I am a writer living in LA. I perform at the UCB.
My friend and I created DEALBREAKER and we wrote a book about it. I make videos too. If that's not enough, I also
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DEHorwitz at gmail . com
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There’s No Such Thing As Free Jameson
Last night I went to a party at the bar around the corner from my house and when I got there two fire trucks with their lights flashing were parked outside and they were taking someone away in a stretcher who had apparently fainted. When I went into the bar it was really dark and people seemed really disoriented. I went up to the bartender I know the best (we are friendly outside of the bar when we see each other, etc.) and asked her what was up. “I have no idea, it’s super weird tonight.” I agreed that it was and she said that she could use a shot. I agreed that that sounded good and the next thing I knew she had two shot glasses out. Wow, I thought, it’s official: I’m friends with a bartender! We’re going to do a shot together! When she went to get the bottle the girl standing next to me said, “did you just buy the bartender a shot?” I looked at her like she was crazy and said, “no, no, we’re friends,” as if to say, “How dare you assume that? This woman who sells alcohol for a living is about to give me some for free.” When she came back with the bottle of Jameson, she asked which beer I wanted too, which really solidified it for me. “Which beer did you want? You know, for the only part of this transaction I’m going to charge you for,” her tone MUST have been conveying. She brought it over, we did the shots, and then she charged me for all of it. Yup! Not one beer. One beer and two shots and this was not a strange thing for one half of the people involved. She smiled, I paid, and then she walked away. The girl standing next to me looked amused, and I felt oddly proud, as this was the first time I’d been roped into buying a bartender a drink. I would like to offer a sincere commendation to this very slick woman, who made it seem like a fun activity between friends rather than a business transaction. Let’s hope I’m not magically carrying a ton of cash the next time a really affable prostitute chats me up about all the cool bands I must have on my iTunes and wouldn’t it be rad to go listen to them in my room for several hundred dollars an hour?
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A Pack of Wolves
Friday night I was bouncing around from thing to thing. I started my night at a birthday party and ended up in a friend’s living room very late at night/early in the morning, where I was made to listen to Swedish House Mafia while everyone laughed at the judgmental, scornful old man faces I was making. Somewhere in between I briefly joined up with four female friends at a bar, who were there to meet up with some guy that one of them knew and about 5 or 6 of his bros.
And make no mistake, they WERE bros. They were the khakis and free-t-shirt-they-got-from-a-thing set. They looked to be about 18 years old, like college freshman embarking upon their first frat party, or their first local bar with a doorman that turns a blind eye to clearly fake IDs. I was fairly shocked to learn that they were 24, because it immediately sent me into a spiral of “oh my god, I must be a million years old if they looked like teenagers to me.”
But this was different. They were young to me because they were a pack. A pack of wolfbros out to troll for some ladies. Here’s how a night like this goes down: Alpha bro will inform betas that there is a place where girls are going to be, often times “hot” girls. Bros will then roll as deep as possible to said place and divide and conquer. And divide they did, in the most impossible and clumsy of combinations: two of them talked directly into the ears of the least single girl (read: lives with boyfriend), two scrolled on their iPhones in opposite dark corners, one was putting some major moves on a friend who was just laughing at him, while a sleepy guy who was described to me as looking like “the deformed guy from Goonies” (even though he didn’t) sat across from them, staring into the void, having waking dreams about Taco Bell and his, I’m assuming, race-car bed.
I can’t tell if I was a threat or merely an annoyance to them, as they seemed drunk enough to be undeterred by anything when I arrived. I don’t think I was, to borrow a phrase from bros, cockblocking, because it was plain to me that my female friends were not interested in any of them, and had decided to hang out with them almost as a goof. Whatever the case, it wasn’t stopping them from swarming these women, who just laughed at them long after last call, until the lights came up and we all spilled onto the sidewalk.
When we were all accounted for outside, the bro-pack mobilized and started following my friends to their car. Everyone was laughing, but I noticed a slight turn at this point. They weren’t frightened, or even threatened, but they seemed a little more cautious then when we were inside the bar, with it’s decent lighting and dozens of strangers within arm’s reach. Their laughter and their pace more hurried, their smiles a little more forced. They were entertained, but their night was ending, and this gaggle of tall skinny baby-men weren’t tired and weren’t ready to say goodbye.
At the car, the wolfboys started trying to plan a second location, but the ladies weren’t hungry, or thirsty, or, if my powers of perception were correct, interested in sex with any of them. At this point, hugs were given out, and then taken, and then we were all in the car. I was parked a block away, but wanted to ride with them in case something weird happened. And it did happen. The ringleader started to get into the car through the passenger’s side window, onto my friends lap. Everyone was laughing so hard. Losing their breath. But he wouldn’t get out of the car once the joke was over. Classic comedy mistake. Never overstay your welcome. I started to softly say, “come on dude, you gotta get off of her,” and then a little louder, “okay dude, goodnight” and then he finally relented. As we pulled away, they were all standing on the sidewalk of this side street in Los Feliz, waving and shouting at the car.
