Be a hero this weekend

I know the feeling.

You're sitting around the office listening to two women in high waisted jeans talking about their 4th of July plans. One of them is going to a wedding in Calgary. Fucking Calgary. Who leaves America for the 4th? The other is hosting a brunch. She's baking a pie tonight, trying a new recipe. If things go well maybe there will be time for a farmer's market.

You're thinking to yourself, you have to be fist-fucking me. There are no valid plans this weekend that do not involve copious amounts of dark liquor and domestic beer. There is absolutely not a single waking moment that you will spend without multiple drinks in your hands.

You've heard terms like 'maturity' and 'growing up' thrown around lately and you have decided that you are a HARD OUT. I get it. I'm going through it too.

While the people around me scour Pinterest boards on how to make festive cupcakes for the weekend, I will spend an equal amount of time learning how to make original formula Four Loko so that I can ensure I end friendships this weekend, because that's what I'm about.

You will be judged. I WILL BE JUDGED. But you know what? Fuck 'em. You may get funny looks when you show up for work Tuesday with suspicious bruises, but LIFE IS A CONTACT SPORT.

I will be a one man wrecking machine this weekend. I will pour drinks on people that annoy me. I will evict people from parties if I deem they are not having enough fun, EVEN IF ITS NOT MY PARTY.

Do not listen to the haters this weekend. Do not check your privilege. If someone offers a hot take on the election tell them to take a lap. In fact, make them take a lap. If they do not take a lap, shoot them with a bottle rocket. Sure they may press charges at some point down the road. But in the short term it should purge their negativity from your space.

If a DJ refuses to play Bieber, take his iPhone out of his hand. Place it on the floor, and take a shit on it. Nothing asserts dominance over someone like publicly defecating on their stuff. Don't clean it up after either, just grab the Fireball and move to a different room.

You are going to be a star this weekend. People will say things to you like 'I don't eat meat' or 'no thanks, I'm sober' and you will just face palm them out of your presence. LOVE a good face palm.

Play by your own rules this weekend. If your roommate doesn't wake up when you pull the fire alarm at 7am, literally funnel vodka into his or her mouth. They will thank you later. Take uppers when you're tired, take downers when you're wired, stay hydrated. It's impossible to die if you stay hydrated. A drunk guy told me that at a music festival. It's science.

The phrase 'day off' will not be in your lexicon this weekend. If any casual acquaintance of yours utters it, they're fired. Number deleted. Any nudes of them in your phone uploaded to the internet. Revenge porn is warranted in cases of extreme cowardice.

Give zero fucks this weekend. In fact give negative fucks. Is it possible? Make it possible. This could be your last Fourth of July. It could be the last Fourth of July for someone you care about. Who knows, it could be the last Fourth of July for America. Make it count. Every fucking second. Make it count. Go to happy hour tonight. Stay out way too late. Fuck work tomorrow. Your boss is a communist for making you were on Independence Day Eve, Eve, Eve.

Go to the bar at like 3pm tomorrow and stay for 12 hours. Get arrested. Get out Saturday morning and go directly back to the SAME BAR. Steal a boat. Rich people don't press charges. Go to a pool and do a cannon ball near a hot, dry girl sun tanning. When you surface stare at her and simply say 'sup?'

She will totally fuck you.

Sunday skip church, God will forgive you. He is a big fan of America, that's the reason we have better lives than everyone else in the world. Divine Providence.

Monday get up and start the day by shotgunning a 6 pack of Budweiser aka AMERICA. Then switch to shots, because fuck it, why not?

Apply sunscreen. Drink water. Again, dehydration is the only force strong enough to take down Hurricane You.

When people start dropping like flies Monday night, give them the double middle fingers and triple down on your partying. Leave a mess everywhere you go. Someone else will clean it up.

I AM FUCKING FIRED UP FOR THIS WEEKEND.

But really...ok, I'm taking a deep breath. This is the cool down.

I am just excited to spend time with my friends this weekend. Friends like you! I listen to people around me whine all day about how shitty their lives are. It's nothing but 'I really hope my friend cancels our drinks tonight' or "I would rather go home and read than go to this dinner.'

That is lame. This post is an over-correction to that type of thinking. At some point it became cool to be a loser and talk about it. It makes me nauseous. When did people stop craving human connection? I think maybe I take for granted that I've got roughly a hundred kick ass people that I can call to go do something dope with. And I cherish our time together.

I'm losing yet another Los Angeles friend next week and it bums me out, but I'll be god damned if I'm not sending him out in a blaze of glory.

I am going hard this weekend. And you should too. Happy 4th everyone!

A Day at the Races

"Oh, you're a writer, anything I might know?"

I'm in a room with a bunch of people in their mid 30's, all wildly successful. It is 10:30am and I am on my 7th Tecate. I don't really know anyone so I am nervous. I drink a lot when I am nervous.

In a perfect world, I imagine that I'll be one of these people in 7 years. These people aren't assistants, their assistants are my friends. But they didn't get invited because this is a big boy trip. I feel like a pledge being asked by the Seniors to come on boats. It is still unclear how I scored an invite. Why the fuck did I tell this guy I'm a writer? I'm an assistant on a sitcom.

"Ummm, well I blog mostly now. I'm an assistant on a tv show, I'm trying to get staffed on a half hour."

"Ahhh good old television."

Fuck, he writes movies. I can feel his silent judgment tearing through my pathetically weak skin.

I knock over a bottle of champagne and apologize, explaining that I am possibly still a little inebriated from the night before.

"Oh, ya? What did you get into last night?"

"We decided it would be fun to get hammered and go see Independence Day 2."

"And how was that?"

"To be honest, it's quite possibly the worst movie I have ever seen in my life."

"Wow."

"Ya, just a total piece of dog shit."

"I wrote it."

And that's when it happens. I go white with fear. Of course this fucking guy wrote Independence Day 2. Is he going to punch me? I should leave. I was already merely tolerated here, now I have straight up offended someone. I try to walk it back.

