Rogue John Mayers– There is a 5-song max!!! Normally someone will pick up the guitar and timidly pluck at the strings and say something like, “Oh I haven’t played in forever,” or “I only know a couple songs.” This is what you want to hear because these people will play their “House of the Rising Sun,” “Ring of Fire” and “Wish you Were Here” and be done with it. Everyone sings along and laughs and times are good. If someone starts tuning the guitar by ear or drops that they are in a band, run for the fucking hills. You are about to sit through a brutal session, which usually entails long periods of required silence and obligatory compliments such as, “wow that was really powerful.” I don’t care how many chords you know or how sultry your voice may be, I didn’t ask for a private concert so please play your 5 songs and shut that shit.
Side note: Beware of those who bring hand drums. While a skilled percussionist can add depth to a jam session, a drunk or “in the zone” hand slapper can quickly become a nuisance.
No respect.
Reckless Roasters- We’re all adults now, which means find your stick, widdle what you will, apply the mallow and exercise a bit of patience. I’ll have none of this juvenile putting the entire mallow in the hot, hot flame and burning the crap out of it. Everyone knows you are not enjoying your burnt ass smore. Get your grown smore on.
Let me in guys.
Tentative Tent Sharers– I recently went camping with some friends. Before we left I asked if any of them had a tent I could share. Apparently this is the most inappropriate question to ask before a camping trip. “Umm that’s weird. Why don’t you have a tent?” Oh is that weird? Sorry, but in the midst of trying to get a fulfilling job, find love, make friends, travel, build my skill set, and rage, buying a fucking tent slipped my mind! My apologies!
Side note: Stop bringing all of your bedding from home and putting into your tent like its your bed away from bed. Everyone knows sleeping in a tent is uncomfortable no matter how many amenities one brings. They are smelly, hot sickly chambers usually on uneven ground. Your duvet won’t help matters.
The ravine is just down the way.
The Snorelax- (I think I’m actually included in this group) Kindly roll yourself off a ravine.
Stay in your site old people.
Neighborly Neds- Stay the eff in your own campsite. This ain’t the club. I don’t care if you need firewood, firs aid or just a friend. I’m here with my friends trying to create my own memories. I don’t need you coming over in your Tour De France outfit telling me about how long it takes to bike down the California coast. You’re smelly and making people uncomfortable.
Side note: If you are an attractive group of female campers you may approach. BUT WITH CAUTION.
Double Side note: This never happens.
Did you study at Le Cordon Bleu?
Julia Childs Style– Oh! Didn’t know we invited Julia and Julia, Alice Waters and Wolfgang Puck on this trip. If you are going to spend half your rent check on organic foods for one weekend then so be it, but don’t have the audacity to critique my bud lights, block of cheese and ballpark franks. You can eat your quinoa and leek beet salad sandwich, but do so sans smirk and in silence.
That’ll do just fine.
Fire Fuhrer– Nobody cares that you took a wilderness survival-training course or went backpacking for a week in Yosemite. Everyone has a Bic and can find some paper and kindling. “Hmm I noticed you didn’t create a teepee structure, which is really the most efficient…” Shut that shit. I have a lighter. We’ll all be just fine.
A good friend recently called me and asked if I wanted to attend a local trivia night in the Bay Area. While flattered by the gesture, I informed the friend that I live in L.A. and unless he wanted to fly me up for the night like some high-end trivia escort, I would have to decline the invite.
“Really? How long have you been down there?”
“Over two years now. You should probably know this information about me”
“Shit man. What are you still doing down there? That place sucks.”
Most Northern Californians would agree with my friend, and most Southern Californians would be oblivious to the fact that their neighbors despise them so much, but at the same time carry an air of superiority that hints that they care more than they let on.
My friend was bummed that he wouldn’t have enough for a six-man team (and someone to crush current events) and then asked me, “So what’s better? The Bay or LA?” As always these debates are a matter of personal preference and clearly the fact I was born and raised in the Bay Area may cause some bias, but I do love L.A. I really do. I also wrote for my school newspaper for a few months so this will be a totally and completely objective look at both regions in hopes of settling the great yell-off.
