It's Always Sunny in Westeros: 5 Villains who could still win GoT

When I was a kid, I sometimes rooted for the bad guy. Not always mind you, but if there were an especially bitchy protagonist, I typically rooted for him to get got. Off the top of my head I remember hating Jonathan Brandis in the Neverending story 2. I secretly rooted for Iceland in D2: The Mighty Ducks and I was cheering hard for deforestation in Fern Gully.

Call me a hater, but I have always appreciated a solid heel turn. In a predictable world where we are taught to expect happily ever after, sometimes it's just refreshing to be surprised. The truth is that in the real world, more often than not, nice guys finish last. Such has usually been the case in the world of A Song of Ice and Fire. So before you go crowning the triumvirate of Dany/Jon/Tyrion winners of the game; riding off into the sunset on their three dragons...please consider my counterpoint.

1. The White Walkers

I mean let's be real. If we were handicapping an actual war, not some work of fiction and I gave you white walkers or the field at even odds, you would jump all over that shit. They have an entire undead army and very few weaknesses. What are there like 7 Valyrian Steel swords in the entire world? Even if you add some dragon glass into the mix these motherfuckers are hard to kill. Furthermore every time they merc one of your guys, he rises to fight with them.

Sure Dany has some dragons and they are big as FUCK now, but I saw that shitty Sean Connery movie Dragonheart. It only takes one well placed sword to ace one of those motherfuckers permanently.

2. Euron Greyjoy

The Iron Islands have been by far the most boring plot line of the entire television series. I don't care about Theon/Reek or his lack of cock. I don't care about his androgynous sister or her stupid name change from book to show. I certainly don't give a fuck about this prodigal son that came home, killed his brother and became king of the least interesting part of the lands. He's kind of like that raging douche bag that went to your high school that called himself the self proclaimed 'King of Broad Ripple' or something.

That said...what a lovely troll job it would be if he joined Dany, won the war and then just stabbed her in the back in season 8 episode 6 (the last episode of the series) Did y'all know he has a magic horn that controls the dragons? Oops. Spoiler Alert.

3. Cersei Lannister

How boring have the Lannisters gotten lately? Every time Tommen is on screen I consider switching the channel to Say Yes to the Dress: Atlanta, but I don't for the hope of the triumphant return of Ser Pounce. I am always disappointed. But peep this, Cersei has the Mountain who is totally going to fuck up the not yet dead Hound next week. Eventually she and Jamie will hatch a plan to genocide the Faith Militant and probably drop an atom bomb on House Tyrell. 

That would still leave team Stark, the dragons and the walkers in play, but if you've ever played an online game and watched a very bloody battle from the sidelines only to pick off the wounded, eventual winner, you know this could be a sound strategy. Could you not see a scene with Jamie giving his life for Cersei so she can hame the crown she always wanted?

4. Any of those fuckwits in Dorne

George RR Martin clearly hates his fans. That's why he refuses to publish a book. His fans CLEARLY hate Dorne, which is far as fuck away from King's Landing by the way.

Now in this theory, it's the end of the game. Everyone is gathered together in King's Landing for the final battle. It's like when you finally have the battle of Western Australia in Risk, only in this scenario both teams lose in a kind of nuclear holocaust. What you might not know is that there is a fuckton of wildfire buried beneath King's Landing. The Mad King, upon the realization that he was losing the war ordered his pyromancer's to "burn them all." But what he also could have done was press a massive fucking self destruct button that would have essentially burned everything to the ground.

Let me visualize this theory for you.

In this theory the fuckwits from Dorne are Voldemort.

5. Ramsay Bolton

 Oh please please PLEASE let this happen. Please let Ramsay win the Battle of the Bastards, flay Rickon, defeat Sansa and set the internet aflame with crying Jordan memes. This would come as a moment even more shocking than the red wedding and then the show could cut to a shot of a table with George RR Martin throwing his silver haired balls on it. Then pixelated sunglasses would come down to cover his nuts and we could get a screen cap of either 'Deal With It' or 'Thug Life.' I think I'm privy to the latter. Then they would play a dubstep remix of the GoT theme and cut to black. The reaction videos would never get old.

Papas & Beer

I'm sick, I'm unemployed and I'm finally completely broke. I feel like I'm Pete Campbell in an elevator and some asshole named Bob just asked me how I'm doing.

I've decided I need a little course correction so no more alcohol until I am gainfully employed. #Goals

But that said, this last weekend was a fitting grand finale. If you'll take my hand, I'll take you on an epic adventure south of the border.

***
Part 1

"Drop Bears are real man!"

I'm sitting in a hot tub in the community of Las Gaviotas, just outside of Rosarito Mexico. I'm extremely intoxicated because I don't actually know how to make pina coladas. I'm on my second glass of rum ice slushie. I've also been drinking since 8am because I am sleeping on a squeaky ass bunk bed. Now there is some Australian surfer bro trying to tell me what a drop bear is.

"Ya man, they're like these man eating Koala bears that drop out of trees and eat your face off. Drop bears."

"Ya...but....Koalas...aren't...really...............bears."

A Newport surfer bro has entered the fray. He talks impossibly slow. In the time it took him to get those six words out I am able to finish my drink, do a cannonball into the pool and return to the hot tub.

"So Drop Bears are like those crazy guys in Florida that eat the bath salts?"

"Ya man, my mate got eaten by a drop bear last year. Real tragedy."

I should back up a moment. It's the Saturday of Memorial Day Weekend. I came down yesterday with five friends and we have a house in this sprawling gated surf community. There's a private beach with probably 200 surfers out right now. I can see tennis courts, pools, shuffleboard, golf and a bunch of beautiful mansions full of people grilling and listening to Chainsmokers. It's essentially a playground for white kids from Orange County.