"Sorry, I mean...clearly I was drunk. What do I know? Probably going to make a fuck ton of money."

"Dude, I'm just fucking with you."

Relief washes over me in an awesome way. But still, I should know better. Never shit talk anything in Hollywood.

"I mean I DID do an uncredited punch up on it, but that script couldn't be saved. I agree total trash."

***

The bus is here now. I get on and sit next to my roommate in the 4th row. I'm a bit underdressed wearing a black polo and chubbies. All around me are men in full seer sucker suits, women in sundresses and very large hats.

Everyone at the pregame was fairly dismissive of me when we met. I was surrounded by agents from CAA, WME, UTA. VPs from every major studio. Most of the people here I couldn't get a meeting with if I tried, but now that the drinking has commenced the playing field has leveled a bit.

This is my domain. This is what I am good at.

Someone passes me a bottle of champagne, I give a solid 5 second chug before I hand it to the next person. Then I bust out the Four Loko. I bought two of them at a gas station on the way to the pregame. Now people are intrigued. Four Loko, wasn't that banned? Is that illegal?

A bottle of Vodka is now being passed around, the thirtysomethings are starting to get a bit overserved.

The guy running the music in the front asks me if I want to plug in my phone to play a couple songs. Again, I'm a little out of my element here. But then again the woman sitting behind me, who I'm pretty sure is an entertainment lawyer, just regaled me with tales about doing DMT at Joshua Tree last weekend.

If I was 8 years older and made $200,000 a year, what song would I want to listen to on a Saturday trip to Santa Anita?

And then I pressed play on tracks 3-6 on Justin Bieber's Purpose. I am instantly a hero. I could get a meeting with anyone on this bus now.

But enough about my meteoric rise to the top over a pregame and a bus ride...let's get down to racing.

Santa Anita Park is located about an hour east of Los Angeles in the San Gabriel Valley town of Arcadia. Although I often shit on the inland empire and the ethnically ambiguous people that make it their home, I must admit that it is a rather stunning backdrop for a day at the horse track.

I've never been to Churchill Downs or even Arlington Park in Chicago, but I imagine Santa Anita Park is on the fancier end of the horse track spectrum. VIP boxes, a member's only restaurant and a cigar bar are a few of the features I noticed immediately. But as is the case with any gambling institution, there are also a fair share of degenerates blowing their children's college funds.

For better or worse, by the time we arrived at the Race Track, I was too drunk to figure out how to use the automated betting machines. I of course then blew all my remaining cash on drinks before figuring out that there were windows run by actual humans. A man at the window tried to explain to me why I couldn't place bets on a credit card while I was simultaneously berated by an 80 year old woman carrying an oxygen tank.

"PLACE YOUR BET OR MOVE ALONG."

Apparently she just wanted it more than me.

No matter, I'm not really the gambling type anyway. I don't understand a trifecta, superfecta, box or even basic odds. The only gambling I am well versed in is when I used to make blowjob bets with an ex girlfriend. Most wins would go unpaid.

With no skin in the race, I spent the majority of the day wandering around the track, watching the races. To be honest, I don't remember a single winner or even the name of a single competing horse.

But...I did figure out how to sneak into the stables. I also asked a stableboy if I could ride one of the horses.

I have never ridden a horse mind you. The stable boy informed me that I was about 16 inches too tall and 100 pounds too heavy. A boy can dream.

I spent the next part of the afternoon conversing with fellow track visitors young and old, discussing hopes and dreams, plans for the future. That's the coolest part about the horse track, it's a good place to just hang out and shoot the shit. Every 20 minutes or so there is a race and you yell for 30 seconds, the rest of the time is spent drinking and watching life pass you by. But mostly drinking. At one point I taught a group of teachers from Minnesota how to do a stunt man. (Which hurts worse? The snorting of the salt or the lime in the eye? Eh probably the lime)

By the end of the day, I realized that much of my insecurity about being, inadequate, was unfounded. I have spent much of the last five years worrying that I'm falling behind. While my peers were achieving personal and professional success, my life was largely stagnant.

But during the day I talked to a man that sold his first film when he was 35. I talked to someone that had been a talent assistant until 33. I talked to a young woman who threw away a promising medical career because she decided she wanted to be an editor. Success doesn't always come when you want it, or when you're ready for it. Success comes sometimes when you least expect it.

But conversely I looked around at a group of people doing exactly what I do now. Drinking, enjoying a nice day in the sun, celebrating life.

We hop on the bus to come back to Los Angeles. Somewhere along the way, we convince the driver to take us to The Parlor, an Indiana bar in West Hollywood. We storm in and start slamming rounds of shots. Eventually we are kicked out because of a 'private event.'

That or they could tell we had been drinking for 8 hours and were starting to become a liability. We crawl to another bar down the street, the Dark Room. USA is playing Colombia, we choke and lose. No one cares.

My roommate and I decide it's time to head back to Venice. I realize that at some point in the day I've lost my only set of car keys. Even though this is probably going to cost me $400 on Sunday, I don't care, the day has been an epic success. I get back to Venice at 7pm, I'm asleep in bed by 701.

***

I wake with a start.

"What time is it?"

-Midnight.

Holy hell, I was drunker than I thought. I scroll through my texts. I've sent a text to my ex-girlfriend that says "Let's bang." I have written on a frat brother's Facebook picture "You look gay." and I am drenched in sweat and have 37 unread text messages.

Oh ya, and I don't have the ability to drive to work on Monday, pick up my boss's birthday cake OR go to a 24 hour McDonald's right now.

Panic sets in...

The prudent thing to do would be to drink a large glass of water and go back to bed. Tomorrow when I wake up sober, I can figure all of this out.

But instead I hear some rustling next door. The neighbors are at it again, ripping performance enhancers and chugging beers.

Oh, there are like 6 girls over there.

