The Six Steps

A few years ago, I was approached by a matchmaker who had a reality show. Now, because I signed an NDA and it was an insane, hilarious, offensive experience, I will be using the pronoun “they.”

The way that “they” took on clients was having three hour-long Skype sessions to get to know you before setting you up. At the end of each session, I would get a homework assignment, the most legendary of which was The Six Steps.

 Oh my God. The Six Steps. This matchmaker had a FOOL PROOF method to having women approach men at a bar. And my first assignment was to utilize these six steps THREE TIMES. Like, in public. 

Only after I completed my assignments was I going to be presented with my potential paramours. So I had to do this shit. I present, The Six Steps:

Step One: Make Eye Contact.

This sounds simple, but I once went on a date with someone who not only didn’t make eye contact with me the entire time, but he gave me his side profile, exclusively. You know, like a shark. People are weird! I highly recommend not going on a date with the side of someone’s face. But back to this First Step: what if you’re attracted to the back of someone’s head? If your target is literally across the room, and the bar is crowded, how do you keep glancing over without looking like a serial killer or Lucille Bluth?

Discover & share this Wink GIF with everyone you know. GIPHY is how you search, share, discover, and create GIFs.

Step Two: Close the Gap.

Once you’ve made eye contact and it totally isn’t weird, this matchmaker expected me to somehow get closer to this man (or woman) at the bar. This makes it easier to strike up conversation, supposedly. I argue that the ease of this entirely depends on the bar’s set up and how clumsy you are (you should see my semi-regular bruise count; it’s an art). I got lucky a few times over March Madness when men generously let us into their private rooms, but games like Michigan/Florida were about as crowded as the back of a plane once the seatbelt sign is off and you’ve reached the gate. Getting physically close to someone thirty feet away is Everest.

 Step Three: Ask a Question.

It can be anything: what are you drinking? Where did you get that shirt? Are you rooting for Tennessee? Are those your French fries? Why are we here? What happens after we die? Is there a God?

 This is just normal bar culture. Just last night I was at a bar with my oldest friend, Cara, and two guys in blazers with strong New York Real Estate vibes came up to me and asked, “who are you texting?”

So we took a selfie.

 Step Four: Give them a Compliment.

This made me want to crawl inside my skin. The intention was for the compliment to follow up the question. Example: What are you drinking? I ask because you look like someone with great taste (shudders). Where did you get that shirt? I ask because it’s very flattering with your neck tattoo (leans into self hatred). Are you rooting for Tennessee?. I ask because you’re tall, and I like that (vomits). Are those your French fries? I ask because you can’t possibly eat French fries with that bod (eats French fries). 

 Step Five: Assess his Availability.

This takes some tactical work. Iz we single, bb? My matchmaker who called me and I quote, “more than a little entitled” after “they” eventually set me up with some of the most remarkably wrong people for me, suggested I throw in “well your girlfriend must love your drink choices/your neck tattoo/your height.” Which is the worst, most unnatural thing to say to an absolute stranger who you traveled across a crowded bar for by throwing illegal elbows. This is why I only did this exercise one of the required three times and lied about it, though I did end up going to karaoke with a bunch of random Germans from my one attempt. 

Step Six: State Your Expectation.

Realistically, my expectation was, “thank you for humoring me, we shall never see each other again and I can tell my matchmaker I did my homework.” In some fantasy world, my Fraudulent Guru wanted me to be all like, “well here is my number, call me Thursday so we can set up a Friday Walk of Shame,” or something only moderately classier than that. 

 I’m sharing these six steps with you because as we are in the throes of the NBA playoffs. I was in Philly last weekend and going to a Philadelphia sports bar in Philadelphia would have defeated the point of what I’m trying to do, though ya girl did score some digits. Now that I’m in New York, I have better things to do like, eat, and drink and see my friends, and appreciate “spring.”

 Over the next eight trillion weeks (seriously, why are there SO MANY GAMES?!), I will be following The Sixers (don’t @ me), The Warriors, The Bucks, the Celtics, The Rockets, and basically any Game 5, 6 or 7.

 This will be a bit of a different approach since office brackets are off the table, and I’m actively seeking out team and city-oriented sports bars. I’ve got my questions ready (no I don’t) and will be preparing my fans’ vibes’ thesis statement(s).

 Seriously, had I not signed my NDA I would write all about the guys this matchmaker sent me. It is such a horrible thing that I can’t write about it, because the google searches on some of these guys yielded a YouTube channel you cannot make up. And a lot of New Jersey.

But, like, is there a God? Where do we go when we die? 

Was all good just a week ago...

I think I needed a week to decompress

after the marathon drinking and balling…

 In case you missed it, Virginia won the men’s division of the NCAA tournament, and the mystery Philly player from the Virginia/Auburn game was not only De’Andre Hunter, i.e., Virginia’s star player, but apparently a fellow Friends’ Central alum, so he’s the best thing to come out of FCS since EGOT-gunning American treasure, Benj Pasek. I am not including myself in that category because the best thing that Idid at FCS besides cry all the time and not understand science, was my twoApollo headlining acts during Meeting for Worship my senior year because #zerofucks2005

So the finals were special. My dear, kindred spirit/former college roommate/ first exposure to LA/generous friend, Jane, was ready to go. Jane is a legend in my autobiography, and also, forever a saint in my parents’ book because she took charge and got me home on my thirtieth birthday when I could not longer form sentences or sit up straight or keep alcohol inside me by 9pm.

 Now, Barney’s Beanery, on the eve of the March Madness finals, was POPPIN’. I got there first and could not get a seat to save my life. Sure, there were booths open, but any time I made a move to claim one, someone sitting in the booth behind it was ready to knife me, because couldn’t I see the car keys resting on the table to reserve it?! One empty booth had a purse on it, and I was genuinely touched by the trust in humanity there. But also, if you see something say something…

 As I circled the entire bar like a shark (and playfully caressed Ricardo’s elbow), I saw a guy sitting by himself in a big ass window booth with a laptop. I thought wistfully about the bravery I once possessed when I was thirteen and went up to Pablo, the hottest guy in middle school, and asked him out. If you saw what I looked like when I was thirteen, you’d appreciate how fucking brave that was.

 I found Jane, who had just gotten a haircut and glowed. Can you tell I love my friends? Jane has the confidence, legs, and swagger of Athena the Greek Goddess and approached the man with the laptop to see if we could post shop there, at least until other tables opened up. 

