Also Magazine

Thursday, April 28, 2016

7:30 AM: I hurry to LAX and get the first ticket to O’Hare. I’ve got to make it before the first round starts at 8 PM. It‘s pretty expensive, but when I consider the money that’s about to be coming in from the whole NFL thing (not to mention endorsements), I just smile and put down my credit card.  

9:04 AM: My flight takes off and I begin chatting with the man next to me. He is sweaty and his tie is on backwards. He tells me his name is Vance, and he tries to sell me his old savings bonds. He has a bag filled with hundreds of them. I say no thanks. He starts saying he knows everybody in Chicago and if I need anything, he’s my guy. Vance is weird.

I start to listen to The Beatles on my iPod. They are one of the most influential bands on how I live my life, and I love all of their albums and songs equally. I hope my new teammates will feel the same way.

3:49 PM: We touch down in the Windy City. Vance follows me out of the airport -- he really wants me to buy these damn bonds. I tell him I’m low on money, but I’ll take his number so we can get in touch once I’m rolling in dough. He gives me his number and runs in the other direction, yelling, “I’m your guy in Chicago! I’m your Chi-Guy!” Vance is truly weird.

5:01 PM: I arrive at the venue, and ask the check-in person where football players are supposed to go. She laughs, which is rude. But then I realize, I don’t need to be in some fancy football player area. The real deals go down in the lobby. I begin handing out my business cards to everyone I possibly can. They read “Football Player – All Positions – Pick Me For Your Team,” and they are entirely written on ripped up pieces of the Hemispheres Magazine that I found in my seatback pocket. People seem blown away by my presence – it’s hard to imagine I won’t be picked in the first round.

7:38 PM: I take my seat, after purchasing two tubs of popcorn to give my body the nutrients it needs. It occurs to me that I should have probably put my name on my business cards. But everybody makes mistakes. I try not to dwell in the past (I learned that from the therapist whose mail I steal).

8:10 PM: Round 1, Pick 1. The draft begins! The Los Angeles Rams have the first pick of the night. I’m stoked, because if I get picked by them, I won’t have to move or anything. Unfortunately, they pick some wad named Jared Goff. I’ve never heard of this guy, but he looks like my 9th grade science teacher who all the girls had a crush on. I try to start a “More Like Jared Scoff” chant, but it doesn’t catch on due to people being too dumb to get it.

9:06 PM: Round 1, Pick 9. Eight picks in, and I’m still not on the board, but I’m doing breathing exercises to stay calm (two breaths in, twenty-two breaths out). The Chicago Bears are up – the hometown team. I have a really good feeling about this because I have seen every single “Da Bears” sketch from SNL, and I’ve written upwards of forty of my own. I begin to fantasize about me and my team all gathered around, acting out all these sketches and having so much fun. But my fantasy ends: they decide to pick some idiot named Leonard Floyd.

10:20 PM: Round 1, Pick 24. I sit in the stands, unpicked and alone. I watch my fellow players down below, chatting with their families at beautiful oaken tables. All of them wearing beautiful silk suits, while I wear three child-sized ponchos sewn together to make one adult-sized poncho.  Enough is enough.

11:05 PM: I walk the streets of Chicago, furious. A quick check of my ESPN app reveals that I wasn’t picked with any of the last eight picks of the first round. It would be so easy to give up. But I don’t do easy. Round 2 and 3 are tomorrow. If I’m going to get a chance in this league, I need to make some changes to my physique. I pull a crumpled phone number out of my pocket.

“Hey Vance, do you know anywhere I could get some Human Growth Hormone?”

A few days later, I sat on Jason Wawler’s couch (in Los Angeles, CA). We were watching an old Batman cartoon on Amazon Prime. Suddenly, I felt the urge to pee. I paused it right before Batman grapple hooked on to a rooftop. Then went to the bathroom. When I returned to the couch, Jason handed me my phone. It must have fallen between the cushions earlier. That’s when he smiled. That’s when he said it. “I downloaded the app ‘Find My Friends,’ on your phone, so now I can always know where my buddy’s at!” I pressed resume and Batman scaled the building.

Something about Jason Wawler’s smile told me there was something more happening here. We were becoming more than buds.