I should have gone to bed, but I walked next door and didn't return for about 6 hours.

Some habits die hard.

A Saturday at The Bungalow

I'm laying on a pile of clothes with my hand in an empty quart of ice cream. Sheer panic sets in when I realize an alarm is going off. How long has it been going off? Am I late for work? Why am I sleeping on a pile of clothes?

I take a deep breath and realize it's Saturday. Nothing I did last night can get me fired, if I'm late for something, it's probably just brunch or something.

I stand and realize I am wearing one sock and a t shirt. Nothing else.

It all comes back. I went to a party at Buffalo Club last night. I probably came home and wanted a midnight snack. When I walked into my room, I tripped over a four foot pile of clothes. Drunk, I decided just to stay there.

Now my alarm is going off because I'm supposed to meet people for volleyball.

Everything makes sense.

One glance at my phone shows that I have 61 new text messages.

Why? Why am I in so many god damn group chats? Why do people feel the need to chirp on them 24/7 like it's a bullshit office Slack room.

The conversation in SKWAAAAAD this morning is concerning the location of my neighbor's muscle milk. Thank God I sleep with my phone on Do Not Disturb. If I woke up every Saturday to Viagara jokes and veiled references to semen, I would murder people.

No matter though, I throw on a t shirt and swimsuit, hop on a bike and head to the volleyball courts.

'9am NO FLAKES, show up on time!'

That was the last text sent Friday. Of course I get there at 9:20, no one is around. I decide to lay out and start drinking a bottle of Sangria that my boss game the previous evening. This was probably my first mistake.

By 9:45 we have a good game going. Everyone is having a good time, except my neighbor and his friend. I don't think they've slept, that or they woke up and aggressively pregamed this match. They keep yelling 'RITCHIE FINESTROOOOOO' and laughing. I'm not quite sure why.

Mark dives for a ball and gruesomely breaks his finger. He snaps it back in place and laughs maniacally. He's certainly on something.

After a quick lunch at Firestone Brewery and a pregame at a still too early 1145am, it's time for the day's main event, a trek to The Bungalow.

If you are a white person or have ever been to Los Angeles before, you know what The Bungalow is. I've written about it many times. I even produced a guide about how to drink there without going broke. (Order Coronas or Torpedo IPA) Going to the Bungalow also rings violently against almost everything I believe in.

-Never go somewhere you are merely tolerated.
-It's impossible to close without a dance floor.
-The pregame is always better than the bar.

Welllll...here's the thing. Bungalow certainly doesn't give a fuck about you. I literally shout at people about what they are wearing before we leave the house. Furthermore, if someone is acting like a douche in line, I smack them and tell them to be quiet. Bungalow is a stupid hotel bar, but I treat it like that famous place in East Berlin that won't let you in if you speak.

Also, not only is there a dance floor, but the bar is notorious for not playing a single song made after 1970 expressly to discourage minorities from coming.

Lastly, you have to be at this place at 2pm or you're never getting in. This place brings back a desperation of acceptance I haven't felt since middle school when I really wanted to be invited to the 'cool kid parties.' I thought I was past that, but no matter how high you climb up the social ladder there will always be some hot bitch with a clipboard silently judging your value.

Fortunately on this day, we walk right in. Perhaps it's because we showed up on time, perhaps it's because my roommate works there or maybe it's because it's 100 degrees outside. But we walk in. Every time that bouncer gives me back my ID, I feel like I'm an underage kid walking into Kilroy's for the first time.

Of course the place is already juiced. Trust fund USC bros are sitting at lavish tables while a coktail waitress making low six figures pours the first Red Bull vodka.

There are already fidgety guys standing in line for the single stall bathroom. Bottle rat types are already cozying up to men they perceive as wealthy, hoping for a free glass of wine.

I take a right and head immediately to the garden, or the secret bar as I call it. I sit down on the edge of an unused fire pit as I make eyes with my roommate. I know that if I sit here a few minutes she'll bring me a couple beers, but what happens next is why this place keeps me coming back.

"Ok, who should buy us a few glasses of rose?"

There are two girls sitting a few feet away from me. Maybe they're broke, maybe that just appreciate the game. I see them scouring the patio for a target. Of course they settle on my buddy Mark, who is already on his 7th cigarette of the day.

I see this girl stand up and casually ask him for a cigarette. She starts working him, immediately. Giving toothy smiles, rubbing on his bicep, posing for selfies. This girl is a pro. But Mark holds strong, see this isn't his first rodeo either.

I chime in to the other girl as we're both watching this unfold.

"I dunno, I think your girl is going to strike out."

"She never strikes out. This guy will; be eating out of her hand by the time she's done with him.I bet she can convince him to get us a bottle."

After a few minutes my roommate comes out and hands me two buckets of beer. Laughing I approach Mark with two bottles, one for him and one for the girl, just to put her out of her misery.

A plate of shots follows, the girl I've been talking to is suddenly interested. Who is this young man sitting next to me getting all this stuff. I hand her a shot and tell her I work on a tv show.

Suddenly she perks up, maybe I'm important. Maybe I can help her.

She goes on about how she just shot a pilot for comedy central and she's trying to transition from strictly acting to acting AND writing. My roommate walks by and does a double take at this girl. She recognizes her from a bar they used to work at together.

This girl is horrified. She's been outed. She's not a real actress, she's a slash. (actress / bartender) As soon as Sarah leaves the girl turns to me.

"I gave up bartending last year. I'm a full time actress now. I'm starring in a Universal film right now, it's my break out role."

Two days later I would see that she's 12th billed and the movie has a $100,000 budget.

The beer buckets keep coming. I keep drinking. My nose keeps burning.

Some hours later a girl approaches me.

"Hey can I have one of those beers?"

"Why should I give you a beer?"

"Because you're wearing plaid on plaid and the only asshole that would do that here is an asshole that has plenty of money."

Fair point. I hand her a Corona.