 Guess what? As soon as she introduced herself, it turned out HE KNEW HER!!! Jane is a celebrity. Jeff was super nice, loved my Hero’s Journey, and put his laptop away: his table was our table. At least until his friends could no longer fit. 

 Jeff and I talked about how often we go to Barney’s (I mean, in two weeks, I felt I was the mayor), and he told me all of this stuff I didn’t know about Ricardo. Like he’s a jump shot champion?? MY Ricardo?? My heart.

 His friend, Steve, who I’d like to describe as the tall, trendy Brooklyn bear of my dreams, came and it turned out HE knew two of my friends through work. As he slid in so we could talk, Kerri arrived. Kerri had just gotten back from Vegas and was miraculously not exhausted, which is a trait I admire, because any time I go on a bachelorette, I draft my suicide note. Jeff’s third friend arrived and sure enough, Dan, arrived, slid in, and went to my rival high school and had some pretty legitimate opinions about my middle school. 

 I took a step outside of myself to look at the scene: here were three great looking guys with real jobs sitting across from a bozo with her two stunning and wonderfully charismatic friends. “I’ve made it,” I thought. A friend from each party arrived and we were officially at capacity (Anastasia, another Penn girl, arrived, slaying in a denim dress and cool ass eyeliner). We promised we’d make our way back to chat more, but I was basking in the empowerment of a full throttle Girl Gang.

 I saw Ricardo and told him my heart hurt that he couldn’t disclose the pride he had in his talents. Uhhh, turns out there are two Ricardos at Barney’s. Seriously, why would you go anywhere else? 

 Here’s what is awesome about being Weho residents at Barney’s Beanery during the championships: everyone knew people there.  It was like a freakin block party. Jane, Anastasia and Kerri all ran into more girls they knew, who were all charming and warm and awesome. 

 One of them, Maggie, found a booth. I was about to close out my tab to join them, when I saw Jane talking to another friend, Sam, who was comfortably seated on a barstool. They both looked at me with the eye contact of “understand my subtext,” and said, “Carlin, you should take this seat.” “Huh?” I asked. They both jerked their heads to our left. 

 Oh…

 Yeah. There was a super attractive man sitting there, by himself with a beer, watching the game.

 I think this is what I’ve been training for. So I sat down and used my greatest pick up line.

 “Are those your fries?”

 Thank you. Thank you so much.

 We talked for a pretty long time. Any time he went to the bathroom, which was a lot, I’m guessing, because he had been there since the beginning of time and had had three million beers, my friends would feed me food, and ask how it was going, you know, like coaches during a boxing match. Kerri, ever committed to the project, got the candid shot you all have been desperately wanting…

 I think we made a bet about over time that somehow ended with me drinking a double shot of whiskey and definitely closing my finger in the bathroom door, and my friends giving me the heads up that they were leaving before me.

 It was an aggressive Monday that yielded a painful Tuesday and THREE PHONE NUMBERS, BITCHESSSSS.

 I am spending this afternoon the way that this whole thing started. With the almanac and saint himself, Jim, as in, my friend Andrew’s fiancée, Francine’s dad, who literally taught me everything I know about March Madness. He will be prepping me for the NBA playoffs. Our last meeting was three hours, and I filled out a full legal pad, so, are you ready for it?

Lady Gaga Came to a Sports Bar

I wrote a whole ramp up in an Uber to my excursion on Saturday for the Final Four, and it was clever and perfect, but none of that matters because… 

LADY GAGA WAS AT THE SPORTS BAR!!!!

 As in, Lady Gaga was at a sports bar in Studio City. 

 The only thing as implausible as this sighting was the fact that the game was so incredible, I was extremely vocal and deeply invested in it.

 For the final four, I decided it was time for something very brave: two games. Two bars. Two neighborhoods. Two squads. 

I wanted to make sure I brought my A-game for this double feature. I finally followed through on all of my complaining and got a blow out. I wore a different, clean, flattering t-shirt that was not $66. My cat eye was on point. I ate broccoli two days in a row, which is insane because I haven’t even tried broccoli since I was seven. I drank 66 oz of water. I was ready to go pro. 

 I got to Rocco’s in Studio City before the game started and took it in: “okay, this is very heterosexual,” I wrote in my notes, and I wasn’t even drunk yet. We’ve got a nice outdoor area with TV’s that isn’t on steroids like Parlor, and I noticed a couple of cool looking groups sitting out there. I started to think about how I’d organically get back outside to chat up some of these cool tables, since I’m not a smoker or anything. Like, do I flag one down if they come in to pee? Dramatically take a call outside?

 I sat down at the bar and I got IDed by the bartender. “OMG, thank you!” I said. He looked at my ID, confirming I am 32, and said “Well, you take good care of your skin.” Like, compliments will get me because I’m a cheap date, but also, he’s not Ricardo.

 As I waited for my Game One Date, Danny, I realized I’d never paid attention to the players being announced before the game starts. Did you know that one of the coaches is named Tony Bennet? I found that very funny. Also one of the teams had a player from Philly which made me happy, but I couldn’t tell you if he went to Auburn or Virginia, or even what he looked like.

 The bartender served me a cider that I literally needed two hands to lift, so he had my immediate respect. He was super friendly, attentive, and introduced himself – his name is Chris – so I was like, okay, watch out Ricardo, but then it got NEXT LEVEL when Danny arrived and I introduced the two of them, Danny was IDed, I remarked that I was older than Danny, and then it turned into some bit about how the two of them had beards which means they look older than I do, and then somehow Chris said that I would still be cute with a beard.   It was one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me except for ten minutes earlier when he told me that I took great care of my skin.

 I now have to disclose something: in my early twenties, I had a very intense drunk texting problem. I’d drunk text my sister “thinking of u,” (she was, like, 14), I’d drunk text myself, “you ate six oreos; RUN…also call back Grandma Ellen” but mostly, I’d drunk text guys. A lot.

I’m no scientist, but I learned that if I drink a cider the size of my head, 23-year-old Carlin comes back out to play.

 So a few things were happening at once: 

 First of all, I was really digging Auburn because they were the underdogs and last weekend’s win over Gonzaga was big for them. I was earnestly watching the game, explaining what was happening leading up to the final four to Danny, and then explaining the March Madness seeds and regions to the point that Danny said, “Carlin, you, like, actually know a lot about this.” 

