in the day melted away. By the time Jamie Jones started his set, I was sufficiently lit.

What followed is hazy, but I remember a night of dancing and fun. I have photographs of a Ryan Gosling themed bathroom, a text message describing a three mile journey to fetch a joint and faint sharpie on my left arm that reads "If found, return to Marriott room 1409."

I ended up at The Renaissance the next morning for reasons I won't get into and at 8am, our trip was over. We were crammed into a VW en route to LAX to drop our friend off so that she could fly back to Florida.

And while it may have seemed like we didn't accomplish much on the trip - we had literally driven five hours for dinner and a show - it was one of the more enjoyable trips I have taken lately.

Sure we fought the entire way down, missed the fest and only really made it to one bar, but life is about the journey. I step back and realize I also went with these people to Downtown LA on Thursday night, did a BYOB dinner in Venice on Friday and road tripped Saturday. Sometimes it's not about what you do, it's who you do it with.

Sometimes I complain about the way things are going for me. I'm bored, in a rut, I need to spice things up a bit. COME TO EUROPE WITH ME. But really everything I need has been in front of me the whole time. My last few trips have really hammered this home to me. I don't need to do crazy shit every single weekend to make people jealous on social media. All I need are a handful of people to share with me in this experience called life and everything should work itself out. It doesn't matter if we're in Park City, a grungy night club or my living room.

Now don't get me wrong, I still want to see the world. I still want to go everywhere, but an adventure doesn't necessarily require you to leave your backyard…and all it took to teach me that was a few Ryan Gosling posters and some fun people.

Slytherin 4 Life

I'm going to do the world a service right now. You've probably been watching the Bachelor this season and can't quite decide how you feel about everyone. 'Oh Caila is nice but she kind of gives me a serial killer vibe. I like Jojo but she intimidates me.'

I get it, fitting people in perfect tiny little boxes is hard. Except when it isn't. Let's rewind the clock 7 years ago. You were probably sitting at some job that you hate and in a pre-BuzzFeed world, internet quizzes were not always readily available. But you remember your first sorting hat quiz. Even in my fraternity halls, everyone knew where you stood.

"Oh you don't want to go out on a Tuesday night? That's a real Hufflepuff move."

The four houses of Harry potter were distinct and absolute. Everyone fits into one and it defines your destiny…even our polished politician Ben Higgins, such a Gryffindor.

Gryffindor – Ben Higgins

Notable alumni: Harry Potter, My roommate Jack, Juliet Litman, Tom Brady

Oh if it isn't the glorious try hards with hearts full of gold! Give me a fucking break while I make this dismissive wanting motion with my hand.

Your boy Ben Higgins couldn't be more Gryffindor if he tried. I can just see him rolling down Main Street Warsaw right now with an ugly redhead and some nerdy not-yet cute girl he has repressed sexual feelings for.

So many times this season, Ben should have put girls out of their misery. But he couldn't. It was like watching Harry Potter spare Malfoy's life so many times. Harry should have wand stabbed Draco in the face at the end of book one and saved the world from the horror that is Tom Felton's acting career.

Gryffindor isn't all bad. I mean look, they're good at sports, they’re nice people, they seem pleasant to be around. I personally find their eager to please attitude annoying but it will probably suit Higgy well when he’s the Lieutenant Governor of Indiana. LOL JK he’ll be making Hollywood club appearances the rest of his life.

 

Ravenclaw – Chris Harrison

Notable alumni: Luna Lovegood, most girls I try to date, Bill Simmons, Magic Johnson

Aw yes, the oft overlooked Ravenclaw, the smartest kids in the room that maybe also like to get high?

Oh you don’t think Ravenclaws like to smoke?

Q: Which came first the phoenix or the flame?

A: A circle has no beginning.

Quick, is that a quote from The Deathly Hallows or something I heard at Burning Man last year? TF does that mean?

The truth is Ravenclaws are dope and you know who else is dope? Chris Harrison.

They say that the smartest trick the devil ever player was convincing the world that he didn’t exist. Well the smartest trick your boy Chris Harrison ever played was convincing producers to fly him all over the world to exotic locations and pay him a fuck ton of money all for about 30 seconds of screen time.

For the uninitiated this may seem foolish. Why would someone intentionally limit their own presence on a show? The answer is because set life is absolutely fucking horrible and Chris knows this. I imagine he trots out for his one scene and stares the director down, his eyes saying ‘you better get this in one, I have a foreign film I’d rather be watching.’