I do a lap around the bar, I find a girl puking in some bushes, I see a girl passed out in a booth. I'm starting to get tired. I see a Persian guy dig into his pocket and pull out a massive key bump.

"Do you see that guy over there? I think that's Aaron Rodgers' brother?"

"The one on the Bachelorette?"

"No the THIRD brother. Let's go talk to him."

Two bimbos rush past me to go talk to maybe Aaron Rodgers' non-famous brother. I hate this place/I love this place.

It's 5 o clock, I go home to my house and throw a bunch of shit on a frying pan, grill it up and eat it. There should be a cooking show where a drunk guy is forced to make meals based entirely what is in his fridge. I pound an Adderall to keep going, then Lyft over to a friend's house. I can't handle the 4x Uber surge.

I get to my pal's house and we start fucking around with a BB gun. We light a can of gas on fire and then shoot it, causing a massive explosion in his backyard.

It's awesome.

Neighbors are not pleased.

Drinks ensue, I eventually make it back to Venice for a glorified night cap at James' Beach. I wake up on the pile of clothes again the next morning and there are a bunch of photos in my phone of me doing things I don't remember with people I don't recognize.

I'm tired as fuck, but fortunately I still have 8 hours before Battle of the Bastards and Game 7. I crawl to the couch and eat a pound of lunch meat plain. I fill up two gallon bottles of water and flop down on the couch to watch the US Open.

I close my eyes and they won't open again for a very long time.

I love LA.

Deep Dive: Twilight Concert Series

While today may be the 'official' first day of summer, it is known that the season doesn't kick off in Venice and Santa Monica until people are getting shit faced at the Santa Monica Pier.

Once again we are 15 days away from the Twilight Concert Series, an annual concert series that hosts free shows on Thursday night all summer and doubles as an excuse for me to black out and come in late to work. This year it is hosted by Snap Chat which may be the reason that the line up is one giant flame emoji.

Seriously, there is a 38% chance I will lose my job due to the 15 consecutive Thursdays of extreme debauchery. In the past during these concerts, I have received an OTPHF on the beach, started a fire at Big Dean's and puked on a police horse. This summer I intend to do all of that and more.

Behold your 2016 primer where I will preview each show with my expected alcohol intake. Former addicts, stay away, because it's going to be a wet summer.

July 7 - Mayer Hawthorne
Expected personal alcohol intake: Three bottles of White Girl Rose

They are really kicking the season off with a banger. When I blogged about the line up earlier this season I told the story of rolling so hard after a Mayer Hawthorne concert that I had to call the lobby of the W to see if we were having an earthquake.

The only other time I saw Mayer Hawthorne was at a tiny bar in Venice called Townhouse. I woke up that morning on a boat in Huntington Beach wearing a bear suit. I don't know what it is about Nu Soul music that makes me go so crazy. Perhaps it's like werewolves and the full moon.

Since this is the first show of the summer, there will probably be close to 40,000 people at the Santa Monica Pier. I imagine all of my female friends will bring wonderful wine and cheese spreads because it makes them feel like adults. But me? I will bring a colossal bag of wine. When the good stuff runs out, I will switch to the bad stuff. When that runs out, I will go to Big Deans. When they close I will go to Makai, when Makai closes I will make an ill advised text to a drug dealer, when that person doesn't respond I will wake up at noon the next day and text my boss that I've been in a car accident.

LOL, I'm kidding, I'll set 9 alarms, drink some Pedialyte and make it to work on time.

July 14 - Borns
Expected personal alcohol intake: 1 magnum of Sutter Home

I don't know who Borns is. I'm told he is quite good. I may have seen him during Coachella during a molly black out. I imagine I will go to this show with my softball team as most of my Venice friends will be burned out after a holiday weekend and an aggressive start to the Pier season.

But have no fear. This is why I keep multiple groups of friends on retainer, just like multiple lawyers. At Borns, I will stand to the east of the bike path and play life size beer pong with kickballs and trash cans. I won't even bother pouring my magnum of wine into a cup. I will drink it straight from the bottle. My teeth will literally be purple, it will be gross.

I'll aggressively pursue a random friend of one of my buddy's girlfriends and probably strike out. It's going to be great. Friday morning I'll buy myself three egg mcmuffins on the way to the office. That and five coffees can cure any hangover.

July 21 - The Psychedelic Furs
EPAI: A casual 6 pack of PBR

I saw the name Psychedelic Furs and immediately started praying that they were a Furry DJ act. Can you imagine how crazy a party that would be? A bunch of weird people dressed up like animals celebrating their perverse sexual sub-culture on the beach? 10 out of 10, would go.

Alas, the Psychedelic Furs are a British classic rock band that had a few hits on the Pretty in Pink soundtrack. I'm sure it will be decent beer drinking music. I hope I can convince someone to go with me.

Maybe I'll tell them that the Psychedelic Furs are actually a Furry DJ act.

July 28 - PROTOJE
EPAI: Nothing. Skipping.

I have a Bachelor party the following day in San Diego. I have a feeling it will turn into one of the most expensive weekends of my life. I am renting a 10 bedroom house with 20 guys from my frat and a few others. One of the guys going is worth 100 million dollars. He should probably just pay for the whole thing, right?

8/4 - Natalie Lafourcade
EPAI: TBD, possible skip.

Latin night is always kind of a toss up. It's in the middle of the season and attendance is starting to lag. Although I hate to skip two in a row, I get the feeling that my hangover on Monday is going to be an all timer. That said, Lafourcade kind of sounds like La fornicate? I dunno...might be some Masians out that night trying to get frisky. Maybe I'll just skip the show and go straight to the bars.

8/11 Rufus Du Sol
EPAI: ALL OF THE WINE AND PROBABLY SOME MOLLY

I saw Haim at the pier before they were big and thought to myself 'Holy fuck, these chicks are going to be huge.' Then I saw them at Coachella and yes...they were huge.