But that isn't to say that we aren't in Mexico. No within moments of crossing the border last night, we had people washing our windows in Tijuana. This morning when I went out for liquor, I hadn't driven a mile before I had a machine gun pointed in my face. This place does not fuck around.

We spend the afternoon drinking at our house, a three bedroom, three story flat with a rooftop that beckons an incredible ocean view. It was mysteriously decorated with statues of busty mermaids and provocative paintings of Frida Kahlo, the perfect place to blast music and play drinking games.

When we ask our neighbors what we should do for the night they say "Papas and beer."

I don't necessarily understand what they mean by potatoes and beer. It sounds like a fine suggestion for a meal but I'm unsure if it's a place, restaurant, bar?

I walk downstairs to check my phone. I had forgotten that I had thrown up a Facebook status about being in Rosarito. The texts starts flying in, 'Go to PAPAS AND BEER!!!!!!"

Around 4pm the girls take over the blender and they are able to make far more palatable cocktails than my abomination from earlier. We fire up the grill and cook some fresh caught fish and start playing some drinking games. We start shotgunning beers, taking fireball shots, it's shaping up to be just like a Palm Spring trip with less gays and more surfers.

I head down to the clubhouse to ask the staff how we should get to Papas and Beer for the evening.

"Eh, it's like a 7 minute drive, just take your car."

"Ya, but we will be drinking."

"You won't get pulled over, even if you do, $20 can get you out of anything, a bribe is cheaper than a cab."

It was refreshing to know that the official statement of our resort was that bribes were cheaper than cabs. Eventually we found a man with a bus who agreed to shuttle us into town for a few bucks.

Our pregame was aggressive and involved the Justin Bieber song "Sorry" being played over 10 times. I'm told I was so drunk at this point that I thought my singing was actually good. This is the danger zone of drinking. What follows is pure conjecture but could be completely false. We loaded up the van around 9pm and embarked on one of the wildest nights of our lives.

The first thing I noticed when we pulled up to the bar was the sheer size of it. This was no shitty Mexican dive bar, no this was a full blown Vegas-esque night club. Aside from the convoys of military men driving by with sub-machine guns, you may feel like you were in Barcelona, Bahamas, Ibiza or one of those shitty Spring Break clubs in Panama City.

There must have been 2,000 people inside. Multiple stages, a beachside dance floor, mechanical bull, girls in cages and of course a giant pool. Imagine the most lit Senor Frogs you have ever been in and multiply it by 1,000. This is Papas & Beer. I didn't expect much from Rosarito, I certainly didn't expect the biggest night club in the world.

As I walk around I realize that most of the male clientele is shirtless. Women are arbitrarily swimming around the pool, some clothed, some not. Guys are pouring beers on themselves like they are in hour 13 of a frat party and every time a big song gets played, the dance floor is hosed down with champagne. 80 foot video boards are playing music videos from the 90s and CO2 cannons blast your face every few steps. It has the feel of a more debaucherous Do Lab.

I see signs that bottle service is available for $40 USD, buckets of beer are $20 and a handy Papas & Beer bumper sticker will cost you $1 or free for 'girls who show their tatas.' Rest assured, some 18 year old Newport women went home with some free bumper stickers for their 3 series BMW that night.

Because of the excessive amount of Adderall that I had been hoovering at our pregame, I fade in and out of a black out for most of the night. At some point a Mexican man hands me a half full bottle of vodka and just tells me to keep it. Looking back, it was likely roofied.

I know for sure I slipped and fell off of the dance floor multiple times, and I may have taken a straight up nap in the sand at some point. These are things that might get you kicked out of a bar in America. Not in Mexico. You may get kidnapped or robbed, but no one will ever cut you off.

Fortunately for me, I have responsible friends and I made it to the safety of Las Gaviotas before some enterprising young felon could grab me for ransom. It's amazing that I've made it this far in life without dying.

Part 2

"You guys want to play Danger Can?"

I'm sitting in the hot tub again with my Newport/Australia friends. I'm pretty sure the combined IQ of all 8 of them still hovers in the mid double digits.

I'm feeling surprisingly fine because the girls have cooked up a spectacular breakfast and also taught me how to make proper pina coladas. If nothing else, I will take that knowledge with me the rest of my life.

I'm afraid to ask, but against my better judgment, I take the bait.

"What is Danger Can?"

"Broooo...........you've...............never...............played...........danger.............can?"

It's like reading Crime and Punishment waiting for this guy to finish a sentence. He looks like McConahey but with bleached blonde hair and a whispy mustache. Shitty facial hair is really having a moment.

I shake my head, fortunately one of the Aussies picks up the instructions from there.

"Basically mate, what you do is, you shake a can up really good and we chant DANGER CAN, DANGER CAN and then you smash it on your forehead and try to break it in half."

I'm dumbfounded, but also starting to understand why these guys are all borderline mentally disabled.

We go around the circle a few times screaming danger can, smashing the aluminum against our foreheads until the can springs a leak. One of the Newport bros dutifully pops the rest of the can open and chugs it.

I think I prefer the gay men of Palm Springs.

My group kicks the tires of a winery tour but decides that after our big night at Papas maybe we would be better suited to play some card games and shuffle board. We even host an epic putt putt tournament on our home's 9 hole course. I was defeated by a hole in one on the ninth.

After a few hours of leisure we decide to head down to Puerto Nueva for a proper lobster dinner. Fun fact: if you ever take a group down to Puerto Nueva #2 your waiter doubles as a magician. Dinner and a show. They also have a specific way of preparing lobster unique only to them, I would definitely check it out. We all had lobster, lots of beer, sides, etc for I think around $50 a person? And this is probably the most expensive restaurant in Baja.