 So basically I’d like to add “March Madness” to my Special Skills.

 Second of all, I was drunk texting someone I had had a brief thing with in December, you know, like the 23-year-old that I am. He lives near Rocco’s and made it sound like he’d stop by, but I also told Danny with the utmost confidence that there was zero chance he really ever would. Naturally, I’d sporadically check the entrance to see if he’d show up, just in case, then he wouldn’t be at the entrance, and I’d resume my life.

 Third: I caught a live one! A guy was ordering a drunk next to me, we got to chatting, he revealed he’s a Kentucky fan and goes to Kentucky meet ups, we discovered we were both at Parlor at the same time, and then he SAT THE FUCK DOWN!!!! A guy next to Danny kept trying to chat us up too. I was like, DAMN, ROCCO’S, I LIVE HERE NOW, but then I remembered I also had a fresh blow out and my eye make up was perfect, so really, it wasn’t Rocco’s, it was that I was feeling myself, but also this bar was fantastic.

 Fourth: while talking to Kentucky, I saw an adorable puppy in the outdoor area where one of the cool groups I’d wanted to figure out a way to talk to was sitting. And do you know who was petting that puppy? Lady. Fucking. Gaga. Can you imagine if I’d actually gone over to flirt with them, and discovered that Lady Gaga was sitting in their corner? It would not have gone well.

Okay, no joke though, seeing Lady Gaga was everything. She looked amazing in her leather jacket, punk vintage t-shirt, and oversized sunglasses. I was reeling that Gaga was just straight chilling with her friends in total anonymity on the patio of a sports bar in Studio City. Anonymous until, like, everyone saw her petting that puppy.

 Somewhere in this time, Chris disappeared, Danny noticed that the other bartenders in their array of college t-shirts were various degrees of “attainably handsome,” but WHERE THE FUCK WAS CHRIS?! We had something.

Unfortunately, Kentucky started to get annoying. Also he smelled like he needed to wash his hair. Also, also: he legitimately ditched us so he could sit closer to Gaga. I would have too.

 The game got freaking insane in the last three minutes: my heart was beating SO fast, I was SO loud, and SO drinking my second two-handed cider. This was a loud, split crowd. The guy next to Danny kept trying to talk to us, and I’ve never had more empathy for sports bar guys in my life because I was fully like, “SHUT UP, DUDE, THIS GAME IS INSANE,” without even taking my eyes off of the TV. I didn’t actually say that, but my energy did.

 The game ended with Auburn’s loss, and then I ended up talking to even MORE guys, this time about the Dodgers. I could flex my Chase Utley name-drop because, Phillies, and then, MY DRUNK TEXT RECIPIENT SHOWED UP.

 This is new territory in this venture.  No one has shown up since 2014, which was, presumably my last text in which I insisted someone “come find meeee,” and my friend Cara told me he looked like my dad so it was ruined for me. 

 I obviously couldn’t spill my mission, because that’s a weird look, but here was a crazy turn: [we’ll call him] Michael turned to the bartender and said “Hey, is Chris working today?”

 MY CHRIS?! If he knows Ricardo too, I’ll kill myself.

 It was a quick, banter-y visit, with a tasteful amount of flirtation, which Danny clocked, but I had to leave for bar number two, while obviously overanalyzing what all of this meant and planning our Palm Springs time share.

 I was so revved up from Rocco’s, Gaga, the game, and “Michael,” there was no way the second game was going to be even close to the first. 

 I headed to Barney’s (my mother ship) and was relieved that my dates, Katie and Montana, picked a perfectly inaccessible table, so I could eye men in privacy.

 I saw two super hot guys playing pool and asked if I should approach them (please remember, I’d had two double ciders), like I ran the place and did this all the time. Like, not models, not LA slick, just, like, super tall, burly, together-looking dudes who I’d trust to go to the basement if I heard something in the middle of the night. “No,” I was told. It fully ended up being girl-time, which was probably for the best.

The Elite Eight and The Weak Weekend

I know it’s been a few days, but did you know this past weekend was the Elite Eight? Gonzaga lost. Duke lost. I watched both things happen. As in, my eyes were on TV sets in public.

Saturday was a huge bust. You know how I live in LA? Well, it was so beautiful out, literally a collective fifteen people were watching sports at the three bars I tried going to with my friend Kerri.

 First I tried Bludso’s. I should have been wary since it was on the same LA Eater list that recommended a gay bar to me. A gay bar with nachos that I’m still thinking about, and not just because I’m on my second day of a juice cleanse, but a gay bar, no less. Well, this wasn’t a gay bar, but it was a barbecue joint with a lot of families. Kerri and I downed a glass of wine each and left.

 We then went to Goal, as in, the place where my journey started. You know things are bad when Kevin “E from Entourage” Connelly is sitting at the bar he co-owns and you still leave. 

 Long story short, we ended up at 3rd Stop, where I ran into my friend Phoebe (except this was her drink-a-beer-and-read-scripts-chill-bar, so, great sign), the table next to us had a median age of maybe twenty-two, if not, fourteen with excellent fake ID’s, and the menu has gluten free pizza on it and really shouldn’t.  Also the four people who were watching got really loud when Gonzaga lost.

 Fortunately for me, Kerri was free the following day and really wanted to watch the Duke game. Even better, our friend Allie was also free and they wanted to to Barney’s Beanery. TWO LADIES!!! Who knew that going to sports bars could be so social?!

I think my mom told me once that she had read somewhere that the best way to meet guys at a bar is with two women, except where the fuck would she have gotten that information, and maybe it wasn’t my mom who told me that.

 I got there first - around halftime - and spotted a very attractive man eating a hamburger at the bar by himself, but there was nowhere for me to organically scooch in and ask him my brilliant opener about what condiments he liked on his burger, so I did another loop.

I  ended up sitting down in a booth next to bunch guys watching the Michigan State vs. Duke game pretty intensely. Kerri arrived and immediately called me out for sitting in the absolutely shittiest place to actually watch a game.

 “But Kerri,” I said. “I am watching the game.” I gestured outwards to all of the men the entire bar. 

Then, you guessed it: Ricardo was there! He saw me. I saw him. I got up immediately. We hugged like we hadn’t seen each other in months, but really, it had been three days. He assured us he’d be on the look out.

Now that Ricardo is officially a recurring character, should I invite him to write a post?! Sound off in the comments I haven’t activated because I’m scared of trolls.