I saw Rufus at Coachella last year and thought 'Holy fuck, these guys are going to be huge!!!' and now they're playing the pier in my back yard...wait what?

This may be masked as 'Australian Music' but make no mistake, this is going to be a massive fucking EDM party on the beach. For years, my roommate and I have schemed about throwing a rave on Venice Beach. Just a bunch of people getting hammered, in the sand. Jack U playing, Bieber coming out...GAHHHH.

Well now the good people of Snap Chat are doing it for me. There will be former USC bros wearing Hawaian shirts as far as the eye can see...and I can't fucking WAAAAAAAIT.

Side note: The line at 41 Ocean will be long that night.

8/18 Mavis Staples
EPAI: Nothing. Skipping.

By August 18, Mavis Staples will be a 77 year old Gospel singer. According to her Wikipedia page she has been active since 1950 and once was proposed to by Bob Dylan. Congrats to Mavis on all of her success, but forgive me if I chose to stay in and watch videos of Golden Eagles knocking mountain rams off of cliffs.

8/25 Save Ferris
EPAI: One waterbottle full of vodka

If you don't think I'm getting liquored up on warm Smirnoff and jamming out to a 90's ska-pop-punk-swing band, clearly you don't know me that well.

9/1 Unknown Mortal Orchestra
EPAI: 2 bottles of Sangria and one extremely large joint

Like Borns, my friends that know music tell me that Unknown Mortal Orchestra is dope. They are another band that was at Coachella this year and although they are billed as indie rock, they have a much more psychadelic feel to them.

I imagine this is the night that I drink enough to start feeling pretty good, maybe I smash half a bag of Cheez-its and then some pretty girl hands me a joint. I can't look at her and be like, 'yo...uppers only.' I'll sound like a douche. So I'll take a hit, like a monster Snoop Dogg hit, to prove that I'm cool.

Then I'll spend the rest of the night puking up half a bag of Cheez-its and have to ride my bike home in shame.

and the grand finale........

9/8 Ohio Players
EPAI: A full box of Franzia

Meh. Not the strongest way to go out. Bingo Players would have been better. But this is when I tell you the secret to the pier...

The music doesn't matter.

To be honest, I'll be 500 feet away from the stage in a sea of white people drinking recklessly and I won't hear a god damn thing. It doesn't matter if it's disco music or Taylor Swift, the noise I am going to hear is that of me slapping the bag and then chugging $4 wine.

Since this is the last excuse we will have to drink on the beach for the summer, I'll probably splurge a little. Maybe get some Bay Cities catering. Eh probably not. Probably just a box of wine and an additional 6 pack of Two Buck Chuck, just in case. That's the second secret of the pier.

No one gives a fuck about your spread.

Like sure, it's nice to have a box of Triscuits and some fine cheese. But if you run out of wine? That's like Golden State winning 73 games and choking away the finals. Always err on the side of too much booze, whether it be a party, a dinner or a group of friends sitting Indian style on a blanket next to a lifeguard station.

I mean at least if you want to live in a world where you get text message Friday at work that say "Holy black out, I woke up in a bush" or "Do you remember the name of the chick I left with?"

This is the good shit that gets you through the rest of the day and preps you for the weekend. Last time I checked none of my friends texted me "Hey, that was an excellent hummus you brought last night."

But who knows, maybe I need new friends. Have a fun summer everyone.

06/19/2016

Nineteen years ago (holy shit!) it was a hot day in Indianapolis, IN. I was batting clean-up for the Skiles Test Cardinals in the bottom of the 8th inning. I was facing a pitcher that was my best friend at the time and he was also a lot better at baseball than me. Growing up I was 'make the all star team good' he was 'possibly going pro good.'

Nineteen years later I work as an assistant on a TV show, he plays major league baseball. Our annual salaries vary slightly.

However, on this particular day in 1997, in the bottom of the 8th and a 1-2 count I managed to send one of his pitches probably 400 feet to the opposite field. This is impressive in the fact that I was 10 and oppo bombs are dope.

I couldn't fucking believe it. My dad, who was coaching third base, couldn't fucking believe it. I thought he was going to have a stroke when I rounded the bases. It is still his favorite sports memory of all time. He always brings it up when I call him on Father's Day.

I won that day in 1997. Sure my lifetime batting average against my buddy probably hovered around .125, but on one particular day I bested him. (This is essentially the same story Rick Moranis tells at half time of the big game in The Little Giants.)

Yesterday was an all timer. Yesterday I didn't win shit. I woke up hungover as balls, moved to the couch and proceeded to move only every 2 hours when I needed to grab a new snack. Eventually I made it to a bar down the street for Game 7 only to Irish exit 20 minutes later when I realized I was too hungover to be in public.

That said, my day wasn't a total loss. I got to watch the final round of the US Open, Game 7 and of course, The Battle of The Bastards. The only thing that would have been better is if I would have also sprung for WWE Money in the Bank, but my reckless weekend spending ruled that out pretty quickly.

So let's work through it and answer the question: Who won the day?

Contestant #1: Dustin Johnson

Dustin Johnson won his first major yesterday in convincing fashion. Sure it helped that the Irishman behind him fell apart, but Johnson had a possible penalty looming over his head the entire back 9, something that had to be weighing on his mind.

Furthermore, Dustin Johnson had fucked up twice in previous major championships, costing himself a shot at the title including last year's US Open. Suffice to say, people were wondering if he could ever make it over the hump.

Yesterday he was able to do so and finally etch himself into golf history. Great story, right?

But that's not even the half of it.

If you subscribe to rumors, you would know it's common knowledge that Dustin Johnson was essentially kicked off the tour two years ago for a nasty coke habit and a tendency to fuck other player's wives. Not cool DJ. But after a 6 month self-imposed ban, Dustin found help from an unlikely source: Wayne Gretzky.

Oh you didn't know? DJ has been engaged to supermodel Paulina Gretzky since 2013. They were going to get married in 2014 but then the whole drugs and affairs thing went public and the two went into a holding pattern.