Weather: LA
LA– Some say LA is devoid of weather. Those people are idiots or ungrateful and sentimental Easterners who miss the “change of the seasons.” Big ‘effin deal. The leaves change color for a couple days, snow is fun and nostalgic for maybe a day if you don’t have to work or be somewhere and rain puts you in a reflective mood until you want to kill yourself. Guess what everyone says after a week of freezing cold, wet and uncomfortable conditions? “I want sun!” LA has 9,000 days of sun a year. I describe it like being in a well-maintained lizard terrarium where everyone moves slow and licks the glass. (Not the best analogy but that’s how I’ve described it to like 5 people) You don’t have to wear a jacket at night and oh boy those Santa Ana winds…don’t quite know what they are, but people talk about them like lost lovers.
Bay– The Bay’s air is crisper and the light less intense. There are so many microclimates that it is hard to make an accurate comparison, but foggy summers in SF seem to be a downer for most who live there. We are all familiar with Mark Twain’s famous quote, “Fuck this fog, I’m kicking it in the East Bay today.”
Nature/Outdoors: Bay
LA– Los Angeles loses this one, but not by much. Everyone thinks LA is some sprawling shithole, isolated from anything beautiful. While there is a serious lack of green within the city, LA is super close to wonderful hiking in Malibu and San Bernardino, cliff jumping in Azusa, skiing in Big Bear and of course water sports all along its inviting beaches. Hey! There are beaches in the Bay too! Yea and they suck. Ocean Beach is freezing, Stinson is only good in summer and far away, and Robert Crown Memorial is just…well…heroine needly.
Bay– Pretty tough to beat the Bay in terms of natural beauty. First of all there is a big and beautiful bay that wraps around the major cities. There is a huge forest of redwoods where John Muir used to go and do things and a park the size of the city itself plopped in the middle with buffalo roaming around. When I was considering moving to LA, I visited my aunt and she was adamant about showing me the Silverlake reservoir and described it as “beautiful.” To be clear, reservoir is not an acronym for something awesome, it’s literally a water containment facility with a barbed wire fence around it next to a patch of grass, but people had come to cherish this small bit of green and blue within the city. Not a good sign.
Traffic/Public Transportation: Bay
LA– No secret here. All you have to do is watch this video to understand how LA traffic drives people insane. I’ve tried herbal teas, reggae mixes and deep breathing techniques. Nothing works. The metro isn’t bad, but it doesn’t service enough areas and if you polled Angelinos, I’m sure most wouldn’t even know LA has a subway system.
Bay– Yes, traffic here can suck too, but I’ve never had to put on Bob Marley to physically stop myself from murdering someone. Muni and Bart are gross, but fairly accessible and if you haven’t pissed in a Gatorade bottle on your way back from New Years, you’re not living.
People/Sense of Community: Bay
LA– This one was hard to call and I’ll explain why. LA has a terrible reputation for being full of pretentious, fake and fame hungry airheads. These people do exist, but they are not the majority and you don’t have to interact with them if you don’t want to. You’re a big boy now. LA is huge! There are so many unique neighborhoods that give you a different flavor of LA life. It’s a melting pot of transients, natives, immigrants, celebrities, and those trying to become celebrities. Here is the double-edged sword. LA is an entertainment hub and industry. People move here from all over the world to make a career out of their artistic passion and craft. I’ve never been surrounded by this many talented and driven people in my life, and that is a credit to the magnetism of LA. This also means everyone moves here for a purpose, not merely for a change of scenery. Careers come first, which means relationships and friends come second. I’ve never been exposed to so much fakery and flakery in my life. Distance between neighborhoods, traffic, auditions, gigs, shoots, shows, headshots and diets are all reasons given for not hanging out, and that’s bullshit. Some call it independence; I’d call it loneliness.
Bay- I think the Bay wins this because of what the area does to people. LA has made me slightly impatient and mistrusting of people’s intentions. The bay tends to attract and nurture a sense of tolerance and curiosity. People are encouraged to be themselves and that creates a very unique region full of interesting and mostly intelligent people. I’m not saying people in LA are stupid, but the general discourse revolves around entertainment, which is to be expected, but exhausting nonetheless. Something brought to my attention, however, is the fierce regionalism that exists within the Bay. There is a certain aura of self-righteousness that exudes from bay folks, which can be perceived by outsiders as pretentious or just downright ridiculous. We’re still pretty sweet though. (Most biased section. I swear)
Food: This decision was excruciating, but I think LA takes it. I’m not a foodie so I don’t know where to get bomb Azerbaijani food, but I can speak on the main cuisines. Affordability and food trucks tip the scales.