Another few days later, I walked around Grand Central Market (in Los Angeles, CA). Once seated at the bar of G & B’s Coffee, I nursed an Iced Almond Latte and munched on a Belgian waffle with ricotta and jam. The caffeine buzzed, the sugar buzzed, my heart buzzed. So did my phone. A message from Jason Wawler.

How’s Grand Central Market, buddy? Haha, I saw ya on the ’Find My Friends’ map!

Uh it’s good…haha.

Hey I’m craving Chinese and pretty exhausted today, could you perhaps bring back some General Tsao’s chicken?

What?

I would be super, super thankful and could pay you back! Plus a little extra Postmates fee again? Haha…

Haha fine.

Was I trying to make money off my friend? No. There was no thought process behind it, just one simple word. A new philosophy.

Deliver.

A couple weeks after, I sat at a red light on 23rd and Hoover (in Los Angeles, CA). Long red light, huh. I glanced up at a billboard, advertising for Comedy Central’s “The Daily Show.” It had been there for months. Then, the light changed to green but I was slow to hit the gas. What was I waiting for? What did I need? A buzz. A text from him.

Hey dude! So…Nature’s Brew? Could really go for an everything bagel with cream cheese.

Another text from him.

Large coffee too. I’m swamped today- writing a paper!

I felt Trevor Noah grinning down at me. In that moment, something snapped.

K. I’ll be there in 10.

I abruptly turned left instead of going straight. Cars behind me had been honking. I didn’t care. The bagel was taking forever, so I approached the counter. I demanded that the barista bring it out. ASAP. “I have a delivery! He’s waiting on me! Don’t you get it?!” I looked down at my right hand, which was now clenched. My face was beat red with a passionate rage. The scared barista handed me the bagel. “Y-you’re from Postmates?”

I grabbed the package and stepped closer to her, now inches away from her face. “I’m His Postmate.”

A month later, I drove around the Arts District (in Los Angeles, CA). Umami. Truffle Burger, no onions. Applying to law school, it’s a big day for me! Thanks, bud.

Sure thing. LOL.

No response back. he usually “LOL’d” right back to me.

After Jason paid, there was a lingering pause. I looked over at his television. “Oh, Band of Brothers? Dope.” “Yeah, dude. I’m marathoning.” The thought occurred to me- what about law school? I fought the urge to ask about this, opting to take a seat on his couch instead. It had been a while since we really chilled, you know? As buds. “Binging is like my favorite thing to do on the weekends,” I say. I immediately regret it and hope he didn’t think I sounded dumb. “Hey, kind of need to get back to, you know, law school stuff.” “Oh right. My bad. Good luck, bud!” I smiled. But he didn’t even look at me.

When I got back in my car, I realized he didn’t leave a tip this time. He must have forgot.

Koreatown (Los Angeles, CA). Ramen, thanks!

Yes sir. Spicy or not?

You should know that.

I did know that. I just wanted to hear His voice, just a little bit longer. Spicy.

Echo Park (Los Angeles, CA).

Deep dish pizza, please.

Sausage and onion, boss?

Duh. I’m drunk. Please hurry.

We used to get drunk together all the time.

When I knocked at the door, there was no answer. He must have passed out. I left the pizza at His doorstep and refunded His payment.

As I walked away, I heard a girl moaning, coming from inside His apartment. Something like, “Oh, Jason! Give it to me harder, Jason!”

Was she his new bud?

One year later. It ended with fucking Spago in Beverly Hills (in Los Angeles, CA). I’m near Spago. Thought you might have noticed. Would you like anything?

He always noticed when I was near Spago. But, no response. Two minutes passed.

Sir? It’s me.

I pulled over to the side of Canon Drive, to wait. Fifteen minutes passed. Forty minutes passed. Forty-one minutes passed. Then suddenly, a buzz. My phone!

Who number dis?

Jason? This is your Postmate!

This ain’t Jason- you got the wrong number bro.

Where is Jason?! Jason Wawler?!

Chill, bro. Wrong number.

Spago! For Jason! $11.99 delivery fee!

I don’t know you but damn!  That delivery fee is wack.

It’s extra because it’s fucking Spago!