During his suspension, DJ spent a lot of time with The Great One, playing golf and chatting about life; more or less helping Dustin get his head out of his ass. 2015 Paulina gives birth to his son and on Father's Day 2016 DJ finally wins a major. He's also been playing out of his mind all year. And my God did he look like a hero holding his son yesterday while certified 10 Paulina stood by his side.

Yesterday was a great day for DJ, but also the culmination of an epic comeback story.

Contestant #2: LeBron James

They were down 3-1 and didn't stand a fucking chance. There were memes floating around of a laughing David Blatt, "LOL I won 2 games without Kyrie or Kevin!" LeBron was going to leave Cleveland and everyone was going to laugh at their misery. Kevin Love was going to be dragged out in the street and shot in what would be described as a mercy killing.

And then none of it happened. Cleveland won three in a row and became the first team to ever come back from down 3-1. LeBron and Kyrie spent much of game 6 and game 7 looking like Gods. Steph and Klay proved that their shooting prowess could fade proving them mere mortals.

I'll admit, 'The Decision' really rubbed me the wrong way. It was a full heel turn for one of the most popular athletes in the NBA. It probably didn't help that my Pacers so valiantly battled the Heat for most of LeBron's tenure there, coming up just short every time. I wanted LeBron to fail last night. I was cheering for Cleveland to burn to the ground as the tortured fan base punished themselves for allowing a feeling of hope.

But then they won. LeBron made good on a promise to bring a title to the town. Something that hasn't been done since the early 60's. LeBron, a Cleveland kid, put a stamp on his legacy and started a new conversation regarding whether or not he might be the greatest.

LeBron could retire tomorrow and he will have achieved his goal of bringing something great to a city that so badly needed something to believe in. But he won't retire tomorrow, he will continue to be great for many years to come.

Contestant #3: Jon Snow

Speaking of places that only breed misery, there was a battle last night on Game of Thrones. The main contestants? A bastard known for flaying his enemies alive and then feeding them to his dogs. Also a bastard known for knowing nothing but also coming back from the dead.

It's tough to say you won the day when almost your entire army is annihilated in battle and you watch your brother die 3 feet in front of you, but a win is a win. Was it extremely stupid to ride into battle on a solo suicide mission? Sure. Was Jon's inferior strategy bailed out by a surprise army and a fucking giant? Of course. But that's just standard practice in military epics. See the ending of The Patriot or Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers.

The point being, when it came down to the solo showdown, Jon blocked three arrows in a row and then delivered approximately 25 devastating knock out blows to Ramsay Bolton. He was about to pop his skull 'Mountain-style' when he stopped so his sister could do it.

Her chosen method? Death by dogs...Ramsay's dogs.

Tough to say where Jon goes from here. You want to think that now that he holds the north along with his sister they'll just chill for a bit? Reunite all the Northern houses and kick it in Winterfell? I kinda imaging that the new Daenarys/Greyjoy alliance will be like 'Naw the Starks are cool, leave them alone.'

He's probably going to have to deal with the fact that a 48 year old dude now wants to marry his 20 year old sister in exchange for bailing them out with the Knights of the Vale.

That will be awkward.

Will Jon have to marry his half-sister to prevent her from getting Littlefingered.

Oh God I just threw up a little.

Contestant #4: Daenerys Targaryen

She burned everyone, again. Honestly it's a bit old hat at this point. Perhaps she will get her first bicurious experience at the hand's of Yara Greyjoy, but planting a seed is not grounds for winning the day.

Daenarys killed her enemies and got some ships, but I was more impressed with Greyworm's double kill.

And the winner is...JR Smith

I mean you can stick around for my analysis or just read the Deadspin article.

JR Smith had 12 points of 5/13 shooting with 4 rebounds and 2 assists. Those numbers aren't astonishing, but it was a serviceable game for a veteran contributor and good enough for the third highest scoring tally on his team.

But who gives a fuck about actual numbers? JR Smith immediately flew to Vegas and started pouring bottles of champagne on bitches at XS. That is a hero move.

I've been known to beer shower, but typically with 30 cent cans of Keystone Light. By pouring bottles of Dom Perignon on chicks' tits, JR Smith was essentially taking thousands of dollars and lighting it on fire...

Or that's the greatest use of assets in recorded history. You can kinda go either way on this one.

In any event, JR Smith also refused to wear a shirt. I also refused to wear a shirt at the bar on Saturday night. The only difference is, I wasn't celebrating shit and Canal Club felt it right to throw me out. Apparently being on a shit ton of molly isn't a valid excuse for popping off the top in public...at least for a peasant like me.

But all hail JR Smith, king of the bros and the undisputed victor of June 19th, 2016.

Tales from the Writer's Room: Appropriating Frat Culture

Flashback: Bloomington, IN 2006

I am sitting on a bus heading to a barn about thirty minutes off the campus of Indiana University. I'm sitting in the back of the bus with my date. We're drinking whiskey straight from the bottle. We will be approaching black out before we ever get off this bus. The occasion is a sorority semi-formal called Barn Dance. Almost all of the houses have them.

There is an ATO guy sitting in the seat in front of me. I think his date is giving him a hand job. Good for him. Good for her. Have I mentioned the dance hasn't even started yet?

There are a bunch of Betas sitting in the front. It's ironic that all those guys joined Beta because I'm sure a lot of guys would refer to them as beta. There are some Acacias  behind me. They probably have coke. It will be four years before I discover hard drugs.

Directly across the aisle from me is one of my pledge brothers. I don't know what our 'thing' is. I asked a girl what our reputation was once and she said 'nice guys with girlfriends.' I hated it. I remember thinking at that exact moment that I would have to start being more of a dick.

There are a couple Delts there with stoner chicks and I think even a DU slipped in. Obviously no Lamda Chis were invited.

Fiji is in the front wearing impossibly preppy clothing. Phi Sig is up there too, shotgunning beers.