Burritos: Bay
Mexican/Latin: LA
Burgers: LA
Pizza: Bay
Korean/Japanese: LA
Chinese: Bay
Indian: I don’t know, it all runs thru me.
Thai: LA
Food Trucks: LA
Oh, but what about Alice Waters and the California Cuisine/Organic farms/Gourmet Ghetto revolution in the Bay? It’s all great, but like I said before I don’t have the duckets to go to Chez Panisse or some Michelin 4 star joint and eat dungeoness crab with gold on top.
So if you are counting at home I guess the Bay takes it, but there is a reason I haven’t moved back yet. LA is a really cool place with a lot to offer and I wish people gave it more of a chance. Why here’s an idea! Now that my friends know that I’ve been living in LA for the last two years, they can come visit and see for themselves how sweet it is, and then talk shit about it when they get back to the Bay.
Bros– Whether they are donning boat shoes and Oakleys or neon tanks and Chuck Taylors, the bros will be out in full force. While they used to be confined to beaches, skate parks and yachting regattas, bros are now free to frolic and be sweet in any social setting. Much like the ambiguous “hipster” tag, being labeled a bro often carries a negative connotation and causes fits of denial from the accused, but fear not my dude, you are to be celebrated. There are sunny days ahead, three months of them actually, all yours to make super epiiiiiiiiiiiiii.
Get it Girl!!!
Babes– The sun plays three important roles in our lives. It makes us less depressed, something…something…plant…photosynthesis, and occasionally it makes girls hot and uncomfortable enough to wear less clothing. Yea! Babes have been hard at work since winter chiseling and forming their bikini bods. You might have even caught an FB status or two like, “Gettin’ it in on the treadmill,” or “Just Zumba’d with my babes! My buns are on fiyah!!! Hehe :).”
You guys know beach right?
Beach– The natural playground for the babes and bros, and the occasional over lathered geisha girl. The beach is a delight, but I don’t need to tell you, that’s simps knowledge. What you might not know is that the beach is sexy, (babes) gross, (fat pales) strange, (overdressed crazies looking for trinkets) dangerous, (big waves and wild Frisbees) and cantankerous, (just like that word). The beach isn’t going anywhere (actually due to erosion and global warming what have yous it might be going somewhere) so have a visit while you can and enjoy summer’s #1 destination.
Niceeeeeee
Brews– Sixers, Twelvers, 18’s, 32’s, 30 racks, 24’s, 40’s…I could keep listing shit. It’s amazing how many different ways and ounces you can get drunk in. These are the choices you will make this summer, and they will be difficult. Do I get a sixer of something nice? A twelver of high life and hand them out like water bottles? 40 to the dome and scare everybody at the party? Believe it or not people are still judged on what kind of beer they bring. Here are my recommendations.
Serious Adult- 12 of Lagunitas IPA
Reminiscent Randy- 30 of Bud Light
Frighten People at the Party- 40 of Mickey’s to the face
Joke Purchase that you Regret- BL Limes
J.R. Hungotown
Barbecues– When the Bloods and the Crips met in the 90’s to discuss a potential truce between them, guess what they did? Had a mother effin’ BBQ! Barbecues bring people together and usually make them happy. So scrub that grimy shit off you forgot to last summer and throw on the slabs of meat. If you are feeling extra tolerant, you can even invite your vegetarian friends over and watch them begrudgingly enjoy a grilled pineapple. Idiots.
I could watch so many battleships with these
Blunts– Summer is a time to rage, but also a time to chill. Bet you didn’t know a season could be so complex. I’ll admit I haven’t had a blunt in years, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t belong with the b’s of summer.
“Does anyone want to go see Battleship?”
“Hell no, that shit looks terrible!” 10 minutes after blunt….
“Yo, we should go see Battleship.”
Take your pick
Balls– Gross guys, not those. I mean balls as they relate to sports. Baseball, Basketball and Bacci ball are all great summer time activities. I actually dislike baseball, but for some reason when summer hits I’m compelled to pay 15 bucks and sit in a tiny plastic chair for 4 hours watching grown men jog and spit. Pretty weird when you think about it, but it wouldn’t be summer without it.