CH gets it, just like Garrick Olivander, Cho Chang and all the other famous Ravenclaws that are cooler than you. All titans of industry are Ravenclaw and they’re usually pretty chill.

Slytherin - Jojo

Notable alumni: Voldemort, Me, The girls I end up dating, Tim Riggins, Rowdy Roddy Piper

Sometimes it’s fun to root for the bad guy. This is why everyone is envious of people that work at CAA and it’s why I’m rooting for Jojo.

Of course Jojo hasn’t done anything particularly terrible yet, but do you have any doubt that Jojo would fuck your boyfriend and then laugh about it?

Jojo is an alpha of the highest order and doesn’t give a shit about you or any of your ideals. Ya, she’s rich. Ya, she’s better looking than you. Maybe she even has fake boobs, but there isn’t a damn thing you can do about it.

And without drawing direct correlations to race relations in America, I’m petty sure Jojo’s brothers wouldn’t be too thrilled with her bringing home a mudblood. I mean she is from Texas.

Jojo is like every popular sorority girl that ever shit on you rolled into one. While she may not win this silly network TV show. does anyone have a doubt that Jojo will land a back-up NFL quarterback before this is all over?

Hufflepuff - Lauren

Notable alumni: Cedric Diggory, Seth Cohen, people not in fraternities, everyone that works at ICM, Dwight Howard, Marco Rubio

Hufflepuffs are just happy to be here. They’re just as inoffensive as Gryffindors but on top of that they lose. They’re like this year’s Brooklyn Nets.

And if Hufflepuff has a patron saint, it’s certainly Lauren B. Oh, I’m sorry it’s just Lauren now. Lauren is about as exciting as the stale donut I ate at craft services this morning. I mean it will do, I guess.

The most exciting thing to happen all season involving Lauren was when her little brothers asked Ben if he was going to have sex with their sister in the fantasy suite. Spoiler Alert: He did! And with two other girls too! Almost enough of a hero move to push him into Slytherin, but not quite.

Lauren is probably going to win The Bachelor (breaking a 4000 year streak of Hufflepuff inadequacy) but her prize will be a sales rep in Denver. A real Hufflepuff ending. Really think about your friends that live in Denver. Did they move there at 25 to escape some sort of life rut? Ya. I thought so.

Congratulations to Mr. and Mrs Ben Higgins! Hey it could be worse, you could be a squib.

(I wish I was) Australian

I showed up to Mardi Gras 2013 a day early. Since I had a net worth of $200 at the time I had to stay in a hostel the first night. People give you weird looks if you stay in hostels in America but if you are alone and don't mind miserable sleeping conditions, it's a pretty good call.

Almost everyone is under 40, single and wants to party.

This particular night was the Wednesday before Fat Tuesday at the India House hostel. There was a pool and an eclectic group of kids drinking next to it. I kind of drank a few beers by myself off to the side and pretended to be reading a book desperately hoping they would notice me.

"Hey mate!"

Surely he wasn't talking to me. Probably one of his traveling companions. But I must have looked up a little.

"Ya, you! Come join us!"

It's all you ever want to hear when you're traveling alone.

I walked over and sat at the table.

"I'm Simon, this is my best bloke John. And these here girls are Laura, Michelle and Gabby. We're from Australia, the ladies are from the UK. We're having ourselves a drink before we head off to some Mardi Gras parades. Would you like to come?"

And just like that, I was in. I would come to find out that Simon and John hailed from Gold Coast but now made their living as third mates on a cruise ship 6 months a year. The rest of the time they bummed around the hostels of the world partying with strangers. What a life.

After knocking back a few drinks, we hopped on a bus to see the Krewe of Freret, pounded some more drinks, grabbed some beads and then made a beeline straight to Bourbon Street. We were in the Tropical Isle, Simon was buying everyone in the room hand grenades. Early in the night, it was looking like John was going to split off with Michelle and Simon with Laura. I was the obvious third choice, but Gabby seemed to like the fact that I was from LA. I think she confused the fact that I worked on a TV show with the idea that I ACTED on a TV show. She kept asking about my famous friends.

Late in the evening Simon approached me and informed me that he was heading back to the hostel to have a threesome with Laura and Gabby.

"Tough break mate, they're just really into Australian guys I guess."

I hung around a bit before eventually heading back and attempting to sleep while a Lebanese couple had aggressive sex on the bunk bed above me.

The next morning I saw Simon at breakfast, he yelled for me across the room summoning me to his table.

"Hey Dave, we're off to Houston today. John found a guy driving that direction, but I wanted you to have this."

He handed me a bag full of beers and an ounce of weed.