***

I think by the time the dance started I was hooking up with my date in the woods. I remember getting some poison ivy in precarious places. Obviously the bus stopped at Kilroy's on the way home and we all tried to get it. On this particular night, my Fake ID crapped out. My VIP friends couldn't even get me in. We're only 19, so I take a fair amount of the rejected minors back to my frat house for an after party.

Someone has spent the day building a potato cannon so we take it to the roof and start shooting shit at the house across the street. I accidentally shoot out a window. Someone drunkenly falls off the roof. Fortunately the courtyard is filled with sand at the moment because we had our Arabian Nights party the weekend before. This party would be cancelled 5 years later for being racially insensitive.

I end the night by taking my date back to my bedroom so we could hook up or whatever. Unfortunately mid thrust I hit my head on the ceiling and fall off my lofted bed. I am too drunk to scale to the top bunk so I just decide to crawl up to my futon and crash.

College.

Fast forward about a decade later.

I am sitting on a party bus heading to a winery about thirty minutes outside of Los Angeles. I'm sitting in the back of the bus with a girl. We're drinking whiskey straight from the bottle. We will be approaching black out before we ever get off this bus. The occasion is some bar crawl.

There is an WME guy sitting in the seat in front of me. I think his girlfriend is giving him a hand job. Good for him. Good for her. Have I mentioned we haven't even arrived at the bar crawl yet?

There are a bunch of ICM guys sitting in the front. I'm sure they're just happy to be here. There are some CAA kids behind me. They probably have coke. It will be four years before I discover hard drugs.

Directly across the aisle from me is one of my coworkers. We brought Four Loko, some people think it's cool, some people think we are the worst.

There are a couple Gersh guys there with stoner chicks and I think even a Paradigm slipped in. Obviously no one at APA was invited.

UTA is in the front wearing impossibly preppy clothing. Verve is up there too, shotgunning beers.

***

I think by the time the bar crawl started I was hooking up with my date on the beach. I remember stepping on a sea shell and getting it stuck in my foot. Obviously the bus stopped at Townhouse on the way home and we all tried to get it. On this particular night, I had lost my ID. My VIP friends couldn't even get me in. We're 29 so we obviously want to keep drinking. I lead a bunch of the people that were too drunk to get in to the bar back to my house in Venice for an after party.

I probably woke up the next morning without any pants passed out on the floor with my hand inside an empty box of Cheerios.

It's funny the way everything will always come back to college for me.

Although college is commonly associated as a microcosm of the real world, I think the social structures of the Greek system closely align with the entertainment industry in Los Angeles.

The similarities are striking:
-Both are subsets of a larger collection. Entertainment is just a piece of the population of LA, Greek Life is just a piece of the population of college students. So yes, the non-entertainment LA people are GDIs.

-There is a very clear ranking socially. Just like Tri Delts aren't hanging with ZBTs; 3 Arts kids aren't kicking it with the Innovative Artists crowd.

-There are very specific pledge class dynamics. People will always remember who they graduates the mailroom (pledgeship) with.

-You never lose your title. I live in Los Angeles now but I will always be 'one of those '09 Indiana Phi Psi guys.' Just like how my roommate isn't even in the industry anymore, but he'll always be part of the UTA crowd. UTA is his real life frat.

-Even the general rules of hooking up apply. It's probably only safe to hook up with one girl from every house/agency. Wouldn't want to start a turf war.

As I have progressed through life, I notice that things change yet always stay the same. LA, like college, is a game. Some people are good at it, some people get chewed up at spit out. Climbing the career to success is not too dissimilar from social climbing your way to popularity. Becoming an exec at a studio or being staffed as a writer on a show is the professional equivalent of getting invited to those hot sorority dances from undergrad.

Sometimes this whole industry can feel more cutthroat than the Game of Thrones, all you need to remember is that you've done this before. The next time you hear some catty assistant say, 'I hear that bitch's script sucked.' Remember it's possible there is a story behind that jealousy. Maybe once upon a time in the CAA mail room? Love triangle?

It's a fun game to pretend that we're growing up, but I find that the rules I played by when I was 19 are still pretty relevant.  If you're fun to drink with and a generally cool dude, everything should work out in your favor.

Who knew that studying fraternity politics would come in so handy in the real world?

I laugh when I hear the phrase 'was he in your pledge class at WME?' It's like when you hear the NFL commentators talking about the 'football fraternity.' But for real...Los Angeles and the Greek system are basically the same.

Kontiki

I had this idea for a great novel.

Looking back now it was total shit, the sappiness of a Nicholas Sparks novel and the setting of something out of a Jonathan Green book. Boy meets girl at college, boy and girl fall in love, girl's brother and dad are killed by a drunk driver on a football recruiting trip, everything falls apart.

A classic tale.

But I needed some way to write it.

I was studying abroad in Florence in a 10 person house with 9 other savages. We drank to near black-out almost every night. I did have my first blog (Frat Italy) up and running and I was taking a creative writing class. I had written some short stories but never even thought about the idea of jumping all the way into a novel.

Fuck it. I'm going to write a novel. I'm going to go to the French Riviera, sit on the beach and write a fucking novel. (This was my romanticized idea of what a writer would do)

One Wednesday after my Italian Film class, I walked to the train station to inquire what a ticket up to Nice would cost. 20 Euro one way. It was a 10 hour train ride and it was leaving in 10 minutes.

Without anything more than my laptop and the clothes on my back I got on the train.

I arrived in the French Riviera early the next morning and checked into the first hostel I saw. Then I walked to the beach and started writing a story about a guy who met a girl at the Bloomington quarries. In a scene very reminiscent of Forgetting Sarah Marshall, the guy (I called him Dave because I have no creativity) is afraid to jump and Anna (I had a crush on a girl named Anna) convinces him to jump.