Fun game to play: See how many b’s of summer you can incorporate together. If anyone sends me a pic of him or her doing all 7 Ill give them a prize. That would be brews and blunts with your bros barbecuing at the beach watching babes play with balls. Have a great summer!
People Who Don’t Get in the Water- My friend threw an awesome party in Sherman Oaks. This is usually an impossible task, but yesterday it was 90 degrees, there was a pool, unlimited beer and countless cheese products and dips. There were approximately 50 people at this party. In my head I was formulating all kinds of crazy pool games. A 25 on 25 Marco Polo, Red Rover but with drowning, and a roof jump cannonball contest were just some of the activities that crossed my mind. I haven’t anticipated that much pool fun since the invention of the noodle. Peak sun hit around 3 PM and I would say only 15-20 people got in the water. What the hell is wrong with you? I overheard someone say the water was too cold. Someone else said they couldn’t get their hair wet, and one partygoer held a straight face and actually said they don’t like water, and some other idiot agreed with them! The only dude I had respect for was the fattest guy at the party. I asked him to get in the water and he said, “No, I have a terrible body and I don’t want people to see it.” Thanks for being honest. Every species gets in the water to cool off or enjoy themselves, what makes you such a rebel? “Oh no thanks, I’m actually quite comfortable standing on a hot ass deck in 90 degree sun talking about editing continuity for 3 hours. Get in that water!
You want a Beer? No I’m Good– If you aren’t driving and haven’t recently been to an AA meeting, there is no reason to turn down a beer on Memorial Day. Oh you only drink whiskey? Sorry Don Draper, but this is not a day for sophistication and beautifully structured dialogue, it’s a day for drinking luke warm beers with the American flag on them and then crushing that can with your best axe kick. Stop being a weirdo and join the party.
This Conversation– Inevitably there is someone who starts yelling, usually after a jello shot, “What is Memorial Day about anyway!? Like what are we even celebrating!”? Then another idiot will raise his shot glass and say something super witty like, “Alcoholism!” and people might laugh, but watch for the person who doesn’t laugh and tries to get deep and contemplative on the crowd by schooling everyone on the military industrial complex. If you or a family member have been affected by war, I offer my condolences and truly wish that weren’t a reality, but please recognize that heat exhaustion and binge drinking are not conducive to healthy political discourse.
Attractive Girls with Stupid Looking Boyfriends Who Wear Hot Bikinis Under Flowy Garments and Never Take it Off– Ok so this is a real specific call out and I shouldn’t hate, but it did kind of bring down my buzz a little. There is so much good this girl could have done for the party, but by keeping her silly shawl on, she only angered most guys there and ultimately brought negative vibes because of it. So much potential wasted.
Congratulations graduates of 2007. It’s all down hill after the bagpipes. Ms. Veronica Dalton’s commencement speech is riddled with enigmatic phrases. It is not an interesting speech. Ms. Dalton drones on about worlds and oysters, babies and bathwater and other parabolic pearls that leave the sweaty audience prodding their temples and massaging their eye sockets.
My family sits with Cheshire cat smiles plastered across their faces, proud of their son for all of his accomplishments. They sit on the plot of land where I and forty other College Freshmen used to smoke copious amounts of marijuana on our well-deserved holiday of weed Wednesday. Several rows in front of my family sits Howie Mandel. Wait a second. One hundred degree heat and several shots of strong whiskey can make even a porch drinker delirious, but I’m fairly certain this is the guy. His bald dome drips sweat onto the lapel of his expensive shirt, most likely a shirt he uses when selling those briefcases of money on TV. Why is he here though? Why is he listening to Ms. Dalton’s dribble? Why isn’t he giving the commencement speech? Is Howie Mandel too good for Santa Cruz? “Screw him,” I utter out loud. A fellow social studies major tells me I seriously need to shut up and that he can’t hear Veronica’s speech over my mutterings. My apologies to Ms. Dalton.