Did He change His phone number without informing me? Crack. My phone screen shattered. My thumbs pressed down hard on the broken glass. Covered in blood. Then, there was thunder. Rain fell through my open sunroof. I always left my sunroof open in Beverly Hills. But now, I was drenched. Water streamed down my face. It slid over my cheeks. It touched my lips. I tasted it. Salty. There must have been tears too.

It all starts when you log onto your Facebook account on Coachella Eve (AKA anytime on the Thursday before) to see people prepping for their big journey. Many Coachella-ites have dubbed this sacred pilgrimage as “Carpoolchella”: when festival goers decorate their cars in paint with hippie symbols such as marijuana leaves or Bernie Sanders bumper stickers. They can be seen sticking their heads of the windows, flower crowns securely in tact while screaming “COACHELLAAAA” at any car that passes them on their way to the “desert.” Oh, “desert” is in quotations because these “friends” of ours are camping in the resort town of Palm Springs, not the damn Sahara (but don’t worry, there is a stage tent at the festival named after that!).  “Friends” is in quotations because even though they’re our friends, we hate them during this period of time because they’re at Coachella and we, obviously, are not.

The Chella Depression continues as Coachella Eve gives birth to full blown Coachella, starting as early as 8 AM Friday. Snapchats and Grams are filled with the young, wild and free, wrapped in flowers, feathers, cultural-appropriated bindis, and the like. Commonly heard phrases include:

“OMG, it’s like 8am and I’m already drunk. COACHELLLA!!!!!!!”

“I had a watermelon for breakfast, ready to CHELLLA!

OR, if you have those real fancy friends, they’re already pre-gaming the pre-game by hitting up those exclusive Coachella celebrity parties. You might hear such things as:

“Kylie Jenner just gave me this Lip Kit goodie bag and I’m hammered off peach strawberry schnapps. Coachellaaaa!”

You hate them. You hate every single one of them. You crawl under your desk and sob for a few minutes because you’re not there. You’re about to be late to your job because you’re an adult. You cry a little more because you have to have a job. You regroup. You vow to turn off your phone to not be tempted. You get up and try to start the day.

You’ve made it until 3pm. Feeling good. You turn your phone back on; it’s your mid-day poop and you decided it’s time to treat yourself. You open up Snapchat, BIG mistake. Festival gates open at eleven but no true Chella-ite would be caught dead inside the festival before 2. Even 2:30 is pushing it. Late afternoon is where all the real action starts. Your Snapchat stories are flooded with your beautiful frenemies capturing their “we made it” moments! It’s the first sight for them (and for you) of the Polo Fields itself. The sprawling green, covered with giant hipster art installations, overpriced festival food, and that one guy who’s already puking in a corner.

Stay strong. You got this. You can do it. You go on Venmo because it’s the only app that won’t make you cry. Scratch that. Your entire Venmo feed is filled with Coachella payments (insert party hats, two girls dancing and watermelon emoji here).  Enough is enough! You throw your phone across the bathroom in agony. Wait, no, now you want it back. Ugh. You have to speed up your pooping process in order to retrieve your only connection to the festival.

11:30pm. You had some bumps in the road, but you’ve made it through the day. You’re in bed because you decided to call it an early night tonight (okay, don’t kid yourself, you’re only home this early on a Friday because all your friends are mysteriously “out of town”). Fuck it. You scroll through it all; Facebook, Snapchat, Instagram.  Kanye showed up during Jack Ü’s set?! Wait, A$AP Rocky was there too?! And that’s just Day One?!?! What’s the point in living anymore? Your life is over. Dead, dying, gone.

As you cry yourself to sleep, you lie to yourself that maybe tomorrow will be better. Deep down inside, you know that it won’t.

In the weeks approaching graduation I will be hit by an 18-wheeler of understanding that my graduation is actually going to happen. In these weeks, I will have a great deal of difficulty digesting food and will find brief, fleeting, moments of comfort in peach rings and ginger ale. As a result, my tongue will feel weird for a while and my acid reflux will be constant and annoying.