I got maybe 10,000 words in before I went back to my hostel to have a few cocktails. I met some Swedish girls in the hostel and we hit the town that night and simultaneously I had began my career as a writer and an explorer. (This is the exact moment I fell in love with hostels. In one, anything is possible. It's now the only way I travel internationally and also the subject matter of my current television pilot) Since then I have had no trouble traveling alone, with friends, with strangers and I can't get enough.

In August I traveled semi-alone to Ireland/England/France and it was dope. You can read about it here.

In April I traveled fully alone to Denmark/Sweden and it was dope. You can read about it here.

But now, I want to put together an awesome Christmas break trip and I want you to come with me.

The only positive part of my job is that I still get a 2 week Christmas Break which will be something like 12/24 to 1/7 this year. I don't know where I'm going, who I'm going with or what we're going to do. But that's just semantics.

There are companies that specialize in travel for people between 18-35, I've been told it essentially turns into a rage fest. I want to do that, celebrate my 30th birthday early and hard.

Will you join me? Let's talk about where we can go...

Australia
I have cousins that live in a mansion in Australia. They always ask me to visit and I never do because I am an idiot. They tell me that my American accent would crush with all their friends AND STILL I DON'T VISIT BECAUSE I AM AN IDIOT! Unfortunately they always leave Australia for Christmas which is why I think I haven't been yet, but still, Australia is my white whale. The fact that I haven't been there baffles me.

Did I mention that December is the beginning of Australia's winter? Not only can we rip it for New Year's and kick the shit out of any drop bears should we encounter them; we can get liquored up on the beach.

If we hop on a tour we can basically travel on pre-arranged busses and boats, stay in hostels and get fucked up with a bunch of like minded people who are on a vacation with the most hedonistic sensibilities involved. Two weeks certainly isn't enough time to see all of Australia, but it's a good chunk of time to knock out several portions. I think this is an easy leader in the clubhouse.

The Thailand Trip 
I haven't done the Thailand trip yet.

You know, the one where we drink out of buckets on the beach at a full moon party and stay in five star hotels for $17.

It feels like everyone has done that trip. I would like to do that trip.

It seems difficult to plan but with my new job I have approximately 10 hours of downtime every day. We can bring a GoPro and make a video. It will be great.

Colombia
All my crazy friends went to Colombia last year. You know these guys, they're the worst. They went so hard in Colombia that they were broken men. Some of them still haven't resumed partying. They flew too close to the sun and they got burned bad.

That sounds like a great fucking time to me. RT airfare from LAX is like $600 and everything is essentially free once you get there. Definitely the most economical South America trip. I have a friend going this week, I will acquire intel from him upon his return. I hear they have DIY cocaine workshops. Always fun to learn a new skill.

Europe
I know I've been twice in the past several months but I will never turn down a Euro trip. Frankly, I'm obsessed. Even though going to Norway or Iceland in December is fucking absurd, I know it would be a good time and you can get those flights for about $500 round trip. I have it on good authority that Icelandic girls are the most feminist chicks in the world. Translation? Iceland fucks.

I would also never say no to a London trip...OMG am I an Anglophile? I'm an Anglophile. England is probably my favorite country in the world. My friend Hunter has a vacancy. LA you may lose me. I could always write for Peaky Blinders or something.

At least I'm not one of those idiots that is obsessed with France.

Cuba
There are a bunch of hipsters right now saying things like "I want to go to Cuba before America ruins it with luxury hotels and shit."

I am not one of those hipsters. I like luxury hotels and shit. If I wanted to see a shithole I would take an uber to 7th and Spring. That would be much cheaper than getting government permission to go visit a semi-embargoed communist nation.

That said, if you want to go to Cuba, I'm in. It will get me a lot of street cred with the east of the 405 crowd. I think it's also still cheap AF.

Central America
While I feel like going to Central America is a bit of a half measure (it's cooler than going to Mexico but not as cool as going to South America) I would settle for a week long party binge in Panama. Then I could contract Zika virus and maybe my mom would finally accept the fact that she is never having grandchildren.

I'm sorry mom. I prefer traveling to growing up. Thanks for paying my cell phone bill every month.

Africa
Uhhhh...I mean. I would go to Casablanca or Tunisia or something. Capetown? JoBurg?

I'm not trying to go look for clean water in Somalia or go on a safari or some shit.

It would be a nice talking point some day, I feel like it would prove to people that I'm not racist.

A Cruise
I went on a cruise in 8th grade and it was dope. There was a special night club for people 13-18 that played Daft Punk and hosted games like Truth or Dare and Spin the Bottle. One night a guy brought a water bottle full of vodka, I drank 4 shots and puked. It was rad.

Furthermore, all the food on a cruise is fucking free. I ate like 10 steaks one night and then I puked, it was rad. There is also all you can eat soft serve ice cream, a casino, a rock climbing wall, 4 pools and 7 hot tubs, basketball courts, an ice skating rink and cool island stops.

Imagine adding a bunch of booze to this equation, it's a god damn dream.

Now I imagine the shitty Skrillex Carnival Cruise probably doesn't have half the cool perks that Royal Caribbean did in the late 90's, but there are probably people that figure out a way to sneak on acid, so we've got that going for us.

Literally anywhere else
I hope I get a lot of responses to this, publicly and privately. But if I don't and there is one person who wants to go to Mongolia for Christmas? I'm down. You want to go to Rosarito and get lit at Papas & Beer for a week straight? We could do worse!

There are 196 countries in the world and for real, I would probably be keen to visit about 190 of them. (I don't fuck with the middle east at the moment, I'm not Shane Smith)

So if you're planning a kick ass Christmas Vacation, count me in. Or let's plan one ourselves. We've got 6 months to save up. I'm personally going to put $80 of every paycheck between now and then in a new account. That should give me about 2 grand to play with. It's not a lot, but it's a start.

And next year we can go somewhere else. And the year after that, somewhere else. I'm not planning on getting married or laying down roots anytime soon.

Let's go see the world.