Following dinner was a GoT party and a beachside bonfire. We crafted s'mores and made friends with some San Diego folks who shared some lovely herb with us.

Unlike the States, Mexico allows drinking on the beach. There is nothing more peaceful than listening to the waves crashing on the rocks while you enjoy a cold beverage next to a fire. I laid back in the sand and thought about never leaving. Alas, the beach was also covered with a fuck ton of crawfish and for some reason in my stoned state that kinda freaked me out.

The following morning we loaded up the car and began the trek home. We grabbed fresh coconuts on the side of the road and a man with a casual 36 inch machete hacked them apart until they were ripe for drinking. We flirted with the idea of Go-Karts or something on the way out of town but after: a gallon of fireball, a liter of rum, a gallon of vodka, a liter of tequila and 300 Tecantes we figured it was best to get out of Mexico.

And getting out of Mexico (on the busiest day of the year) as it turns out is NOT EASY. The drive from Rosarito to the US border took us 7 hours, mainly because Mexican drivers are fucking insane and Federales just close random streets whenever they feel like it.

Seriously we got on a ramp toward the border with our gas reading 80 miles to empty, we crossed the border at 7 miles to empty. We moved one mile during that time. This ramp is lit though. There are street vendors slanging everything from fresh fruit to fucking puppies.

Yes, puppies. You can buy a god damn three week old pup at the US/Mexico border for $20. You may have to stash it in the glove box with your cocaine though.

We made it back to Venice nearly 10 hours after we left. It's a three hour drive sans traffic, every piece of my body ached and I was starting to feel that rumble in your stomach after you drink too much Mexican water.

The takeaway? Mexico is fucking awesome, but it's not for the faint of heart. You have to suffer a little bit to survive this trip, but isn't that what makes an adventure awesome? If we wanted a mellow three day weekend we could rent a place out in Palm Desert, or even book a room in Terranea for the weekend. But as always, the trip is always defined by the company you keep.

The crew I rolled down to Mexico with was fucking awesome, we all had each other's backs nothing bad happened. 17 hours in a cramped car flew by and outside some potential Montozuma's Revenge for me, we came out the other side no worse for the wear.

The moral of the story is that wherever you take good people, good food and good drinks, you're going to have a good time...and if you ever find yourself in bad traffic some crackpot Game of Thrones theories and true crime podcasts are a good way to pass the time.

TL;DR Mexico is great, would go again. 5 stars.

MDW outdoor drinking guide

Memorial Day Weekend is here! Yay! Most people recognize Memorial Day Weekend as the official beginning of summer and the time of year to ditch your Tinder side piece that you kept around for Netflix and Chilling when it was 14 degrees out.

With summer comes nice weather and lots of outdoor day drinking. I'll be ignoring the US Government's travel advisory this weekend and rolling down to a beach castle in Rosarito and yes, it's not a matter of IF I'm bringing illegal pharmaceuticals back with me, it's how many.

Whether you are camping out in J Tree this weekend, tripping acid at Lightning in a Bottle, pounding brews at a lake house or celebrating the one hundredth running of the Indianapolis 500; you are going to have lots of choices for which beverages to double fist. I've spent a few minutes putting together an MDW 2016 day drinking guide. You're welcome in advance.

-Miami Vice

How many until you lose your ability to stand: 8

You ever struggle with the age old question: Pina Colada or Strawberry Daquiri? It's a tough one. It's one of life's ultimate queries up there with blowjobs or cheese. Fortunately you can just combine a pina colada and a daquiri and have this nectar of the Gods called the Miami Vice. Honestly, on my Senior Spring Break, about 50 frat guys drank this exclusively for 8 days and we all had the time of our lives. Well until we went to the bull fight and watched the matador rip out a bull's heart. That shit was sad, don't go to bull fights.

Best for: Mexico, Vegas, The beach, A pool

-Mojito

How many until you start texting you ex-girlfriend: 5

Mojitos are fucking dope. I don't know why I don't drink more of them. Possibly because mint leaves aren't in the liquor section? Anyway, if you're on a big ass boat this weekend or possibly just at a lake house, fire up a few of these. You'll feel classy as fuck. Also when you get to use the muddler? It is so fucking satisfying. It's almost like the feeling of catching a fish, cleaning it and grilling it. Only mojitos get you drunker than fish. A lot drunker. These bastards are sneaky.

Best for: Yachts, lake houses

-Bottle of Jameson

How many pulls until you hulk hogan your bro tank: 7

You may think that day drinking skews more clear liquor and this is true for cocktails, but never underestimate the power of pure whiskey. A fair amount of you will be at some sort of campground or music festival (or both!) this weekend. In these circumstances space is of the utmost importance, a well placed fifth of Jamo can fit in even the smallest of bags. You may think that going to the desert is for mind altering substances, but ripping through a bottle while you challenge your shadow to a dance off is always a good idea.

Best for: Camping

-Lime-a-ritas

How many brain freezes until you go streaking on the field: 10

I know you are going to think I'm trolling you, but I dare you to find a more refreshing beverage for a day out at the Ballpark. Many of you are going to hit a game this weekend and your choices at Dodger Stadium will be an $11 Miller Lite or a $14 Frozen Lime-a-rita (WITH COMMEMORATIVE CUP) Buy two...pop your shirt off in center field. Fuck it throw in some chewing tobacco too, you're on vacation.