"Enjoy Mardi Gras mate."

And just like that he was gone.

***

All I've been hearing the past 10 years is that eventually I will have to grow up.

Counterpoint: No I don't.

Australians never grow up. Simon is probably like 35 now and he is either navigating a ship in the Caribbean or raw dogging an American girl at The Wombat Munich. Why the fuck am I in an office at 6 in the morning blogging about something I would rather be doing? I want to be one of those people that fucks off for a year and picks berries on a farm somewhere. I want to be the mysterious dude in the room with an interesting accent. I want the UK girl threesomes.

Legit question: Have you ever met an Australian that gave a fuck? Of course not. It's an island colony that was founded by convicts, but somehow they all became rich and super cool. None of them seem to work more than seasonally, yet they all live the life that white girls post about on social media #wanderlust. I see them everywhere, any time I travel and they are always the coolest people in the room.

Studying abroad was obviously the best decision I ever made and if you didn't do it you fucked up. Seriously, fuck your wedding or where you chose to work. Where you fucked around for 6 months when you had your parents unlimited credit card is easily the most important thing that will ever happen in your life. But it's not too late to do that shit again.

I want to do it.

I want to travel the fucking world. But not the way you want to. I don't want to stay at The Doubletree Prague. I want to stay at the Plus Prague Hostel. It's 9 dollars a night and it has a pool. A pool that is undoubtedly 72% semen. But I do not give a shit. I am going to take an Eastern European girl to that pool at 3 o clock in the morning and have my way with her.

That's what Simon would do. That's the Australian way.

I WANT TO EXPLORE!! I want to see things, I want to experience things but I'm SO SO broke. Maybe sell a kidney for a rail pass. Serious question, if you have only one kidney, do you get drunk faster? That's a win/win! Profit from organ sales AND decrease my alcohol expenditures. Simon would be proud.

Maybe I could bum around in Italy for a while and start one of those 'travel companies.' Essentially book party busses and hostels for students and then come on the trips…for free. There's no way Marko our Austrian party guide wasn't banging ALL of the hoes at Lorenzo de Medici. And no one thought it was weird either. Of course he's older HE RUNS A TRAVEL AGENCY.

I see you Marko, I respect that hustle. You get paid to live in Italy and fuck rich sorority girls. How have other people not figured this out? I'm qualified to do this job, I know how to do a Kayak search.

I have Australian cousins, perhaps they can teach me the sorcery of their ways. How to be not just cool but 'Australia' cool. I imagine myself with super long hair, driving a mid 80s Wrangler and doing freelance design for an energy drink company. Maybe I would live in a teepee in someone's back yard in Venice. When I'm not traveling of course... Maybe I wouldn't even keep a permanent resident. A TRUE NOMAD.

I mean that would make a hipster jealous. "No roots man, just live wherever the wind blows." Can you imagine pulling a full Jack Dawson on a chick you meet at a bar? "I got everything I need right here. I've got air in my lungs and a few blank sheets of paper, love waking up not knowing what's going to happen.

No wonder Rose chose that over Billy Zane.

Maybe some day I will value stability, long term relationships and responsibility. But at the moment I just kinda want to book a one way ticket to wherever Simon is and have him teach me some new Australian slang. I've already got a decent fake Australian accent.

There's a $500 one way flight to Sydney right now. Maybe I should just pull the trigger. Maybe you should too.

Spring Break: Prologue

I'm in a current 10 day period I am deeming Spring Break. Last weekend I went to Park City next weekend I'm going to San Diego for a music festival. I'll be posting sporadic stories the next couple weeks that are tangentially related to Spring Break.

This story didn't take place during spring break but it might as well have. It was the summer of 2008, I had just returned from an outrageous semester abroad. During my time in Europe I began writing; I visited 20 countries (you can read about these adventures on my old blog fratitaly.blogspot.com) and I even started a charity to fund a drug fueled return to Bloomington for Little 5. It failed.

I spent nearly my entire inheritance from my grandmother's estate. I regret nothing.

By the time I pulled up to 2334 Clarendon, a five bedroom house on the outskirts of Wrigleyville, I was ready to rip up the Chicago summer. I was more or less told during my first week of a Philip Morris internship that I probably wasn't going to get a full time offer (but I would make $25 an hour all summer) So instead of trekking into the city every day to sell cigs, I would typically wake up at 10, work for about two hours and then play a quick 9 at Waveland during the afternoon.

It was paradise.

A few weeks in, I get a call from one of my friends.