Genuine question, fellas: is it, like, appealing, when a woman is a regular at a sports bar and hugs Ricardo? I ask as I’ve been to Barney’s twice in three days, which is basically being a regular, and I saw that brunch menu. Also because the guys next to us noticed.

Quick side note: Allie joined us, her eye make up was phenomenal, and we were in the same outfit down to the sneakers. As someone who deliberately wears the same thing as my sister, I do not get self conscious. Instead, I took it as a sign that I’m on the pulse for my sports bar aesthetic. I totally would have worn that super flattering white t-shirt again, but, full disclosure, I wore it on Saturday for the second day in a row and Kerri would have noticed. Also I walked a whole mile home that day and was wearing dumb natural deodorant so it did not smell great.

Anyway, these Hug Watchers behind us was very vocal about Michigan State. Turns out: we had a table of alumni! When things weren’t insanely intense (so, like, during commercials), Kerri could charm them into talking to us. Here’s what I’ve got: they went to Michigan State. They live in LA. They’re Jewish. Two of them were brothers. They did not like talking to people during their game.

We took turns engaging the Michigan State group (or, what I consider, giving them a break from us), and, what I’d like to describe as a table of older LA mans’ men who were ready to mansplain what a deliberate foul was, but in a chill way. Here’s a twist: one of them went to Duke and was rooting for Michigan State!

 I have a span of 30 years, two colleges, but one team’s fans to dissect here. I need WAY more of a body of research to jump to any conclusions. I guess I just have to drink in sports bars all the time.

Before the older guys could explain a deliberate foul, Duke was out, everyone lost their minds, and I texted my entire family, overcome with adrenaline.

Kerri ordered shots for us all and made a toast.

Now, I need to be honest. I got very drunk, so I’d like to include for you the notes I took in my iphone:

Your guess is truly as good as mine..

We have two more games left in the March Madness season before I move on to pro ball. I have some excellent ladies - plural! - committed to Saturday and Monday’s games. I will actually get a blow out for the final. I will actually take pictures, and notes.

I’m really struggling meeting age appropriate guys. Definitely stay tuned next weekend when I go to a retirement home on Saturday and a Middle School on Monday!

Plain White T's

You know how one of my first two rules is don’t get drunk? Well, I did. Three days in a row, in fact. And it turns out that the main side effect of heavily drinking while watching three days of consecutive upsets is being incapable of sitting at your computer and writing in complete sentences. 

 We now return to our regularly scheduled programming, but, like, Friday’s games of UNC vs. Auburn and Duke vs. idk who cares?

 I realize that what I am about to say is completely out of touch and absolutely insane, but since my last outing, I used my Bloomingdale’s points to buy a $68 plain white t-shirt that is so flattering, it actually gave me more confidence to go out and talk to guys. Yes; a flattering but absurdly overpriced plain white t-shirt can do that. No more complaints about frizz, cheese tummy, or an overall sense of the noncontroversial era of Woody Allen Jewishness here, fam. I swear, even my eye make up looked better. This t-shirt made me feel like I freakin’ ran Busby’s.

I got to Busby’s in Santa Monica around 5:30 on Friday, so, you know, half an hour late, because I was busy kissing my fingers and flourishing them in the air like a jaunty Italian, just so pleased with myself over my Barney’s Beanery post and how good I looked in this new t-shirt.

 I’d like to take a hot second to say that this the first time I will not be featuring a picture of my partner in crime, not because Sara isn’t very pretty, but because she has a job that is much more serious than mine is, and even though I deleted all of my questionable tweets from 2011, I was respectfully told that that doesn’t really work for her. So to make up for a lack of pictures of Sara, I want you to picture her like this when I describe my time at Busby’s:

So, Busby’s: there were literally people who came in straight from CrossFit. I want to be chill about this, but as someone who should truly never be seen in public after a really hard work out to the point that I apologize to baristas if I stop for coffee on my way home, I feel that by giving other people that courtesy, I deserve to drink alcohol without seeing that your shirt gets unflatteringly wet in the stomach area too. 

 Needless to say, we left the bar area to explore.

This place is massive. It had a movie theater style seating area with a big screen, there were a bunch of communal tables with groups who did not want to sit with us, though a very nice dad tried to help us find a hostess, a room of vintage arcade games, and, what I will describe as, like, an 80’s church basement that had a back bar. I don’t know.

 We decided to awkwardly perch behind the movie theater area, since no dudes at communal tables would even look at us, and I got up to grab us more drinks when I saw it: there was a back room. With guys!

 I grabbed Sara and we marched our way back there to hear that it was closed for a private event. Ugh. Of course.

 But, no!!! A somewhat short young man who was vaping away like the free spirited twenty-something he was told us (his words, not mine), that because we were pretty girls we could go back there! Why would I ever go out with not girls!?

 Don Vaper played “bouncer” and IDed us and I played along because I always do for the story… and then I realized as he was inspecting my ID that not only did I recently take the worst license picture of my life last month, but for some dumb reason, the state of California includes your weight on your ID? WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT, CALIFORNIA?! 

 Clearly our friend didn’t notice or care or couldn’t read and introduced himself and his fellow “bouncer,” then, as if on cue, a slew of young preppy men joined us. You guys, it was happening!  Our fake bouncer friend graciously introduced us to everyone like he was giving us a grand tour of his Wonka Factory. Snozberry should be a Juul flavor, right?

 The thing is, he was a Johnny Depp, not a Gene Wilder Wonka. He got a little territorial. He had to tell us conspiratorially who was an idiot, who was married, who was an even bigger idiot, and wanted to scare everyone away by telling them that I didn’t wear any pants to work. He’s not wrong, but come on, bro. He then asked us to guess how old he was. The answer is between 22 and 27.

 All of this stopped mattering for a brief moment, when his taller, better looking, confident friend with the energy of someone who goes golfing regularly with his five brothers came over, gave us a look of “I know,” handed us drink tickets, and swiftly disappeared. “Come back…” I thought, to no avail.

 Oh, did I mention they all worked for a couple of major football teams? Sara is actually bilingual in Sports, and ended up talking to their boss for over half an hour about the current state of the NFL, and, like, multiple teams and leagues, and players, and, I don’t know, the economy? I was happily standing there and smiling dumbly while they spoke rapidly in Greek and then every once in awhile I’d have an opportunity to contribute something useless, like, “the water is very blue in pictures.” 