Best for: Sporting Event

-Smirnoff Ice

How many knees do you take before telling your buddy's girlfriend your true feelings: 9

I don't know who let this trend die. It's likely positively corollated with the mainstream media's vilification of bros. Listen here. If you rented a house with some friends in Palm Springs this weekend and there are people that are off put by you hiding a Smirnoff Ice under the grill and then forcing them to chug it...you throw them in the pool and introduce them to the drowned god. Icing is still hilarious and if you are at some rad mansion this weekend that you rented with friends, you should bring at least 40.

Best for: Palm Springs, a house rental weekend

-Budweiser

How many bongs before you challenge someone to a beer joust? 10

The original King of Beers. The beer that was so bold that it decided to change its name to 'America' for the summer. Drinking a Budweiser says that you love your country and also don't give a fuck about calorie count. If you are planning on drinking in a large field this weekend, might I suggest bringing with you a couple 30s of Budweiser cans. Ripe for shotgunning, no broken glass to worry about and also excellent vessels for beer showers. Throw on a pair of 2 dollar sunglasses, a retro Michael Jordan jersey and some SPF 100. Slap a microbrew out of a hipsters hands and remind him that Memorial Day is about more than beardwax and acid washed skinny jeans.

Best for: Indy 500

-Wild Turkey 101

How many shots before you fall into the grill? 4.

Some of you may not be leaving town this weekend, opting instead for some 'low key barbecues' in your buddy's backyard. But while the invite may say R-Z bring a desert, no one will fault you for showing up with a liter of the turkey. There may be children at this pot-luck/pitch-in, but you know what makes children more tolerable? Booze. A fuck ton! Every Thanksgiving I don't give my little cousins the time of day until I'm about 5 Four Lokos in. But after that? Oh, it's a Frozen dance party. So bring a little high proof bourbon into the mix, it will make Bill's wife's potato salad more palatable.

Best for: Backyard BBQs

-Four Loko

How many tall boys before you are just straight up dead? 2.

Look, maybe no one invited you anywhere this weekend. Maybe you're too broke to travel. I get it man, I've been there. Hell, I'm there now. I should probably pass on Mexico and get my finances in order. (Spoiler Alert: I won't) But just because everyone has a better snap story than you this weekend, doesn't mean you have to miss out on some fun. Do you have $5? Great, then you can walk your ass to a 7/11 pick up two Watermelon Four Loko XXLs and drink them until you pass out on your front patio. And look on the bright side, when you have a party for one, no one will try to turn off your My Chemical Romance playlist.

Best for: Homeless people, alcoholics

Have fun and stay safe this weekend. Hit me with your most lewd snaps at Broeller and I'll be sure to repay the favor. Cheers!

24 Hours in the 916

8am

"What time does the pool open?"

This may seem like an inappropriate question to ask the wedding planner at breakfast, I imagine she would prefer people NOT to jump into the pool in the middle of the reception. But I had this idea in my head that I would jump in and a full blown pool party would ensue.

If you don't recognize this scene, I don't know what you have been doing on Christmas Eve for the last 20 years.

"Um, 930?"

"In the morning?"

"At night."

I poured a whisky into my coffee and wandered around the house. It was 8am, through nothing short of a Herculean effort, we had stayed in the night before. I felt this fact excused my mid morning cocktail.

None of us had slept particularly well. The movie theater that we typically sleep in had been co-opted by over 100 cakes. This pushed ten grown men into one bedroom. Three in a queen size bed, one on a couch, one on a bench, one in the bathtub, four on the floor.

Renting a few rooms in a hotel was never mentioned.

In the backyard there was a large tent set up for dinner. The ceremony and ensuing reception were to take place in the front parlor. Food trucks were scheduled to show up around 5pm. I had never been to a wedding thrown at a house, but I imagined this was about par for the course.

10am

We were sent to the grooms house to 'get ready.' I'm not really familiar with this tradition. Was I supposed to roll over there in gym shorts and then put on my suit or just go over there in my suit and drink. I opted for the latter. Also there was a foosball table. Just as Tyrion 'drinks and knows things' I drink and fuck people up at foosball. At about 10:20am I had already sweat through my first shirt of the day.

After a while of shotgunning beers and rummaging around the house shaking hands with people whom I instantly forgot we decided to head back to our flop house. In sticking with the tradition that you can't get a DUI during the day, we piled six people in a small Lexus and drove back to the venue. I took my beverage to go.

I promise I'm not 16.

12pm

Upon returning the the house/venue we were told that we had no responsibility for the next five hours. Future wedding planners of the world: THIS IS A BAD IDEA. We had played through the entire Justin Bieber catalogue on my phone by 12:45. I think that is about the time we broke Paul's bed in half. 

The bed-breaking proved too much for some of the less fratty individuals that had stopped by the room to take some shots. I overheard this as a few fled the scene.

"Those guys were jumping on that bed like 12 year old girls and listening to a song aimed at 12 year old girls."

"Did you see them high five each other when they shattered the bed frame? Like it was some sort of amazing achievement?"

"Too much bromance in there!" I overheard one of them say, I can't say I disagreed.

Flashback sequence

Let's back up a bit and start where I was and why I was there. I'll do some light name dropping but be intentionally vague to protect the innocent and guilty.

Once upon a time there was a frat guy named Dave. He lived in a now extinct fraternity house in Indiana. One night some guy in jean shorts and a flat bill knocked on the door and said he had just transferred from the Occidental Chapter and wanted to hang out. His names was Paul. Dave invited him in and they had beers.

That summer Dave and this Paul lived in Wrigleyville and routinely skipped their shitty internships to black out at Cubs games and hit on chicks at Coldplay concerts. One day that summer, Paul introduced Dave to his sister, Liat, and her boyfriend Jake. Dave ordered an appletini at dinner and still gets made fun of for it. 