"Hey, have you hung out with Pete yet?" (Name has been changed)

All my buddies had become really good friends with a new guy while I had been living in Florence. We had hung out a few times before I left, but I didn't know he was living in Chicago. I hit him up one day and found out he was living right down the street.

Pete also didn't really care about his summer internship and was focused mainly on partying all summer. On most Tuesday nights you could find us blacking out on two dollar tequila shots at BARcelona and then taking batting practice upstairs at Sluggers.

On one such Tuesday, Pete's roommate assaulted a pizza vendor for attempting to close 2 minutes early. (This was completely justified, if you are going to market yourself as late night pizza, you sure as shit better not close at 1:58am) Aforementioned roommate ended up getting arrested over the altercation.When he got home the following morning at around 6am, we all decided to call of work and take the day off similar to one Ferris Bueller.

We started drinking heavily around 9am and made our way to the Cubby Bear by noon. Not wanting to slow the party down at all we stopped by the 7/11 just before first pitch of the Cubs game to pick up a fifth of vodka each. Remember this was 2008, Wrigley security was incredibly low.

With nearly a gallon of liquor in tow we made our way to the bleachers and began openly drinking from the bottle. We were pretty rowdy and became quick fan favorites in our section. Of course we received some sideways glances from a few of the families in attendance, but this was Wrigley, in the bleachers, the threat of animal behavior is always implied.

The game was pretty boring, but close. In the bottom of the 7th inning it was 2-2 with the Cubs coming up to bat.

Pete's roommate had gone home, deciding that he was too drunk to continue. Any further partying could put him at risk for a second consecutive arrest. Pete and I decided to move down to see if we could get to the front row, right on the wall.

When we finally got all the way down, there was a pretty rowdy group of chicks next to us. They too had blown off work for a day game and were all too eager to take pulls of our Smirnoff Razz straight from the bottle. Around this time I saw a little glimmer in Pete's eye. I had no idea what he was about to do, but I had a feeling it would be epic. He looked at the girl sitting directly in between he and I.

"Do you know about the Leez Reez?"

"No," she countered, still smiling.

"It's this thing, it's big in the south. What happens is you pull your tits out. I'm going to suck on your left titty, and Moel man over there, he's going to suck on your right titty. It's awesome."

I was aghast. I mean, I had heard people make aggressive plays when they're hammered, but this was pretty bold, even for Pete who oozed with charisma. Fortunately for us, these chicks seemed cool enough to laugh it off.

To my horror the girl next to us smiled and said 'go for it.' She pulled her top down and Pete dove in for the left titty. I froze.

Like, I FROZE.

The moment you realize you are going to get in a bad car accident, that feeling when someone pulls a gun on you. Everything stopped. I looked around and saw mothers shielding their children's eyes. I saw the girl's friends rolling with laughter. I spied some shirtless men cheering on Pete, all in the middle of a god damn baseball game.

This is real life.

Pete popped up, a momentary respite from his mammary mission.

"Moel man. Right Titty!"

I stood up and left the game. It is still to this date, the hardest I have ever choked under pressure, but I remember having my Scarlett O'Hara moment as I shamefully walked down Clark Street.
"If I have to lie, steal, cheat or kill. As God as my witness, I'll never fuck up a lees reez again."

Savage

I woke up in a daze. My phone was vibrating uncontrollably. I glanced over and noticed I was in an overeager group chat. It was 7:04 in the morning, at least five of my alarms were going off.

It took me a moment to realize what was happening. My ears were still ringing from an Eric Prydz concert and I was probably on two and a half hours of sleep. There was a light knock on my bedroom door before it swung open.

"Thanks for letting me crash man."

There was a guy standing in front of me that I definitely recognized as someone I had been with the previous night, but certainly could not recall his name.

"You really saved me, first time I've ever had a bad trip."

I kinda nodded and gave him a thumbs up as he showed himself out. I searched through my phone for some clues as to how the night had ended. I remember leaving the Palladium but definitely not getting home. FUCK. $200 Uber? Not good. My phone buzzed again.

"So, are you on your way?"

Ya. 5 minutes. A classic lie when you're running late.

I was supposed to pick up a buddy on my way to our Brentwood pre game for the Northern Trust Open. A 7am pre game. I quickly open the Uber app and see an inexplicable morning 4x, I decide to drive.

I throw on a pink sweater vest and I'm in Brentwood by 730am not too bad. At this point my hangover isn't too bad. I try to remember if I actually took some shrooms from a guy I met in the bathroom or if I just dreamt that. I decide to grab a mimosa and not worry about it.