I think UNC lost somewhere during this time. Or so I was told, maybe twenty minutes after the game ended, because I loudly said, “WHAT?!” in shock, like I’d been invested my entire life. 

 We headed back to the bar where a very sweet romantic lead from the hypothetical Revenge of the Nerds reboot immediately popped up to ask if we were there for the board game Meet Up. I am familiar with Meet Up. I actually applied for a job there in my mid-twenties because my tenure as a front desk person at SoulCycle made me cry all the time from waking up really early, but withdrew my application because my “weekend” would have been Wednesday and Thursday, and fuck that. 

 My real question is this: why, and I mean WHY would you have a board game Meet Up at a packed bar on a Friday night during a Duke game?? That is a lot of required surface area if you are playing board games, plural. I’m just saying.  I have several logistical follow up questions, because I’m really not over this. We talked to this sweet bb for like, ten minutes, clearly because he couldn’t find anyone else from his group, and also my flattering t-shirt gifted me the power of compassion and generosity.

 Overall it was a fun night where I watched absolutely zero basketball, but it was definitely my most social outing to date that included free drink tickets and running into someone who Sara and I both knew in completely separate but totally east coast private school ways. It was definitely not a flirty outing, but Sara and I were called pretty! 

 Look, NO ONE is ever going to beat Ricardo (don’t worry, guys, he comes back, which I can tell you because I’m writing about Friday at the end of my Sunday). But as I calibrate what constitutes a successful learning experience from a game day, I think I’ve learned that girls have more fun (duh), maybe don’t get into a spectatorship in scientific sports talk, and definitely don’t walk up to attractive men, polling them about the project if you want to have a genuine connection. 

Most important: I must buy more of that white t-shirt.

Barney's and (Girl) Friends

Thursday night – Texas Tech vs. Michigan, and Virginia vs. Oregon – was an important outing for two reasons. 1. This was the first bar that was actually walking distance for me, which means if I do in fact become a sports bar person, AND there is a population of datable regulars, I legitimately could have my Cheers. 2. This marked the first time that my plus one was a lady! No love lost on Austin or Mthunzi, but two broads are better than one.

 I headed straight for the bar to wait for Erika (my angel baby) to find a population transfixed by the end of the Purdue/Tennessee game.  

 This was rowdy – in a good way. I was very excited that a decent number of these guys were tall. I hate that I’m sizeist, but I know what I am. I’m 5’8, have excellent posture, and not afraid of heels. If my new angle was that Tennessee fans were tall, I probably have to break it to my mother that my wedding will be of mixed faith.

 A slew of Virginia fans were waiting for their game to start.  These were the guys I was planning on observing and talking to, mostly because Derek’s bracket had them winning, and Derek’s bracket was “my” bracket. They hung outside with the smokers and vapers (???) or killed time playing shuffle board. I was seeing a lot of half-zip sweaters, so they obviously were not actors or writers, which is great because I’m already a lot. Maybe Virginia fans were also tall. I had to Google to confirm this because I never learned geography in elementary school, but the two states do in fact touch a border. You’re welcome.

 Then, two wonderful things happened: first, Erika arrived and I hadn’t seen her in, literally, months, so it was an absolute joy to hug her, then, as if, on cue, THREE MALE MODELS WALKED IN!!!!

Erika, God bless her, was ready to GO!

 She spotted two guys as she found me who were sitting in a booth by the window, and claimed with certainty that one of them had an excellent side profile.  She also started spit balling questions so that we had an inwith these guys. Uh… what the fuck, Mthunzi and Austin? Where was this A-Game?

 We sat down in a booth to suss out our prospects when we met Ricardo.

 Listen, if I get nothing else out of this entire operation, I am completely okay with my primary take away being this: you should absolutely go to Barney’s Beanery for the sole purpose of hanging out with Ricardo. The man is a god damned American treasure.

 We told Ricardo everything, and he was as in it as Erika. He started scoping out the scene, hive minded the tactics of what to say, and asked guys if they wanted to talk to us (the guy with the great side profile declined. What?!?!). Not only did Ricardo have our backs, but he kept my savvy blanc full, so my confidence was that of a 26-year-old me. God, 26-year-old Carlin was skinny, funny, and fuckin’ slayed.

 Now, I have to ask you something: have you ever had a wing man literally whistle you in the direction of several male models, like you are a show dog and your trick is to sit down with them? Because Ricardo did that for me. And Erika slid on into those models’ booth and got right down to business.

I don't think I understood friendship until now. And I won the Friendship Award at JKST  Super Sports Camp in 1996.

 We had some curveballs: these guys were here for Michigan! It explains why they weren’t a part of the hullabaloo (besides the fact that they were too beautiful to sit at the bar). Curveball number two was Alpha Model had a girlfriend, and, predictably, the personality of a lunchbox.  Curveball number three: the other two were in town from New York!!  As in, they do not live in LA. And I already assessed Michigan this week!

What happened next is why I would like to fully endorse everyone to hire and befriend Erika. She somehow figured out that the guy in the middle of this snack pack was not only from Buffalo, but had gone to her dad for knee surgery when he was fourteen. This was also perfect, because the other New Yorker next to him, was tall, covered in tattoos, had dark hair, and completely uninterested, so I was smitten.

 Unfortunately, this entire journey is about finding fans to swipe right on, not guys at bars who are completely unavailable so I can continue down my path of absolutely terrible choices. Fortunately, Erika had to leave, and even though Ricardo was more than willing to help me out if I stayed at Barney’s solo, I decided to go home and eat one of my cold, leftover salmon burgers I made from the Goop website (I know she’s an anti-vaxer, but whoever comes up with her recipes deserves a raise). After all, I had to prepare for the next, even braver adventure: watching Duke in Santa Monica.

Second Round: Parlor Games

Three separate people had recommended The Parlor, and, as they were Syracuse, Maryland, and Kansas alumni, I took them seriously. Even better: today’s hot date was Austin, an Indiana alum, who requests the cheapest beer, and is actually down for anything. Whether he can wing, however, was still a mystery. We were set to meet at 2:15 – just in time for Florida vs. Michigan.

I got there first, and, my God, this place was no joke. I was in a sea of blue and yellow. Finally! A bar with a team! And so. Many. Dudes. 