Cut to years later, Dave moved to Los Angeles far far away from his northeastern Indianapolis suburban home. Not wanting Dave to be alone on holidays such as Thanksgiving and Passover, Paul forced his family to adopt Dave on a part time basis. Dave became a hit at the holidays and was always welcomed back with open arms.

So now I roll up to Sacramento with an assortment of Granite Bay kids a few times a year. This time was for Jake and Liat's wedding. Got it? Great!

Where were we...

Ah yes, too much bromance. Well there is never too much bromance. Look at this anecdotal evidence from 4 in the morning.

2pm

We decided to tailgate the wedding in Paul's room, but somehow we had nothing but liquor. You can imagine how this turned out.

Studs

4pm

We run out of Jameson. The youngest person there is forced to uber to the grocery store to get more. Respect your elders.

5pm

It's finally showtime. I might have been so drunk that I needed to be propped up by my buddy Matt, but God dammit was that a beautiful ceremony. I love when they break the glass and shout Mazel Tov! I wish we could just do that on like random Saturday nights right before we go to the bar, it really kicks the energy into a positive direction.

5:30pm

It might be the three 5 hour energies I drank, or perhaps all of the booze, but I am overwhelmed with all of the love in the room and I am legit crying.

6pm

Someone has decided that I need to get some food in my stomach (yes!) and that I need to change my shirt again. We stop by the food trucks and then back to the room so I can change again. I'm out of button downs so I will be wearing a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles t shirt to dinner.

The bar is now officially open. Which thank God there is finally some beer that I can drink to sober up. The wedding placemat has both an adult coloring element AND a Crossword puzzle. I spend most of dinner trying to unbreak my brain and do the crossword. I finally realize that the communist that designed it used spaces for multiple word answers.

I am simultaneously furious but also thankful because I haven't actually drank myself retarded.

730pm

Dance floor is open and I dance to a One Direction song with the bride's mom. I'm pretty sure 90% of the wedding attendees think I am actively hitting on her. Clearly they don't understand our mutual appreciation of boy bands. It's time for the lifting chair thing. I LOVE THE LIFTING CHAIR THING.

8pm

Someone just beer showered the dance floor. Thank God it wasn't me. There is a 5 minute break in the action. I am still pouring sweat. I approach the wedding planner and ask if we can open the pool early. I think she says something along the lines of...

"Whatever will get you to stop sweating on me."

8:11pm

I do a half gainer into the pool wearing a suit jacket, suit pants and a teenage mutant ninja turtle shirt.

Seriously, I was just like that Canadian ass clown on the Bachelorette last night but worse.

This sobered me up and I was able to return to the reception, the only problem was, I was so drunk and so sweaty, I had ruined every shirt I had brought. Paul's mom clocked me at about 5 wardrobe changes throughout the night.

So what do you do when you keep sweating through shirts but the dance floor is open?

You ditch it of course.

That's right, I spent about 90% of the reception, dancing shirtless and without shoes on the dance floor. Somehow, no one seemed to mind. In fact, I was dare I say, a hit? At least seven times throughout the evening, I demand the y cable from the dj so I can play more 'Sorry.' It slays every time.

11pm

I have been drinking for 15 hours at this point and the dance floor is starting to thin. I figure now is a good time to get a good sleeping spot. I head to the cake room and see that there is a couch stacked on top of another couch. Naturally, I ascend the summit and try to sleep.

I figure I have had a good night. I danced with all of the grandmothers, the bride, the groom, the wedding planner and a 49 year old woman that I was convinced was 28. Somehow, magically, no one is mad at me. I feel pretty good calling it a success.

11:17pm

"What the fuck are you doing?"

This is the last thing I hear before something is shoved into my mouth. It takes me a few seconds to realize it is a bottle of whiskey. I imagine this is what waterboarding feels like, only this is way worse.

I choke up a half shot of Jameson.

"I'm going to bed you asshat."

"The hell you are!"

Matt, the one that propped me up at the wedding has now turned the corner on sobriety and is shaking the bottom couch of my throne, threatening to topple me onto a half dozen cakes.

"WAKE THE FUCK UP!"

I slink off the couch and take a pull from his bottle. Apparently I am summoned back on the dance floor.

Some of the cakes that rudely stole my bedroom.

1130pm

Dance floor 2.0 rages on for about 2 hours. I don't remember a lot of it, but I know there were bubbles involved. Like the bottle breaking thing, bubbles should be utilized more.

130am

I am now hiding in a storage closet. I know that my couch bed is no longer a safe space. I realize for the first time that I haven't seen my phone or wallet in quite some time. Whatever, as long as I can fall asleep in the next few minutes everything should be fine.

141am

"Found you fucker!"

Oh no, it's Matt again. He keeps finding bottles of Jameson somehow. It's like some fucked up kind of superpower. Why won't he let me live.

2am

Jesus, dance party 3.0 is in full effect. There are literally bodies on the floor. Someone is bleeding. "Best Song Ever" is playing. Somehow a dozen people or so are jumping up and down on couches. The bride, groom and ALL OF THE PARENTS are somehow still awake. 

I stumble to the speaker and turn on some Eric Prydz before going on a quest for a bottle of water.

I fail, the closest thing I find is a light beer. It will have to do.

4am:

Inexplicably every room in the house has some sort of music blaring. There is a Venice Beach-esque drum circle going on in a bathroom. My buddies are belting out "Sweet Caroline" in the distance and I find that the hot tub has been turned on. It seems like the only place to get some peace and quiet. I hop in. I'm soon joined by the bride and groom.