Simultaneous to these physical responses, I will have consistent and confusing emotional outbursts in response to most elements of my daily life. Why am I crying? Probably because I won’t stop looking up videos of soldiers returning home to their dogs. Why am I seeking these videos out even though they make me so upset? Because I am graduating soon and it is easier to displace my stress into an emotional response to dog videos than to confront the not-so-concrete realities of my future. Thank you for asking.

In the days before graduation, I will buy a nice dress to wear for the ceremony. The hour before I need to attend the ceremony I will decide that it is either too fancy or not fancy enough and wear something I’ve had for years. I will regret it as soon as I get graduation photos back.

As soon as graduation is over, I will find myself staring down the barrel of eternity as I slowly realize there is no built-in future for me anymore. I will not sleep for 72 hours and will apply to every job on entertainmentcareers.net, regardless of experience required. I will e-mail every person I’ve ever worked for, knowing full well that they never liked me and certainly don’t like me now after not hearing from me for years.

As my post-grad summer goes on longer and longer without hearing back from any companies I’ve applied to, I will start to spiral, going on long night walks, and convincing myself that selling pictures of my feet online is always an option. I will apply to a “backup job” at a coffee shop and not ever get an interview despite calling twice a week and “narrowly missing” the manager each time. I will still tell everyone I know that I will “probably end up working at a coffee shop” until I find a “real job”.

By the end of this summer, I will either be willing to settle on making $10 an hour working at a job nowhere close to what I initially envisioned, or remain entirely jobless and deal with the looming understanding that if I don’t find a job by the end of August, I will have to move home.  Either way, I will be met with the painful revelation that my life is not how I imagined it would be and I am the only person responsible for that. I will spend the next fifty years wondering where I went wrong. I will have a family, pass on to them the weight of my own regret, and watch them struggle under it. I will eventually find middling peace with myself, only as a means to feel as though my life was not a complete waste, and live out the rest of my days, slowly fading out of consciousness and relishing in the gradual erasure of my failed life.  

I know, I know, what about Mr. Cleveland himself, LeBron? Well that guy may have to hand over his NBA titles to Steph. “But the crown can be heavy, c’aint it?” Being called a king has its perks I am sure, but a king must must do what’s good for his people. Steph Curry represents the city of Oakland, CA and also San Francisco, CA (an area I refer to as “The Bay”). It’s not all on him though. He can pass the rock to fellow Wet Brother Klay Thompson who can make the three ball whenever he gets open, granted his feet are behind the line of course. Good thing, because every point is crucial. 100, 110, 120, 130, these are the amount of points this team can score on any given night. The 1995-1996 Chicago Bulls record is at stake, and Draymond Green is hungry to beat it. Fiercely competitive and they are playing small ball with him in the lineup. Other teams may try to copy this, but they are not the Golden State Warriors and they don’t have as many wins. Simple as that.

Let’s break down a single play of this offense and all of its beauty. In the Feb. 27 game against the Oklahoma City Thunder, with the possibility of winning the game on the line and only a few seconds left in overtime, a mic’d up Klay whispers to Steph, “Chef Curry if you want to serve us up another tasty little win you better get your ass over there to behind the three point line, but pass to me or Draymond Green if you are guarded too closely, please.” From the sideline, assistant coach Luke Walton waves at Steph and cheers, “Hey MVP!” Steph blushes. So, here we go. Steph dribbles - something he practices before every game. Fundamentals. Then, once he makes sure his feet are behind the line, within range of scoring three points, not two, he squares his body up to the basket. He bends his knees slightly, and then brings the ball up from his waist. He releases the ball at the right moment, and then proceeds to seize that very same moment. Nothing but net. The victory is clinched. Steph Curry has perfect form when it comes to shooting. Oh I wonder why? Maybe because the Golden State Warriors are having the perfect season, but head coach Steve Kerr knows it isn’t over. They still have to win a bunch of games in the playoffs.

Andrew Bogut, Draymond Green, Harrison Barnes, Klay Thompson, Steph Curry, Andre Iguodala, Marreese Speights, Shaun Livingston, Brandon Rush, Festus Ezeli, well that’s about it. Each player, each individual, comes together and now you can call it a real team. They even laugh together on plane flights to away games! And hell, I’ll admit that I love it. It’s an absolute pleasure to watch the Golden State Warriors win an NBA game after a long day of sitting at my desk in the Also Magazine office.