But Friday’s great hair day was replaced by a weird, flat frizz.  Worse, for some reason, I thought that Portland Chic was going to do it today.  Based on the women who had that perfect blonde tussle that comes with the right balance of curling iron and hair product, my full look was not going to fly here. Was I getting sweaty? Cool! 

I generally had positive associations with Michigan. My cousin went there, and when I first moved to New York, I used to go out with him and his friends a lot. One of my best friends went there, as did half of my Birthright group, and some of my favorite actors from my scene study in New York. Basically what I’m saying is I’d generally swipe right on Michigan. 

What I’m not saying is I’m an east coast Jew in LA. My version of Michigan alumni is guys who are either from the Midwest (the nice ones), or the east coast (the finance ones), and would make your mom happy. Speaking of which: I automatically started to scan for Jews, and wasn’t seeing many. I was, however, seeing a lot of guys who looked like they had real jobs (if they weren’t already agents or producers, give it six months), and definitely dressed and groomed in the kind of too put-together way where you’d match and then never actually message each other. 

Of course, all I could think about was how gross I felt from yesterday’s nachos (spoiler: I did not work out) and how sweaty and frizzy I was and how asexual I seemed in my weirdly high-necked tank top which was hidden under an oversized button down (Carlin, what the actual fuck?!), at which point, Austin arrived. In an Indiana shirt. So we definitely fit in here.

He wanted his picture to be of him chugging…except it was already done.

 As Austin got a beer (yes, a cheap one), I felt like I needed to flex a little bit so I maneuvered myself closer to a group of four guys who were refilling their beers…they were pretty boisterous. Before I could order anything, one thing was immediately clear: they kind of fully sucked.  And then three Michigan clad mid-twenty-somethings who definitely got dressed for the ‘gram got right in there, bee-lined for these two hot guys who looked extremely unfriendly and hadn’t taken their eyes off of the TV at the other end of the bar, ordered champagne (you can do that?!) so I made a lame joke to the guy in yellow with sunglasses on the back of his head to not put anything on my tab and moonwalked back to my friend.

We cased the joint.  What a bizarre facility: Parlor has a huge outdoor space with large picnic tables, all of which were marked as reserved for later games. This area was mostly occupied by Michigan people, with the exception of some Kentucky fans who were wrapping up their brunches. There are two separate bars in two separate buildings on either side of this outdoor space.

One was reserved specifically for Kentucky…

but once we got inside, it was only more Michigan fans.

The other building was the Mother Ship. We’re talking a big bar, tons of tables, booths, high tops, an active restaurant, a private room, and, for good measure: two roped off areas that gave off “bottle service at a night club” energy, but it was broad day light.

There were two very distinct groups in this lounge area: one could only be described as a group of Los Angeles Persian Jews (found ’em!), and the other, a bunch of guys, presumably in their late 20’s, who were all in the same fraternity, with their baes, and very fucked up.

It was clear by how loud everyone was whenever Michigan did, literally, anything, that this was not going to be a game where I could talk to fans: I was now Jane Goodall, and Austin was Austin.

Austin graciously noticed that there was an open high top directly above this lounge area. The sign on the table said it was reserved for Jordan [last name redacted] at 6:30, so we parked our asses down to stalk people and had the following conversation.

Carlin: What guy would possibly reserve a two-top at a sports bar?
Austin: I don’t know.
Carlin: I bet Jordan is a girl and just really on her shit.
Austin: Maybe.
Carlin: Well if it’s for 6:30, Jordan, who is a woman, definitely went to Kansas.
Austin: I guess.

I then Googled the shit out of Jordan [last name redacted], and fuck yes: Jordan was an organized woman who went to Kansas. Good job, Jordan!

 I’m going to skip over so many observations, like, (1) the fact that those insta basics ended up talking to those four annoying dudes, and it was so clear, even from across the room, that the guys were just really talking at them in an onslaught of inside bro-jokes, or (2) there were two nice, totally harmless looking guys who were devout Michigan fans but still seemed out of place, so I obviously am a monster and didn’t bother to talk to them, or (3) I was very tipsy or (4) I was 100% wearing the same Rag and Bone jeans as one of the Persian guys in the lounge area in front of me. I am skipping all of this so I can get to what can only be the single greatest thing I could have possibly witnessed on the Sabbath.

A young man, whose back of the head revealed that weird Adam Levine/Macklemore/Roger Klotz/Nazi haircut that #fuckboys love to have, looked around at his crew – one was desperately trying to make a toast, and no one would have it, I might add – and decided it was the perfect moment to take out his phone. He hovered on Raya, went into Hinge and it took too long to load, so he opened Bumble, and went through a girl’s pictures and full bio, made no decision about her, and then opened up his messages to TEXT A GIRL HE HAD CLEARLY BEEN IGNORING!!!

It was incredible.

It’s like I was deep in Kenya and I’d spotted my first monkey.

After the Michigan game ended, Austin and I did another lap to see if there was anyone worth talking to. I did a little bit of chatting up people in the bar formerly known as Kentucky, and met some Minnesota fans, and a guy who just wanted to watch the star of Murray State. I also chatted up a guy in full Kansas gear…so full that he even had a jersey in his pocket for his girlfriend for when she got there. Then Austin and I rode off into the sunset together (and by that I mean we both went home, separately, exhausted).

Lessons from the day: go to DryBar, bitch. You’ll feel better. Jonathan from Queer Eye would agree. Also, don’t eat nachos. You’re lactose intolerant.

And would I still swipe right on a Michigan guy? Seasonally.  But I will definitely be swiping left on any and all bad haircuts because I SEE YOU!!!

First Round: Some Significant Airball

Full disclosure: I woke up nervous.

There were a few factors running through my head. 

 First: I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing. People sound enthusiastic when I tell them that I’m doing this, so I’m pumped, but as a self-identified person with zero chill, the fact that I don’t know what time certain games start, or who is even playing on Sunday is driving me absolutely crazy. It’s Friday, already. Get it together!

 Second: I had mentally committed to going to a bar to watch an afternoon game on a Friday. Who the fuck is at a bar in the middle of the day on a Friday?! I mean, sure: this is LA. You see beautiful people strolling Runyon or taking a three-hour lunch, literally, any day of the week…but are those #fuckboys committed enough to their brackets to watch a game at a bar during their breaks from being an “influencer,” “producer,” or “entrepreneur?” Am I going to spend my afternoon hitting on homeless dudes? Because I think there have been, like, five sitcoms that have done that episode, and I’d do it for your entertainment, but I really don’t want to.