"MVP performance Moel Man."

"How the hell are you guys still awake?"

Then again, it is one of the greatest nights of their lives, I suppose I would stay awake pretty late too.

Eventually there are 10 people in the hot tub, unwinding the night. It seems like after 20 hours of drinking, most of my buddies are ready to call it a weekend.

8am

Everyone has now realized the carnage of what went down last night. Things are missing, people are missing, all hope is lost. I have a 6 hour drive ahead of me and am not sure I can make it

The parents of the bride are in the kitchen cooking everyone breakfast. Did they sleep?

I walk outside to the pool and I see half of my wardrobe sopping wet. My phone is plugged into a bose speaker, still lightly playing 'Call Me Maybe" on repeat. I unplug it and go collapse onto a chair.

"What a weekend."

It's Paul. He puts a luke warm IPA into my hand. I lightly protest, but realize resistance is futile.

"Did you see the thing where they hand them up in the chairs?"

"Ya, that shit was dope."

"We should do this every weekend."

The house is wrecked, but with the help of a village we restore it to somewhat respectability. There is a pair of Ray Bans at the bottom of the pool. We make the youngest kid dive in to reclaim them. Respect your elders.

I take a long glance around at the devastation and can't believe we are almost thirty. My parents owned a house and had me by 30. I have a negative bank account balance and no job at 29.

I'm starting to go to a very dark place when something flips.

I look at the family, the new married couple; my friend Paul, his brothers, his parents. They are all beaming ear to ear.

This may not be how most families roll, but it's how they do it. To the outsider it may seem like one night of all out debauchery, but as every tribe has their own customs and traditions, I think this kind of lunacy is ours. I'm not sure anyone would have it any other way. I think back at the beautiful speeches made and all the love shown. I think back to those guys that said 'too much bromance.'

They were literally off put by the overabundance of love.

Sure it may be a bit strange to see overgrown man-children hugging and jumping up and down to songs aimed at middle schoolers, but I guess that's just our thing. I really do love these people. And if we show each other love by performing wrestling moves on one another and jamming bottles of whisky down one another's throat, well so be it I guess.

An official statement came down from the family Monday morning:

Gents, thanks for making the wedding a night my family will never forget. The family could not have appreciated your love and support more. Your ability to bring the festivities (and noise) to the next level made the experience special for everyone involved. Hope to see you all at Thanksgiving/Sedar or sooner. Much love, until next time, See ya...

Then there a bunch of videos attached of us acting like idiots. And then a smattering of replies.

"The pregame bedbreaker really set the tone."

"Some teams get carried by superstars NOT US. Once in a generation an unstoppable dream team comes along. FYI in this metaphor, I am a pre HIV Magic Johnson."

"Very solid performance. It's hard to believe people expect me to help them today when I can't even help myself." (this dude is a paramedic)

Honestly, things aren't going great for me, but with friends like these I always know everything is going to be ok.

So ya, that's just how we do, for better or worse, it is what it is. 

To the beautiful bride and the handsome groom, Liat and Jake, we wish you a lifetime of happiness...and if you ever need the wrecking crew for whatever reason, we'll only be one call away.

Summer is coming

Oh God, the Santa Monica Pier Concert schedule came out today and it is LIT.  I mean the only thing that would make it more lit is if they added Lit to the schedule. If that happened I think late 20's white hipsters would have a stroke. Alas we have to settle for Mayer Hawthorne and a bunch of indie electro pop bands that probably played the Mojave tent at Coachella.

Quick story about Mayer Hawthorne... a lot of people describe him as a 'Soul' singer, but my experience at a MH concert was much different. It was UCLA graduation 2012. I had the penthouse suite at the Westwood W Hotel with a bunch of buddies. The guys in the room next to us? A then unknown One Direction. The Saturday night of that weekend, we fell into 10 free tickets to a Mayer Hawthorne concert at the Wiltern. We also had about 20 tabs of Molly. We took all of them.

I came to drenched in sweat sitting down on the corner of the L Bar dance floor. (L Bar used to be an awesome club in Hollywood, now it's called Warwick) Somehow we convinced a bunch of chicks to come back to the W with us where we continued to drink and order room service.

At about 3 in the morning we all inexplicably fell off the couch, bed, table we were sitting on and were convinced an earthquake had struck. I called the lobby to confirm our suspicions, but as it turned out we were all just really fucked up. That must be the ESP tripping that real drug addicts always talk about when they're trying to get you to do DMT.

Anyway, good times!

There will be more posts about the Pier as July approaches, but I bring up that story because I am going to a wedding with that group of sociopaths this weekend. As of this morning we had no way of getting up there, no place to stay and nothing really to wear. Honestly, I think a lot of us forgot about it during whatever Spring Break trip we just got done with. But I took an Adderall this morning, made coffee and now I'm ready to put together a handy guide on winning your last minute wedding.

Step 1: Don't Panic. You can always drive.
If the wedding is less than 400 miles away and you forgot to book a flight, you're driving. That's just all there is to it. An 8 hour drive isn't great, but look at it this way, you can knock out all of Serial season 2 on that drive. You can listen to all of Me Before You on book on tape. Or you can grab another buddy and you guys can catch up. People rarely 'catch up' after college. A long ass drive can be just the bonding time you need. Some people think driving home hungover is unbearable, but I would argue flying is worse. You can always pull over a car to vomit, you can't land the plane. Also, you can bring drugs...always a plus. If you don't have a car, look for an unlimited mileage rental place. I've found good deals from about $30 a day.