Everyone in the car was laughing, having successfully been entertained by a bunch of silly, possibly terrible sub-men for the evening. I however, wasn’t, because the only other times I’ve been that close to a display like that, I was the one making it. I’ve been that drunk guy climbing into the car at 2 AM, whispering something through hot whisky breath, thinking that maybe if I pushed the joke one step further, or said one more thing, some girl would think I was the greatest. It’s a delusion that exists in most men, especially single ones. A sweaty, desperation-born delusion that can turn a fun weekend night into a mission. It’s gross to watch or reflect on, but in the moment, it’s just Friday. I said goodnight and went on to my fourth location. I wasn’t tired.
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Ignore This
So I don’t know if ADD is a thing. I mean, it’s clearly a thing, but how real of a thing? All I know is that I got up at 9 to write and I have spent literally three hours on the internet doing nothing. I watched some music videos. I picked up the smaller of the two cats that live in my apartment. I put her down because she bit me. I can’t get the fuck out of my own way today. I desperately want to get some stuff done. I used to write a long run on sentence to job my brain into getting ready to write, but I have decided that I like syntax too much to do that anymore. I’m struggling to keep typing but I really want to keep going so that I’ll eventually start writing the things I need to write. Here is a list of things:
- Ghostface Killah’s Ironman album is still amazing.
- Jokes about hipsters have reached critical mass. When was the last time you saw a trucker hat or a bandana anywhere but in a sketch video about hipsters?
- Irish Spring makes deodorant now. Get on that shit if you want to smell like a sex waterfall.
- An Anti-Valentines Day party is like the movie Valentines Day: Too many people acting atrociously, and you’ve got to get black out drunk to enjoy it.
- All older actors should be having as much late career fun as Liam Neeson.
- It’s funny to say Leslie Nielsen instead of Liam Neeson.
- I really miss playing the drums. I’m sorry that sometimes I drum on tables to deal with it. There truly is nothing more annoying.
- The sympathy card section of my local grocery store is really terrible. Sympathy cards in general are terrible. I would like to sell one with a flower on the front and the words, “Sucks, bro” on the inside.
- I wish Facebook would let you comment on a new friendship, because every time a guy and a girl became friends I’d write, “Hope this leads to sex!”
Okay, now I can start actually writing.
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The Internet Romance That Almost Was
Oh man. They say love happens when you least expect it, and that could not have been more true today. Funclara3@aol.com wants to chat, OUT OF THE BLUE! And I’m all, uh… YEAH I APPROVE. So we get to talking. You know, the usual: 22/F, she’s just hanging out, chatting, and then she drops it: SHE’S BORED. I’m thinking come on Dave, you’re a master conversationalist, WOW her! But before I can even dig into my go-to topics like stamp collecting (*SIKE I totally talk about rock bands as my go to edgy opener with ladies), she drops a bomb: sexy girls stripping? UM… YES PLEASE! If it sounds like a dream come true, you can put emphasis on the dream part, because before I knew it, she was gone! Man this is just my luck too. Clara, if you’re out there, I’ll be waiting, and my status is definitely AVAILABLE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1
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The Worst Thing: Waking Up With a Headache
So, I’ve been awake for about 3 hours. I have been trying to convince my body that it feels fine. I’ve been doing everything in my power to carry on like business as usual. I’ve been reading, writing, eating cereal with FRESH FRUIT (mild brag), and talking to my dad on the phone (i’m sensitive). So, you ask, did it work? Do I feel fine?
NO I DO NOT.
And here’s why: I woke up with a headache. Not a hangover, mind you, but a regular old, garden variety headache. The kind of headache you get if you’re out in the sun too long or it’s 2pm at work and you’ve been staring at a computer all day and your boss is an asshole and there were no bagels left when you got in that morning. Just an awful, nagging, headache that would have been completely warranted if you spent the previous night binge drinking light beer out of a hockey trophy and intentionally staying as dehydrated as possible.
That’s why I hate my fucking brain. I didn’t drink ANYTHING last night, save for a shitload of water. You know what the wildest thing I did last night was? I GOT FROYO. Yeah, frozen yogurt. A small dish. And I didn’t even finish it! I barely cracked the 1/2way mark on that shit. You know what I did when I came home after being out last night? I drank a glass of water and I read. YEAH. A BOOK. Fuck you, brain! Where were you 2 nights ago when I drank a ton? Where was my hangover then? OH, I know: I drank a ton of water and paced myself because I OUTSMARTED MY OWN BRAIN AND NOW IT’S EXACTING REVENGE ON ME.
Let me say this to my old chunk of gray matter up there: you’re on notice pal. You want me to fuck up? It’ll happen. My birthday’s coming up. I always drink too much on my birthday. But don’t punish me for NOT drinking too much. Don’t trick me into thinking I have a hangover. Don’t make me question what I did the previous night, as if I accidentally confused a quart of whiskey for chocolate sauce and poured it over my meager helping of frozen yogurt or took a liter of vodka to bed with me instead of Brita water. This means war, brain, and this is the kind of war that neither one of us is going to win.