I focus long enough to take my cue and toss my mortarboard to the sky. I purposefully fling mine in the direction of Mr. Mandel, but his chair is vacant. I look up at the hill, past the weed spot to where the bagpipes played and there he is. His head vibrates in the hot mess of the noon sun. He knows something I don’t. I want to run up there and confront him, but as the mortarboards fall back to earth, I am bombarded with fist bumps from bros I barely knew and hugs from girls I never got a chance to fuck.
“So what’s the next step?” asks my Aunt. “The right one” I reply. Uncomfortable chuckles all around. I swear when I’m around friends and immediate family I’m actually quite delightful, it’s extended family I haven’t gotten the hang of. They are like those acquaintances at school or work you always aim to avoid, but they always seem to find you. They have collected thousands of facts about you through casual conversation and so your social interactions begin to take the shape of a morning history lecture. In this case they are family, so I’m obligated to respond. “I’m seriously considering teaching English abroad, or maybe in some random ghetto of America.”
This is quickly becoming the popular pre-requisite for affluent graduates who don’t have a clue and don’t have loans to pay off. Middle-class family. Yes. Grandma’s education fund for me and my cousin. Check. Penchant for eating exotic food and canoodling with foreign members of the opposite sex. Indeed. So there we go by the thousands. Hordes of ill-equipped, undertrained white missionaries set out to have casual conversations with perverse businessmen about the benefits of fake breasts.
Upon my return, during the car ride back from the airport, I realize the great mistake we all make when we return home. Home is a comfort zone and nothing gets done when you are comfortable. When you are comfortable your blood slows, brain festers, that group of almost friends that never left still hasn’t and your parents (lovely as they may be) are always there to put things in perspective.
Minor failures and inconveniences have never been so frustrating. Struggling to twist off the top of a pickle jar or separating an icepack from its plastic casing become the ultimate test of manhood and maturity. To make matters worse, the injury that required ice was during a game of basketball with drunken bums. A bum collided into me at full speed with no intention of stealing the ball and inadvertently kicked the outside pad of my right foot under the little toe. My mother was naturally worried when I came home gimp and cursing the homeless. She called my Uncle who is a doctor and after a few questions informed me I most likely had a “dancer’s break.” Ballerinas get them while performing dainty hops and spins. I swear I heard my mother call me a bitch under her breath. I would have to inform my work of the unfortunate news.
After twenty years of formal education, it appears the only thing I’m technically qualified for is part-time yard duty official. I don’t mean to make light of the yard duty profession, but any job in which the description reads, “Must be able to eat absurd amounts of string cheese and know how to yell and blow a whistle,” should probably be under the ‘idiots’ section on craigslist rather than part-time jobs. Again, I’m exaggerating only slightly, but I put more kids on timeout, yelled at more toddlers for playground indiscretions and drank more milk mini-milk cartons then I ever will as a parent. Lactose intolerant need not apply. In this beastly economy, however, I’ll take my snack pack and meager hourly wage and shut my mouth.
I don’t watch much TV. I think it’s because we are one of the remaining families in the US to own a TV and not have cable. This affords me the neurotic luxury of memorizing every local news channel anchor and correspondent. KTVU Consumer Editor Tom Vacar. Political Correspondent Randy Shandobil. South Bay Correspondent Lloyd Lacuesta. Nightly news anchor Frank Somerville, who my parents always remind me went to high school with my older brother, and of course Meteorologist Bill Martin who my dad always curses for botching the report. His work has been waning as of late, and I think Gasia Mikalian is being eyed as a replacement. Sometimes when I watch television or I am in an equally dull situation in life, I fantasize about moving to Brazil and starting a youth hostel and surf camp, or living in Europe playing for a Division III soccer club, or better yet moving to Saudi Arabia and creating the first international giraffe racing league. All these things require money, which is something I don’t have and it makes me angry at times.
A particularly obnoxious commercial usually rousts me from my wanderings. ‘Coming up next. Howie Mandel’s Deal or No Deal.’ We meet again Mr. Mandel. Your digitally enhanced baldhead is even more impressive on TV. I watch silently as all the questions on that fateful graduation day churn about. What is his profession really? Is he a game show host, briefcase salesmen or mind meddler? Why can’t I have this cushy job? I try to place myself in the dank flats of the delightfully plump Ms. Carnie Packard who is playing for the million. Howie changes cameras and turns his glance to me. He seems to be offering me a choice. Given my present circumstances, would I blindly choose one briefcase from a group of 30 briefcases, ranging in value from one cent to one million dollars, in exchange for not having to figure out what to do with the rest of my life? Although it’s hard to imagine living off one cent, I honestly don’t have an answer to Howie’s hypothetical. There is a certain warped quality to my generation and me. We tend to put in the least amount of effort and expect the greatest rewards. We are spoiled. I am not willing to give up yet, but as I sit and watch another friend dragged off to law school, my eye cannot help but think that briefcase number seven looks especially shiny.