The other day, I’m minding my own business walking down the sidewalk, and out of nowhere, here comes this little girl wearing a Warriors jersey. Naturally, I went right up to her and demanded she tell me why she was a fan of the Warriors. You know what she said? “They’re just having fun out there mister.” Play-by-play commentator Jeff Van Gundy was right all along, this is a team that people should consider the best team in the NBA. But his friend Mark Jackson…can the Internet just take it easy on Mark Jackson, please?

Marc Jackson used to coach the Warriors but he doesn’t anymore. Since he left, they won a championship and now they could very well indeed win another. The 2015-2016 NBA season has been going on for months now. I mean, we all remember the streak don’t we? The Warriors did something other NBA teams really haven’t been able to do. Win a lot of games in a row. 28 of them, in fact. Without a loss in between any of them, mind you.

Recently in ESPN news, the Warriors landed center Anderson Varejao, the traitor from the Cleveland Cavaliers. Varejao said goodbye to LeBron and decided he would betray the oath they made about never leaving Cleveland. Ironic because from what I remember, it wasn’t Varejao that went on to play the small forward position for the Miami Heat. Yes, we all remember “The Decision.” Especially Steph Curry.

You see, that very same night, Curry made his own decision- to give it everything he had. To devote himself to the game of basketball, whilst becoming the best player in all of basketball. I’ll say it ten times - it didn’t happen overnight. It didn’t happen overnight. It didn’t happen overnight. It didn’t happen overnight. It didn’t happen overnight. It didn’t happen overnight. It didn’t happen overnight. It didn’t happen overnight.  It didn’t happen overnight. It didn’t happen overnight. It took a lot of time for Steph Curry to get better at basketball.

I’ve had a troubled past with New Balance. It’s like my pimply, annoying stepson that I neglected for years but am now learning to accept (even though I’m still creeped out by his obsession with old-timey dolls). New Balance entered my life abruptly in middle school. One day, all of a sudden, every schlub on the playground had a pair, and I was left as the one asshole still wearing Nikes. My initial embarrassment about not having New Balances quickly turned into condescension, when I realized that my classmates looked like grade-A bozos. See, this was back when the only New Balances around were the plain grey ones, which I thought looked like corrective shoes for elderly men. I stuck with my Nikes.

Jump-cut to USC: palms trees, sunshine, hot babes, beach volleyball…sorry, what were we talking about? JK. My college experience was going great until it was thrown out of whack when a certain sneaker brand reentered my life. One of my friends bought a pair of New Balances and started talking about how the brand was suddenly cool again. Since I’m a mindless chump who does whatever his friends are doing, I soon decided to acquire a pair of my own. At the time, I did not realize how radical this decision truly was. Looking back, it was perhaps the most reckless choice I’ve ever made.  

I can say without hesitation that this pair of New Balances has upended my fragile world. I have always placed outsized importance on my footwear, and I genuinely can’t tell if I look lame in my New Balances. Maybe I look like a trendy, laid-back dude (doubtful). Maybe I’m the laughingstock of this entire university (probably).  I’m in an awful state of footwear purgatory right now, and I’m desperate to get out. Much like the protagonist in Sartre’s No Exit (uh, yeah, I’ve read No Exit), I am trapped in a hell of my own design.  

The time has come to get into the meat of this issue: am I a dweeb? On the one hand, I haven’t gotten any outright insults about my New Balances. Quite the opposite, actually — that cute girl complimented me on them (not sure if I mentioned that earlier). Hell, I think the shoes look cool, and shouldn’t that count for something? The problem is this: New Balance is definitely not a cool brand. They’re worn almost exclusively by white people (see: Matt Bonner’s deal with New Balance), which is not a good sign at all. They’re dweeby in a general sort of way, like Marco Rubio. In fact, when Marco Rubio isn’t wearing his creepy boots, I bet he’s wearing New Balances.

The reality that seems to be emerging is that New Balances are, by nature, slightly uncool, but can be made cool if worn by the right person. For example, Rihanna recently wore New Balances while sitting courtside at a Lakers game. Sadly, I am no Rihanna. But who among us is?