Step 2: Amazon that gift now.
I forgot to send one of my buddies a wedding gift once and then I panicked that I had waited too long and now I have an ingenious plan to send him an anniversary gift to redeem myself. I have literally been more racked with guilt over this than the fact that I don't have a job at the moment. Get on that registry and Prime some shit to the bride and groom with a nice message and then literally half your job is done.

Step 3: Same Day Dry Cleaning is a lie
I own one suit and I wear it for two reasons. Weddings and wrap parties. And guess what? After either they are completely thrashed. Fortunately, when I take my crumbled up and vomit stained suit to the Vietnamese man down the street, he works blood magic on it to make it look new. Unfortunately, it takes him like 3 days. There is nothing worse than rolling to the mall (or a thrift shop) days before the wedding because you forgot to clean some blood off of your sport coat.

Step 4: You can find a shitbag motel for $80
And you can split it four ways with some bros! Honestly, if you aren't in a major American city, you can even get like a Comfort Inn for $90.  It's not even THAT shameful to take a girl back to a Comfort Inn. I took a girl back to a Comfort Inn once and you know what? It was bad ass. There was a 24 hour hot tub and a free continental breakfast. It was a DOPE continental breakfast too, it had one of those waffle makers. I want a waffle maker. If I ever get married, that's going on the registry.

Step 5: Be fun at the wedding, but don't be that guy
You got invited to the wedding because the bride and groom like you, or at least they think you can help get the dance floor going. The measure of every wedding in your 20's is 'how turn was the dance floor?' But you also don't want to be the drunk guy that fucks a chick in the laundry room. I always aim to be the third drunkest person at these things. It's like with mountains, everyone knows that Everest and K2 are the first and second highest peaks in Asia. But what's third? Exactly.

Step 6: Bridesmaids are tough, for an easier degree of difficulty go for a single girl that came with her parents
The issue with the Bridesmaids is they know everyone at the wedding. 90 people will judge them if they dance too aggressively with you on the dance floor. 90 people will shame them if they see a cab drop her off in the morning. You know who won't? The neighbor girl that moved away in 5th grade but the families remained good friends. I've gone to a wedding with my dad where I knew no one. I would have hung out with Charles Manson if he would have taken shots with me. That's your target bruv.

Step 7: Be gracious with the adults
Every adult loves the charming guy that's had one too many. Dance with Grandma, ask Grandpa about some war stories, agree with drunk Uncle that the country is going to shit and maybe we should build that wall. This keeps you on the invite list for lake weekends and the such.

Step 8: Always remember, it's not about you
Ya maybe it would be fun to lead a band of marauders to the casino at 2am. Or hell, maybe even that one strip club that illegally serves alcohol after 3! But just remember, whatever decision you make, it should never take away from the bride and groom. You are there to provide a gift and some positive energy. This means take some goofy as photos in the photo booth. Participate in those dumb ass group dances (You will ChaCha and you will LIKE IT) and at the end of the night hopefully you will all have some memories and not too treacherous of a car ride home.

Earth to Echo

The day I moved to LA was a bit of a shit show. I took a boat out on Geist one last time and the boat promptly died in the middle of the lake. Instead of spending my last day of living in the midwest motoring around and getting drunk; I had to be towed in by a fisherman. Then I broke up with a chick, then I sat in the back of a car with my mom while she cried the whole way to the airport. Then I got drunk at the airport and then I cried.

It sucked.

When I arrived at LAX, my ride informed me that he had gotten drunk during the day and passed out. He would meet me in Hollywood in an hour. Armed with an iPhone 4 and about 90% of my belongings jammed into an overstuffed suitcase, I boarded a bus that took me to union station, a train that took me to Hollywood and Vine and then rolled my 120 pound bag of a hill to 2049 Vista Del Mar, a Spanish Style bungalow at the base of the Hollywood Hills.

I dropped my bag and was immediately handed a Camel Crush and a bottle of vodka.

"Catch up, you have 10 minutes."

This actually was not my 'arrival party.' One of the UTA clan was having her going away party, she was New York bound in the morning. I was merely a coincidence, but juxtaposed with the absolute loneliness I had felt an hour before when I stepped off the airplane and realized I was in over my head, I was happy to even be invited somewhere.

Crammed in the back of a minivan cab, we jaunted east down the 101. People I didn't know handed me water bottles full of foreign substances. I drank it all without asking.

"Where are we going?"

-Funky Soul.

I walked into some giant dive of a bar called The Echo. Old soul train videos from 70's era WGN played on all the TVs, PBR was on special for $4 (not much of a special I remember thinking) and everyone was dancing like a lunatic.

I hung out rather anonymously with this merry band of agency assistants, smoking cigarettes and trying to explain my place in the world.

"I'm working for a start up."

"No, I don't have a place to live yet."

"I don't know what a Silverlake or a Brentwood is."

"Yes, I'll have another beer and a cigarette."

That was August 31st 2011. (I think) The beginning of my new life after I took a buy out from my old company and had a summer of sin in Chicago.

It's May 16, 2016 and I had not returned to Echo Park or the Echo since. In the nearly 5 years that have passed I've transitioned into a life in entertainment and a hopeful career as a writer. I have also carved myself out a pretty nice existence in Venice, about as far west as you can get. Echo Park is about as far East as white people go, for those unfamiliar with LA geography, it would be equivalent to driving to Lake Forest from downtown Chicago.

That all changed Saturday night.

I was on day three of a pretty aggressive bender with two high school buddies that I hadn't seen in a while. We had been out until 4am the previous two evenings and my body was starting to break down. After watching three movies on the couch on Saturday, I got the text...

"Funky soul tonight."