Topanga– What can I say about this wild haired lass? Is she White? Armenian? Or some exotic mix of unbridled passion and scornful lust. Whatever she is she made sitting thru Corey Matthews bullshit far more tolerable. The best thing about her is she has no point of reference. Mr. Pheeny is the principal and neighbor. Sean is the best friend who lives in a trailer park, and to my knowledge Topanga is some incredibly attractive orphan girl who shows up in episodes periodically to remind me I’m a red blooded American boy.
Before Lil Wayne made a song…
Dion– I never thought I would admit this, but D from Clueless makes me wish I were Donald Faison for those 2 hours, pubic stash, gap tooth and all. She was beyond dope. She looked ridiculous at that High School, mainly because she was Black in Beverly Hills, but also because she was 100 times doper than any other student. I didn’t fall for Alicia Silverstones’ whiny voice or dumpy frame, and I certainly wasn’t enticed by weirdo turned entitled bitch Brittany Murphy. When D came out rocking that bikini in the pool scene, I had to excuse myself to the bathroom for some alone time…to poop guys. I ate too many Reese’s Cups and was nervous because it was my first sleepover. Also Stacey Dash was super hot.
So easy to tell.
Tia from Sister Sister– Yes, one twin was finer than the other, and everyone knew it. I can’t imagine growing up the less attractive twin in front of a public audience, albeit a small, afternoon UPN public audience. It must have been excruciating, but I couldn’t help see Tamera as anything but a goofy study buddy, whereas Tia exuded sex and sophistication.
Not racist…right?
Yellow Ranger– In a 1992 interview with Esquire, Fox executive Don Holcomb said, “The Yellow Ranger suit was literally the last color we had, and Trini Kwan was the last actor we hired for the show. Swear to God bro.” This is a fake quote and what Fox did is insensitive, but if we can look past the suit, we find a beautiful Vietnamese orchid who kicked and hi-ya’d her way to my heart. She also had an incredibly strange and tragic life before and after her stint with the Rangers. Check it out.
Yup.
Mya– Her only song I know of is “Ghetto Superstar” and that was enough. She is the only person I’ve waited in line to get an autograph from. Pretty weird right? I stood outside the Rasputin Records on Telegraph in Berkeley, CA for over 2 hours to get an autograph from Mya. I’m cracking up writing this. She was dope though. I still remember her outfit. Atlanta Braves bucket hat, lime green tank top, jean skirt and Timbos. Yes Mam, now that was an outfit.
Why did this happen?
Starship Troopers Shower Scene– There really needed to be some extra special rating for this movie. Maybe like, “Don’t go see this with your Mom because there is a shower scene out of nowhere that will make you feel super uncomfortable.” As you can guess this is precisely what happened. I was fully immersed in the intergalactic bloodbath, rooting for Rico to avenge his smoldering hometown of Buenos Aires, (WTF?) when that skinny red head decided to challenge gender roles and show her tits in the shower. Oh man. I had seen boobs in Porky’s, and a pair of panties in Revenge of the Nerds, but I was not ready for exposed ginger nipple sitting next to my Mother.
Wants it so bad.
Kelly Kapowski– What a dreamboat. With her short shorts and those little white Keds, she would shuffle around the halls of Bayside High rousing the attention of students, teachers and Mr. Beldings alike. She wanted it bad. Who knows if Zach Morris ever got her? Part of me thinks Belding was involved in some scandalous aftercurriculars, but we may never know. Or will we? Quick side note: Mr. Belding hangs out at bars in the Sherman Oaks all the time. He is apparently very friendly and approachable, so if you are so inclined go ask him yourself. I’m certainly not going to the valley.
So bad.
Tia Carrere– I was sha-winging all over the place.
Jasmine– She’s so sexy when she’s mad.