 Third: What am I wearing??? I’ve already sworn I won’t be a Cool Girl, and I won’t be a hooker, and I won’t wear any team’s colors or affiliated logos, so, like, what does that mean? Do I wear shoes that can tread well on sticky floors?  Sports bars get sweaty, right? But I’ll want a jacket because if I’m there until it’s dark out, I’ll definitely get cold. Is it flattering to tie a jacket around my waist? Because then no one can see my butt. Do boys steal coats or did that end my senior year of college? Should I get a blow out? I should definitely get a blow out, right? Would DryBar judge me when they start washing my hair and they do their habitual ask of what I’m doing today?

 Finally: Today’s wingman is my African Prince and absurd lush, Mthunzi. He is, and I say this with love, an absolute goon. I received a text from him that he woke up at our friend’s apartment, as though he was surprised to have discovered this.  When I texted him today’s logistics, it was fast approaching noon and I still hadn’t heard back from him. So I could be hitting on homeless dudes at a sports bar in the middle of the day without even getting a blow out, by myself.

After putting on 2 pairs of jeans, 3 jackets, a couple of bras and 4 shirts, I settled on this.

Pretty basic.

As I walked up to Goal Sports Cafe at 1:30, I was pretty sure it was closed. I opened the door and it may as well have been: I took in the scene, and there were maybe 4 booths with people in them, and five dudes at the bar, max. All I wanted to do (after I peed), was sit in the booth closest to the door, but instead, I sat at the v-shaped bar, smack in the middle. I will happily accept any jump ball puns now.

Let me tell you who goes to a sports bar and drinks during March Madness in the middle of the day on a Friday: whoever fucking wants to. There was a trio - two women and an androgynous guy - in Oregon gear. There were two guys clearly there by themselves at the bar, 3 seats apart, but very invested in Virginia, together. There was an extremely attractive man I kept accidentally making eye contact with in a booth alone. Most noticeably there was a group of age appropriate guys clearly having the time of their lives.

At 2pm, I thought we were going to get a bit of a Changing of the Guards - two or three people sitting at the bar left to go back to work after what must have been their lunch break - but everyone who had claimed a booth was there to stay.

At around this point, my friend Mthunzi, who was, in fact, alive, showed up and I filled him in on the scene.

As he threatened to go up to the hot guy I had noticed sitting alone in the booth (he now had a crew, including two Cool Girls, which made me want to lose ten pounds), two new guys sat down next to us in matching bracket shirts: it was a perfect conversation starter. Of course, they were a part of a thousand-person pool, all of the people participating were from Central New Jersey, and I heard the first of what I am sure will be a trend during March Madness versus, say, the NBA playoffs: these guys were not here to support their alma maters, but rather, for the integrity of winning their bracket pool.

Now that I had the confidence to talk to strangers (and two drinks), and Wisconsin was playing Oregon, I used a foul to seize the opportunity to waltz up to the table of fun guys (I’m talking Juuls and Irish Car bombs) who had been there longer than I had: their cheers were split. I literally sat my ass down, leaving my drink, my jacket, and Mthunzi, to learn that, no: these guys did not go to Wisconsin or Oregon; they were from LA and, like my New Jersey “Mango Madness” guys, very invested in their brackets. They had taken the day off, and not only was one married, but four hours later, I found out he was my friend’s brother. Like, are you kidding me?!

It was here that I realized I had to make a true decision about my transparency. Now, I do have a bracket… if you call my friend Derek emailing me his bracket “my” bracket… but I don’t want to fake my knowledge, so I told them what I was writing. It feels a little bit like you’re saying “hello, may I flirt next to you?” They entertained me long enough to offer some other bars to check out, and I returned to my prime post at the bar. I should mention that of course it was Mthunzi, and not me, who scored one of these guys’ digits.

We were fast approaching 4 hours indoors, and both the alcohol and smell of other peoples’ pizza were starting to get to us, so we decided to close out and go for a walk to a new bar for the next round of games.

I’d been sent a list of the best bars to go to during March Madness on LA Eater and decided that Hi Top on Santa Monica made sense geographically.

Now, LA Eater promised me several TV’s, great space and greater nachos. What LA Eater did *not* promise me was heterosexual men.

Guys, I went to a gay bar. But the nachos were fucking fantastic.

As was the $5 sparkling rose.

Since I now live in semi-outdoor spaces with multiple flatscreens, I decided to call it so I could at least watch Crazy Ex-Girlfriend without being surrounded by intermittent shouting. Better yet, I could get up early enough to sweat off my calories tomorrow morning.

To paraphrase: I spent 5 hours in 2 sports bars only to meet my friend’s brother and sit with a bunch of gay dudes.

This is eerily on brand.

On Being a Cool Girl...

We all know the trope that Amazing “Gone Girl” Amy immortalized. "Being the Cool Girl means I am a hot, brilliant, funny woman who adores football, poker, dirty jokes, and burping, who plays video games, drinks cheap beer, loves threesomes and anal sex, and jams hot dogs and hamburgers into her mouth like she's hosting the world's biggest culinary gang bang while somehow maintaining a size 2, because Cool Girls are above all hot. Hot and understanding."

The closest I’ve come to “Cool Girl” territory was during my improv tenure from my teens through my twenties. I’d wear jeans, plaid shirts, and ripped up converse. I was hanging out in dives late into the night after class, shows, or practice. Most important: I’d shed all femininity for the grossest, most shocking possible version of a joke, while wearing a cat eye so that the guys would still want to hook up with me.

I’ve always thought that the woman who goes to sports’ bars is a “Cool Girl” by mandate. She splits the pitcher of beer, houses the nachos and can spurt sports stats with the fluency that I think I can speak Spanish after two and a half margaritas in a cab home, except somehow, she does it as foreplay.

While I no longer put on any semblance of the act of “cool girl,” I can say with a hearty self-awareness that I cannot flirt for shit. I am an over-eager, diarrhea-mouthed idiot, who has visably blushed in front of the person of interest, literally, as recently as December. Should a guy actually pursue this smoke show, every Apple Ellipses catalyzes a practically tourettesian outburst of, ‘WHAT DOES THIS MEAN?!” My own sister saw me flirt on a vacation once when she was seventeen and turned to me in front of the guy and said, “What the ACTUAL fuck??”