I seem to have reached my answer. Wearing New Balances doesn’t make me a dweeb: being a dweeb makes me a dweeb. Yet when tomorrow’s sun begins its trip around the sky, and I awaken from my sweet slumber, I will reach not for my Nikes, not for my Pumas, but for my New Balances. And doesn’t that have to mean something?

But be careful! Make an over-done, passé reference and you’re just another poseur. A David Foster Wallace reference in 2016? Unacceptable. Making a shitty pun like “Billy Joel Osment” would gain you more favor than earnestly mentioning your favorite Foster Wallace Harper’s piece.

And don’t forget: if you aren’t using a condescending tone whilst explaining your reference, your conversation partner won’t know they should be embarrassed for not knowing something you clearly do! This writer recommends phrases like “Obviously,” “Lesser work,” and “How do you not know this, dummy?”

In short, if you want to become a notable figure in New York’s cultural scene, there’s nothing more important than obtaining a strong arsenal of obscure and irrelevant reference points. A choice reference not only impresses your conversation partners, but also validates your life decisions! So, feel free to use any of the following references next time you’re trying to impress someone:

Reference #1: Gary Richrath

as in: “His prose has an almost Richrathian quality to it: simple but elegantly profound.”

(You may best know Gary Richrath, as the lead guitarist, singer and songwriter in REO Speedwagon from 1970 until 1989.)

Reference #2: Paul Leka

as in “My app that helps you track places you’ve eaten a charcuterie plate will make me as secretly influential as Paul Leka was in the 1970s.”

(You may best know Paul Leka as the visionary Connecticut-based record producer who helped REO Speedwagon record their first album for Epic Records.)

Reference #3: G.W. Gouinlock’s CNE Grandstand

as in: “The architecture is reminiscent of G.W. Gouinlock’s work on the illustrious CNE Grandstand. Bold, but familiar. Lively, but inviting, don’t you think?”

(You may best know G.W. Gouinlock as the architect who designed the CNE Grandstand in Toronto, where REO Speedwagon famously performed on August 18th, 1985 as part of their “Wheels are Turnin” tour.)

Reference #4: REO Speedwagon

as in, “Fuck, I’m going to see REO Speedwagon at this secret, damp warehouse. You in?”

That person who you’re hooking up with possibly likes you a lot. Maybe they have a cool name like KC and they’re probably really hot.

But to me ur not that special, and that’s something you need to accept. Maybe social media is your thing.And all of your tweets could be fire, But I can’t see myself following you Or finding out if you ever watched The Wire.

You could be a total package, but to me you’re not that great Because you’re sitting across from me And this isn’t a date.

Alongside the usual sugarplums, visions of being my generation's Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Faulkner or Kafka danced in my head. Sure I have never read any of their books (they wrote books, correct??) but I have read a shit-ton of John Green and two out of the three Hunger Games so I felt prepared none the less.

I thought about everything I could write: like my childhood experiences growing up alongside my trusty, faithful desert tortoise* –or-- how the Mongolian empire actively contradicts everything we know about the establishment of a civilization with centralized power. I could have written about anything and so much more, but I didn't. I didn't write anything and I certainly didn't write so much more than it.

Writing is bleeping hard. Diction, sentence structure, rhyme scheme, tone, voice, iambic pentameter commas, making sure you write in English -- all of it. And don't even get me started on similes! Similes are like being the only dog at the table playing three card stud while the rest are playing poker.**

I tried. I put myself out there, all vulnerable like a baby bird, and was shot down like an adult version of that baby bird. I shouted into the void and the void politely asked me to lower my voice.   

So, now I humbly call on you dear readers, who Zach assures me don't exist, to help me decide what to write in the hallowed binary halls of this publication.

I can write about anything, there are no boundaries! Sex, religion, politics, money—I can write about any of this but I will not because I am a well-mannered person and my mom did not raise me that way.

So please let me know what I should write. Cause I sure as shit don't have a clue.