By 9am, we are inside the Riviera Country Club double fisting beers. Aside from aforementioned sweater vest I am wearing some pleated cream pants and red Sperry's. My friends are all wearing very wide leisure hats. I want to say we were doing this ironically but we fit in extremely well. I should add that the crowd was 99% white and we all looked like we had reputable fathers and "came from a good family."

I think I was on my 5th beer before we had even seen anyone tee off. Somehow we were swept away into the United tent to hit golf balls on a simulator. From 160 yards away from the pin I was able to hit a snap hook so bad that I ended 170 away from the pin. The events coordinator told me it was the single worst shot she had ever seen.

Finally we made it to the driving range to watch Dustin Johnson. We all agreed that we were going to root for him because he does cocaine and fucks other player wives.

After watching DJ hit the driver a few times we followed around a group that included Rory and Bubba Watson I think? I dunno, I was shampoo effecting really hard and don't remember specifics. Golf tournaments are weird. You can literally reach out and touch the best players in the world, people run right up to the temporary barriers with hands outstretched hoping for a fist bump. And while I choke even if the starter is watching me tee off, these guys have to do it in front of hundreds of random bros that have been drinking since 8 o clock in the morning.

We spent the day wandering around, drinking beers, pitching each other TV shows, putting on some of the impromptu mini golf courses the tournament had set up; real white guy stuff. All the while I forget that it's about 90 degrees and sunny as fuck.

After a while watching 30something white guys hit perfect shots becomes a bit of a bore, so we quickly switched to degenerate gambling. Closest to the hole, will he make this putt, shortest drive buys a round of beers. I'm sure we never intended on collecting any of these debts, but it certainly kept the Bud heavies flowing.

When we reached the 18th I was trying to text people at home where they could see me and also watch to see if Bubba was going to make in 40 foot Birdie putt. It was tough to tell as I was seeing double. Perched on a hill, I very nearly stumbled and took out an entire section of fans. Fortunately I was able to tuck and roll and only make a fool of myself.

By the time we were ready to go see ska revival band 'The English Beat' I could tell that my skin would be peeling by morning. I was having trouble standing. At some point in between my second and third cigar, I just wedged myself against a tree to prevent from falling down. It was time to leave.

On the way out, we walked by multi-million dollar Brentwood homes that I will never be able to afford, I stumbled upon a caddy and asked how much it would cost me and my friends to play a round at the Riv.

"About $50,000." He quipped.

A boy can dream.

After powering down for a couple hours I decided I was safe to drive back to Venice (I wasn't.) I made it back to the couch just in time to see Indiana smash Purdue, I was ready to call it a night at 730pm but that was not to be. My fellow golf buddies had rallied and were coming to Venice.

What followed was a bunch of stuff I'm not particularly proud of. More ecstasy, doing a nasal douche with a netti pot so I could hoover more adderall, trying and failing to make out with an Asian girl in the basement of some bar, falling on my face when she moved out of the way. I get kicked out of Townhouse so often these days, I don't even fight in anymore.

The next day was rough. I had that kind of hangover that you only get when you've been partying in the heat. It felt like the Monday after Coachella. No matter how much water I drank, my urine still came out this abhorrent dark hue of brown. My back hurt, I went down a rabbit hole on WebMD and came to the conclusion that I had Pancreatits, the same ailment that had sent one of my study abroad roommates home. The base of my skull hurt, I concluded that I had a bleeding aneurysm. Death was imminent.

Monday was worse, Tuesday was just as bad.

Wednesday I considered checking in to the Marina Del Rey Hospital for an IV.

Thursday I searched Facebook to see if I had any nurse friends that would be willing to sneak me a saline solution.

And then I made it to Friday…and all my problems just drifted away. My pending court cases, my potential physical ailments…they don't matter now.

In 7 hours I'm going to Park City for my second ski trip of the season. There will be lift beers, there will be hot tub beers, there will be pares beers, there will be general shot gunning beers. I CAN'T WAIT.

And then Monday, I'll be hungover. Tuesday will be shit. By Wednesday, I'll probably stop contemplating driving into oncoming traffic.

But then FRIDAY, nothing will matter anymore. I'll drive to San Diego with a bunch of hot chicks and live such an emotional high for 48 hours it will make up for all of the bullshit.

Then Coachella is coming and I'm going to Denmark and Germany and Sweden…LIFE IS SO EXCITING. But for the Monday headaches...

It's a vicious cycle that begs the questions…is it worth it? is this a way to live? Can you just ignore and run away from all of your problems?

The answer, at least for the moment, is yes.