I want to go into this experience shedding any preconceived prejudices not just about sports bars, but about myself. Hell yeah, I can flirt. I can talk about sports, and even the commercials during the sports. I’ll wear a cool shirt and shoes. Here’s the thing, though: the brackets have been announced, and I’ve reached out to my friends to be wing mens and wing womens. Please, tell me: does this Google Doc that will carefully plan my next several weekends and the projected types of team fans I will be interacting with look like the social calendar of a Cool Girl?

I know. Amazing Adelson, 2019

Let's Play Ball! Carlin Does Basketball!

I remember it so clearly: sophomore year of high school, it was a Tuesday night, and Colin, Alex, and Jenn were being dropped at my house. Jenn and I weren’t super close, but she was universally well liked and I admired her ease and self-deprecation, both of which were far more sophisticated than her sixteen years. Colin and Alex were the renowned dark horses of my high school class; everyone knew they were total dreamboats, but they had no idea. They were quiet, good kids, who you could easily fall in love with, but more than willing to settle for close friendship if it meant spending time with them.

Once they all got to my house, we climbed into my dad’s car (ever the valiant chaperone) and were dropped at the Wachovia Center to watch the 76ers play the Clippers.

 At the time, I had played club basketball, badly, for four years, usually occupying the bench, and rarely, if ever, scoring.  I could maybe make free throws during the last two weeks of practice every season, but once a scrimmage started, the panic of doing things in real-time fractured my barely adequate skill-set.

Of the Sixers 2002 line up, I could name Allen Iverson, Mutombo (no amount of money could get me to recall his first name, then or now) and that was it.

My terrible basketball skills and NBA knowledge were irrelevant: I had the currency of my dad’s four eighth-row, partial-season tickets to Sixers Games that he shared with a couple of friends. He would generously gift me said tickets a few times a year, so I could take three friends with me. After this inaugural Tuesday night, the set up wrote itself: I’d invite two guys and bring a wing-girl.

I’m sure this doesn’t come as a surprise but I didn't end up with Colin or Alex. In fact, I didn’t end up with Deacon, Aaron, Gabe, David, Sameer, or any of the others who joined me at these games. But I look back at that time in my life fondly, when I never paid attention to the game until the final quarter.  My boys would treat me to dip cones and pretzels (beer wasn’t an option yet), and it was fun to sneak a look at the guys enjoying themselves while chatting with my wing girl.

That was literally half of my lifetime ago.  Sixteen years later, I am a comedy writer in Los Angeles, constantly focused on honing the self-deprecating, endearingly dysfunctional character who is also named Carlin. 

As I turned 32, I randomly started thinking about that first Sixers game with Colin and Alex and Jenn: if eating food and watching a game with the boys was fun then, imagine what would it be like now, like, when I can legally drink, and replace my chaperone Dad with Tammi from Uber. I know what to expect from my Philadelphians. You know, the heaping piles of human garbage who say “wutter” and light things on fire out of both joy and rage. Somehow I still love them all very much, but usually as a friend. So what if I started “courting” other major teams? See what I did there?

I’ve long basked in the fish-out-of-water discomfort of dating for your entertainment. There was my web series, Cuddling with Carlin, in which dudes literally spooned me in my bed while I interviewed them. There was my take down of the rom com troupe, The Meet Cute. Of course there was Places I’ve Made Out, which was, unfortunately, a little too autobiographical.

So starting with March Madness, I am ready to scrimmage: with a team of trusted consultants, I’m creating a bracket and schedule as I explore the single fans of as many teams as I possibly can before switching to the NBA playoffs, then dabbling in summer sports before bravely entering football season. 

The disclaimer is simple: I don’t know shit.  The objective is that a girl walks into a bar knowing enough that she’s not annoying, but she is not an ESPN statistichick.   Plus, she is not really that interested in the outcome of the game; she is a dating sociologist, or perhaps a dating zoologist, trying to figure out if a guy in a Panther’s jersey is more eligible than a guy wearing Bears’ colors.  With luck I will find the ultimate shortcut – if you know the teams a guy follows, do you automatically know to swipe right?

I may not have taken a math class since 2005, but, as the product of overly coddling parents, I come to you with the unearned confidence of someone who feels qualified and ready to develop the world’s first algorithm that solves whether a Jet’s fan is ever worth a second beer (or even a first one), whether a Blue Devil fan can ever get through a first conversation without bringing up Christian Laettner (see, I have done some homework!), and whether 76er fans are all as lovable as my two besties from my sophomore year in high school.

 Got it? Let’s play ball.

SoHo, NYC

SoHo is home to the world’s greatest collection of cast-iron architecture. But more than that, SoHo is unique among New York’s neighborhoods for its classical French and Italian architectural designs. It simply doesn’t look like anywhere else, not even the neighboring West Village or Lower East Side. 

For one thing, the colors are much more distinct in SoHo. They’re brighter. Perhaps that’s a reflection on the people living here. But for many of the cast-iron buiildings that give SoHo it’s unmistakable character, the reason for their bright coloring is actually pretty obvious: whenever you construct anything from wrought iron, it’s going to look like, well, wrought iron.

So the colors of SoHo as they’re known, or at least as they ought to be known, the colors that are just a street photographers dream come true (where else can you find so many amazing backdrops?), are actually the result of many, many coats of bright paints. And they light up a photo in ways even a flash cannot.

For me, it’s all about New York streets. They’ve been immortalized in who knows how many songs and poems, movies and books, but even though I’ve spent years documenting them with my photography, I don’t think I’m any closer to understanding them than I was when I started. They are their own kind of art, and for a photographer, all you need to do is setup the shot and take it. I have lived in New York for only five years, but I have been a working, professional photographers for fifteen years now.

Street Scenes

You never know what you’ll find on the streets. And if you happen to be a photographer working in New York, that’s doubly true. I’ve had the good fortune to shoot all over the world, and when I come back to New York, I’m always reminded of why I started my career here.

The New York street scene is, for better or for worse, the street scene. It’s the one that is the most iconoclastic, and because of the backdrop of New York, it’s the one that I think people from just about anywhere imagine when they think of the idea of a street scene—whatever a “street scene” happens to be.

I created this album to showcase some of my favorite street scenes that I’ve captured in New York. This is nothing that I’ve done on contract or in my studio, just real life moments captured by me with my Mark III when I had some time to kick it around the city. I hope you like what you see. I did.