Think of all the possibilities of the things you could tell me to write. You can explore the outermost reaches of your conscious mind to discover something that truly interests me. Like ceramics or the wine country or beaches or Beaches or sand or the Mongolian empire. What are we as a species if we do not help out our fellow man? You can't spell humanity without 'IT', as in "I've got IT, that's exactly what Mia should write!" Have you ever tried to spell humanity without the 'IT'? It spells 'humany', which sounds disgusting.

Writing is hard. Even writing this has been hard. It took me a week to put together and I dulled five of my recently sharpened pencils trying to bring it to a local computer screen near you. And, you know what, I don't think you really appreciate all of my effort. If you think it's so easy to write something, why don't you try it, you greedy bastards, instead of depending on me for everything!

You can write for Also Magazine by reaching out to Zach Dunn, or one of his friends that look exactly like him.

*Speedy and I would take walks around the block just to discuss our days, but one afternoon we came upon the small carcass of a mouse. This was the first time I was truly confronted with death.

As I spent night after night listening to the symphony of post-coital returns ring through my apartment I realized that my technical familiarity with the song and dance of one night stands could just maybe come in handy. I decided that I had no choice but to stage a faux one-night stand and finally earn my roommates respect and admiration!

I knew that the idea of me spending a night outside of my own room would be just downright preposterous so I decided to stage a one night stand at home. A feat made more difficult by the fact that I never have any people over, let alone a suitor. I thought it might be too jarring to all of a sudden “convert” to a life of careless sultry behaviors so I decided to ease my roomies into my change in personality. Here’s how I pulled it off.

I started out small, undoing an extra button on my nightgown on my nightly trip to the kitchen for water. No more nights spent listening to “The Very Best of Judy Garland” in my room! Instead I began opting for the dulcet, quietly obscene tones of Norah Jones. I even started leaving my door slightly open to make sure my roommates could hear my illicit activities. Finally, I started practicing my saxophone in the living room, so my roommates could see my deft fingering and nimble lips. After all, what’s sexier than a girl who can play a jazz cover of Barracuda.

After making these small but impactful adjustments, I was ready to stage the big event!

First, I set the stage, subtly draping men’s underpants throughout the living room. Next, I busied myself with setting up the soundscape. While I couldn’t bring myself to find appropriate sound effects from an adult film, I found that a combination of massage tutorial videos and a recording of myself eating a banana did the trick. The day after I first tried it, my roommate Jeff asked me “what the fuck I was doing in there,” and I could tell by the look in his eyes he really wanted to know. I was feeling pretty sexy already so I just winked at him! You should have seen the look on his face.

After this overwhelming success I decided I had to top myself, lest I lose my newly earned reputation of lothario. Sure, my roomies thought someone was getting loved on real hard in there but I really wanted to make sure they had no doubts as to who it was gettin’ busy (me! ☺). I decided to really crank up the volume on my recordings in the hopes that my roomies would have no choice but to acknowledge my latent sexual prowess. Little did I know, this night I had cued the wrong recordings and, unfortunately, ended up blasting footage of my most recent fencing tournament.

You often hear about the “broke college kid” always strapped for cash. When my story began, I was quite the opposite. I had a steady two-day-a-week internship at Spike TV where I was gaining valuable experience in the world of edgy unscripted television and getting paid a decent wage in American dollars. You could say I was “chillin phat” (a term I was saying on the reg at this time).

And just like that, when everything seemed to be going my way, the financial crash of 2008 snuck up and hit me right on top of the head. And what I mean by that is that a movie about the financial crash of 2008 snuck up on me and hit me right on top of the head. I don’t know if you have seen the film The Big Short, but I have. I saw The Big Short 172 times. There’s just something about this movie that got me hooked. Be it the phenomenal acting (Carell and Gosling were stellar) or the hilarious way they explain confusing Wall Street concepts with *spoiler alert* unexpected celebrity cameos, something about The Big Short had me returning to the theater day after day to spend my money. At each of those 172 showings, I spent a lot of my money. All of my money, actually. Which brings us to the part of the story where I found myself in possession of zero American dollars.

This reality was extremely problematic. I knew that making rent each month would be tough, and I would probably end up going hungry. Those things did not matter to me. How would I be able to fund my soda addiction? I had to come up with a solution. I had to do what made sense. I had to go undercover at a frat party in the hope of scoring some free soda.

And I did just that.