The idea has floated around plenty of times in recent years, but everyone always bails because quite frankly it's easier to walk to our usual neighborhood haunts, get fucked up and walk home.

But this time felt different, I had two friends that wanted to see LA. Often people come here wanting to see LA and I show them Venice and Santa Monica, because it is my comfort zone. But there is another world out there and I felt obligated to show it.

We were all so hungover that I wasn't sure we could make the journey, but I at least committed us to the pregame, which was in Santa Monica: a BYOB dinner followed by a brief stop at a house to pound shots and order ubers.

My Trojan horse tactic paid off as once I had gotten my friends a little tipsy at dinner, they were more that willing to go do something outside the box. We piled in an UberXL with a 12 pack of beer and started the hour long journey east down the 10. When we finally arrived, we were so excited to be there that we blew past the bouncer without showing ID and past the cashier without paying cover.

The set-up seemed to have changed since I had been some 5 years ago, nothing too crazy, still divey, but bigger? Kilroy's changed after I left, I felt like the Echo had naturally expanded in recent years.

But also gone were the giant TVs playing roller disco funk of the late 70's instead there was a live stage show going on. Beautiful women dancing and also...wait, some of those chicks are men.

Is this a drag show?

All over the walls I see posters and allusions to Studio 54, people on the dance floor around me are openly doing cocaine. I was drunk and deeply confused, but I was loving the vibe, so I just rolled with it.

About an hour and a half went by before we realized we were in the wrong bar.

"This is not funky soul at the Echo, this is Studio 54 at the Echoplex."

I had heard about this 'Echoplex' but just assumed it was the full more formal name of the Echo, not a completely separate venue.

I argue that we should stay at the bar because the trans community apparently parties hard AF, but since the birthday is upstairs, we acquiesce and a bartender leads us up a secret staircase upstairs to the proper venue.

Unfortunately we are tossed into a line and told that we will need to pay an additional cover. While standing in line to get back in a girl notices I'm wearing a Member's Only jacket.

"Cool jacket, are you guys coming in?"

Eh, these guys have early flights in the morning, we may try to get a few hours of sleep in before the airport.

"Well, I'm just saying, we have vaginas AND we will pay your cover if you want to come in."

Never have I been so aggressively pursued by a member of the opposite sex. Let it be known, the east side goes hard.

My friends made their flights at 8 am (barely) and I imagine they are having a rough day at work today, but with some fond memories. After all, the end game is to get everyone I know to move here.

How to hook up in a hostel

So after your latest coke bender you decided you needed to do a sober month. That allowed you to scrap together enough cash for a shitty Norweigian Air flight to like your 9^th favorite city in Europe. Now after drinking Aquavit in an Oslo pub all night some Finnish chick has decided she would like to blow you.

That’s great! But it’s not like you can just stroll back to The Generator hostel and kick out all your roommates so you can pound some strange from Helsinki. No, this will be a challenge and I’m here to guide you through it.

Hooking up in a hostel is not too dissimilar from hooking up in your cold dorm. Except if you just blatantly go to town on the top bunk, don’t expect a high five from Fat Steve the spring pledge. No you’re far more likely to get a code red from Javier and his boys from Argentina. To save you this moderate discomfort, let’s get creative and explore alternate options available to you.

1.     Rec room

Every hostel has a rec room. It has pool tables, foosball and lots of comfortable couches for reading books and stuff. This is usually the first place I go when I’m traveling alone. I sit around drinking vodka until someone talks to me. It’s incredibly effective. It’s also a wonderful place to fuck. The last hostel I stayed in had a series of hammocks in the rec room. Do not attempt sex in the hammocks. It’s hard to even nap in a god damn hammock, it’s one of mankind’s biggest myths. Hammocks are bullshit. No instead bang it out on the pool table, makes for a better story anyway.

2.     Movie room

This one is obvious, as it’s likely that the first place you ever got a blowjob was in the movie room of your rich friend’s basement. There is also usually a smattering of American movies from the 80’s and such, so if you need to set the mood you should be able to throw on the ‘Take My Breath Away” scene from Top Gun. Full disclosure: you may not be the only one fucking in the movie room, but you weren’t the only one fucking in chapter last year for homecoming either. It’s basically an orgy, only international so better.

3.     Shower

Your hostel will likely have one of two set-ups. Either you will have like 8 bunks in a room, 2 showers and a bathroom…or there will be banks of showers down the hall. If it’s the latter treat that thing like the fucking Coachella campground showers, no shame. If it’s in your room, well I hope  Ani from the Czech Republic doesn’t scream too loud.

4.     Bathroom

Technically there is more room for activities in the bathroom than the shower. That said, hostels aren’t necessarily known for their 5 star meals so if you want to get it on in a bathroom that is shared between 8 to 400 people proceed at your own risk.

5.     Gym

Yes some hostels even have a small gym (that never gets used) so if you’re trying to get in a little late night cardio it’s never a bad call.

6.     Outside

Depending on the weather where you are this could be a fun option. I’ve had hostels with back patios, pools, hot tubs, beaches and nearby parks. Remember there is no open container law in most European cities. If you want to steal a bottle of Jameson on your way out of the pub and take it directly to some large public square with your slam piece, you are (mostly) within your rights as an American.

7.     Top Bunk

I mean if it comes down to it, you’re not going to say no. My advice get in, get out. No one is trying to have a premium sexual experience in a $14 a night room. Make sure your shacker leaves immediately and you should probably try to be gone too when all the roommates wake up. Maybe you’ll get lucky and they’re checking out today. But you know what? If they give you some funny looks, fuck ‘em. They can eat a bag of dicks. Should’ve had their ear plugs and sleep masks ready. You’re on a god damn vacation.