Never thought she would have a career.
Kelly Bundy– The hot, trashy white. She was dumb, pretty and poor, and 8 year old Me was very intrigued. She was both dangerous and accessible and ultimately a great life lesson. This was the girl you date for a summer, but never bring home to mother.
I know I said I would post on Monday about my weekend in Vegas, but sometimes after hurting your liver the last thing you think about is logging onto your blog and trying to be clever. So here it is some days later. For those counting at home, I will give myself a win for this trip , which brings my all time record against Vegas to a respectable 2-2. I did not win exorbitant sums of money, or go home with Kate Uptonesque girls (Hippos!!!), but I learned a lot about myself this trip. The theme for Vegas 2012 was called Getting Older. From watching 20/20 specials sipping whiskey in my room on a Friday night, to I’ding girls who claimed they were 21 on the strip, to bringing a Dave Eggers novel poolside and actually reading an entire chapter, to shopping for a nice dress shirt at Zara, to asking strippers about their health benefits, it all tied in to that inevitable clock-ticking truth. And I could really care less. I raged hard this weekend, don’t get me wrong. I drank unhealthy amounts of Jack, hollered at girls, bet on stupid things, and saw the sunrise because I know that won’t last, and I’m pretty happy about it. I embrace the fact that Vegas allows me to act like a degenerate for 2 days, but I also embrace my more mature proclivities. So let’s raise our Hennessy and flat red bulls and have a toast. To Vegas 2013! May it be filled with expensive steak houses, spa treatments, and The Blue Man Group.
8:37 PM Friday: Arrive at Treasure Island in an overheated ’65 Mustang. Pit stains non-existent because I’m wearing a Turquoise tank. Swag?
8:59 PM Friday: Fatigued from the hot ride, drink Gatorade and watch the last half of Speed in the room, friends tell me I’ve changed.
10:45 PM Friday: Guy in Ed Hardy shirt asks me “How do you play craps!” Turns out to be an all right guy.
12:25 AM Saturday: Make out with questionable looking drunk girl. (Or does she think she’s making out with questionable looking drunk guy? Wig out mind meddler)
1:40 AM Saturday: Next “Too Close” might be on, but I’m in a full BO so its’ hard to tell. Girl asks me to hold her Iphone, I pocket it and forget, and she accuses me of trying to steal it. I leave the club. #Lightweightjealouscause Ihaveaflipphone
3:17 AM Saturday: Make a terrible order at the Bellagio café such and such. Eat Fish and Chips with drunken 21 year olds from Tacoma. Feel old.
4:10 AM Saturday: Win $300 dollars in Craps; think I know how to win at Craps.
4:25 AM Saturday: Seriously contemplate seeing Carrot Top live.
5:45 AM Saturday: Painful rest.
9:45 AM Saturday: Awoken by friends who convince me to bet actual money on a three team parlay involving the Knick to cover, Pacers to cover and Celtics to win straight up. Good lord that went poorly.
10:30 AM Saturday: Watch first two quarters of the Heat game, want to cry and take a nap.
11:18 AM Saturday: Go to pool, apply sunscreen, look like a geisha girl, and listen to Flo Rida.
11:45 AM Saturday: Flo Rida is still on, and that red German is still dancing in front of the DJ, how is this possible?
1:54 PM Saturday: Stripper asks me where I get my haircut. I reply “At Rudy’s on Sunset” She gets up and walks away.
4:27 PM Saturday: Mustang won’t start for 2 hours. Saved by a redneck. Leave Vegas slightly sun burnt in the company of good friends.
This weekend I will head to Las Vegas carrying a 1-2 record against the city. My losses are mostly due to sunburns, lost money and an underwhelming buffet. My one win was hard fought and revolved around investing in stronger SPF and not playing roulette. Despite movies like the Hangover and highly embellished stories from your raver friends, Vegas isn’t all that wild and unpredictable. In fact, if I could bet on what would happen during my fourth encounter in Vegas, I would be a rich man. The following are my predictions for this weekend. On Monday I will post the actual results of the unhealthy adventure and we will all see how smart and conceited I am.
8:37 PM Friday: Arrive at Treasure Island slightly buzzed with pit stains developing.
8:59 PM Friday: Change into my sexy shirt, head down to Casino and immediately lose $75 @ Craps table.