The night of #OperationGetTheSoda (check the Insta hashtag for pics btw), I borrowed a backwards hat and a pair of pants from a trusted acquaintance and headed to the most popular fraternity at my college.

Little did I know, the most popular fraternity was mixing with the most popular sorority that night. This would be harder than I thought. I quickly managed to get through the front door as I slowly spun my backwards hat forward, obstructing my facial features, thus granting myself anonymity. I was now a member of the most popular fraternity on campus.

As I approached the dance floor, the EDM music was blaring and started to hurt my left ear. The music stung so hard that I almost considered bailing on the entire operation. However, after a few minutes of search-dancing (a move I invented to blend in), I finally located the secret stash of soda. It was behind that damn bar.

I grabbed as much soda as I could carry, which ended up being two 2-liter bottles (one for each of my hands). I didn’t bother looking at the flavors; I was too afraid I could be exposed at any minute. I had to get out of there ASAP. Just as I was reaching for the exit, a member of the most popular fraternity stopped me. At this moment, I saw my whole plan crumble in front of my eyes. I began to hand over the bottles to him. It was over for me.

“Enjoy the soda,” he said as he opened the door for me. I was in pure disbelief. Nervously walking away from the house, I heard a call from the distance. “And thanks for visiting our fraternity house!”

I skipped as fast as I could all the way home. Somehow #OperationGetTheSoda ended with two beautiful, smooth, round bottles of soda in my possession. I made my way to the street corner where my tent was setup (I don’t have money to pay rent) and finally got to look at the flavors the fraternity provided me with. Cherry Coke and Orange Soda! Heck yeah! I was on cloud nine. My addiction was curbed for the next nine hours.

Luckily for me, there are A LOT of fraternities on campus. Since my first heist, I have mastered the art of sneaking into fraternity parties to score free soda. All the frats on campus are aware of my presence, yet my true identity remains a secret. I am your humble friend, I am your classmate in the back of the lecture hall, I am your mysterious group project member. I am...just a really weird guy who goes undercover at fraternity parties to get free soda.

And to all my fellow soda addicts out there trying to get by on a budget, I have a treat for you. In the same vein that The Big Short explained difficult Wall Street concepts, I brought in good pal and acclaimed chef Papa John to break down how I pull off my soda heists so you can try it at home. Take it away Papa…

The Beginning: Up (2009)

As we all know, DiCaprio got his start in a little movie called Up. The then-14-year old actor portrayed the helium balloons that carried Carl’s house into the sky, and he displayed such charisma and (I’m not afraid to say it) downright sexiness in this role that he immediately became one of the hottest names in Hollywood. As Martin Scorsese famously exclaimed after seeing the movie, “Balloons! Heck yeah, dude!” Uh, you can say that again, Marty! DiCaprio took home the Golden Globe for Best Supporting Actor that year. You can check out his emotional acceptance speech in the video below.

The Rise to Stardom: Moonrise Kingdom (2012)

This collaboration between Leo and acclaimed director Wes Anderson was simply a masterpiece. DiCaprio showed off his remarkable emotional range in this role: he played Marco “Mick” Rubio, a young member of the Italian mafia who attempts to blow up Camp Ivanhoe so that it can be turned into a Buca di Beppo, only to realize that Camp Ivanhoe was the only place where he ever truly belonged. I highly recommend you watch this tell-all interview that he did about the making of Moonrise:

The Victory Lap: Minions (2015)

Fuck, man. What can I even say about this movie that you haven’t heard already? It was a goddamned box office smash, and it made all the haters and doubters out there look like assholes. Seriously, if you ever talked shit about Minions, please stop reading this article right now. And if you haven’t seen Minions yet, drop whatever you’re doing right now and go watch it, you dumb motherfucker.

Phew, OK. Minions is arguably — okay, definitely — the defining movie of DiCaprio’s career, and it has changed everything for him. As he has said to anyone who’ll listen, “I still can’t believe that I got to be a Minion. Whenever I have sex, I put on a big Minion costume and cut out a hole in it for my penis. Girls love it.” Boy oh boy, I would love that too! Check out these outtakes from the set of Minions:

The Maturation: The Revenant (2015)