10:45 PM Friday: Guy in Affliction T-Shirt asks me “What the fuck I’m staring at!”
12:25 AM Saturday: Make out with questionable looking drunk girl.
1:40 AM Saturday: Next “Too Close” is on. Dance in a weird circle with my friends, pit stains appear on my sexy shirt.
3:17 AM Saturday: Make a terrible order @ Denny’s
4:10 AM Saturday: Win $15 dollars in Craps; think I know how to win at Craps.
4:25 AM Saturday: Lose $110 at Craps. Definitely don’t know how to win at Craps.
5:45 AM Saturday: Painful rest.
9:45 AM Saturday: Awoken by friends who convince me to bet actual money on a three team parlay involving the Blue Jays, Coyotes and Royals.
10:30 AM Saturday: Watch first two innings of a Royals game, want to cry and throw up, can’t decide which yet.
11:18 AM Saturday: Go to pool, apply sunscreen, look like a geisha girl, listen to LMFAO.
11:45 AM Saturday: LMFAO is still on, how is this possible?
1:54 PM Saturday: Put $10 on black in Roulette, win. Feel like a fucking king. Buy Pastrami sandwich with my earnings.
4:27 PM Saturday: Buy expensive Aloe Vera, receive word the Blue Jays have lost and drive home sun burnt.
While most College Seniors are planning their epic trip to Cabo, I was convinced to spend four wild days in Willits. For those unfamiliar, Willits is a small town in Northern California that is notable for being small and full of weed (to be fair this can aptly describe any town north of the Bay Area, CA). I like to compare it to the shire from Lord of the Rings, but instead of Hobbits, its inhabitants include ganja farmers and Woody Harrelson type dealers.
With the appropriate iPod playlist at the ready, two friends and I hopped in the whip and reggae free-styled our way up state. We arrived at our destination in high spirits, and pretty much kept those spirits for the next four days. It’s difficult to be a Debbie downer when you’re a guest on a weed farm. The next 96 hours were admittedly a blur, but I remember four things that were way more awesome than anything I could have done in Cabo.
Shooting AK-47: Shooting an AK is like playing a video game. I honestly felt like I was just pressing R2 the entire time. I stood on top of a bluff overlooking the Eel River, and shot the crap out of boulders while laughing softly. It’s creepy how powerful you feel with one of those tucked under your armpit. I pretended I was a Russian guard who finally got the best of Bond and Natalia in the Stacks. It was glorious.
Rafting down the Eel River: Looking back this was pretty sketch. My friend and I literally took turns blowing air into a tiny children’s raft that clearly wasn’t meant for two grown men. With our compromised lung capacity, we failed to properly inflate the raft, but that didn’t stop us. Like a couple of veteran Oregon trailers with no Indians in sight, we chose to cock the raft and float it. We started sinking immediately, the currents were wild and the water freezing, but somehow we navigated that river for 5 minutes with our friends Cyborg dog paddling by our side. Just one of those “I can’t believe this is working moments.”
Racing Through the Woods: Weedy McGee (farm owner) wanted to show us how beautiful the sunset was from the ridge. We were losing light quick, so clearly a dirt bike/ATV race was in order. I was tripping the hardest so I sat bitch on the ATV. Unbeknownst to me, Weedy McGee was born on a dirt bike because he smashed through the woods like Bigfoot on a bender. My friend valiantly tried to keep up, but we hit a steep uphill and ended up flipping the ATV and had to use our Zeus like quads to flip it behind us. Normally, a near fatal ATV crash would stop me in my tracks, but we had a sunset to catch and Weedy McGee was right, it was beautiful.
Playing Every Instrument Ever: Apparently when you run a weed farm you get lonely, and when you get lonely you buy every instrument imaginable. I played no less than 32 instruments in a circular room for 9 hours. I thought I was the shit. Gamelans, Djembes, Obos, it didn’t matter, I awkwardly played them all, high as shit in a dimly lit room.
I have never been back to Willits, and I will never go again. I want to keep my epic senior spring break enshrined in its proper haze of AK’s and questionable river rafting. So if you are off to some sun burnt slosh fest this spring break, kudos my friend, but everyone should have their Willits. Get weird.
Very Serious Barista 