The Random Dude

A couple weeks back, I’m hanging with a friend at a bar before we head to a birthday party. Moments after I arrive, a man walks over and introduces himself.

He is the random dude.

After some small talk, my friend (for the purposes of this blog, let's call him Bill) decides it’s time to leave and head to the party. Bill asks the girl he was talking to if she’d like to join us and she accepts his offer.

That’s when the random dude turns to me and says:

“Just so you know, I’m not driving tonight.”

Needless to say, hearing these words was alarming and disconcerting on multiple levels. As I turned to give Bill the extended stare/distress signal, the random dude spoke again:

“So is it cool, then?”

I decided to play the ignorant card.

“Is… what… cool?”

He quickly answered.

“You know… If I came along.”

My worst fears had been realized. In just seconds, we were approaching a social DEFCON FOUR situation.

I had to think fast.

“We may not be coming back later so I don’t know if I’ll be able to give you a ride home.”

Without missing a beat, he responded:

“That’s why they invented cabs.”

Apparently this was no ordinary random dude.

So now I’m sitting alone in my car with the random dude, waiting for Bill and the girl.

As I fumbled with the radio, the random dude broke up the awkward silence:

“Do you want to see a picture of a dead body on my phone?”

I’m not sure what was more disturbing, that the random dude had a picture of a dead body on his phone or that he wanted to show it to me.

Fast forward to the end of the night and we’re driving home.

Both Bill and the girl are now slightly to heavily intoxicated and I’m guesstimating the chances of them hooking up to be over 94%, mainly because when I drive them back to his place she will realize that she can’t drive home in her state.

In conclusion, the logistics, normally the most daunting obstacle of the LA bar hookup, were near perfect. It would almost take an act from god to screw this up.

Or perhaps a random dude.

Midway through the ride, the random dude turns his head and shouts:

“Hey, isn't that your apartment?!”

Apparently she had made the mistake of telling the random dude where she lived. She looked up.

"It sure is! Do you mind dropping me off and I'll pick up my car in the morning?"

I reluctantly pulled over and, as the girl opened the door, the random dude turned to Bill and noticed his look of utter disdain.

“Wait… You like her right?! Maybe, you should walk her to the door!”

Bill cringed as the girl had yet to exit.

An ackward smile ensued and then she was gone.

I immediately stepped on the gas and the random dude looked at me.

“Oh God. Did I just cock block?”

I responded.

“Only literally.”


If you're wondering what the Superdome in New Orleans was like during Katrina, stop by the Trader Joe's in Santa Monica on any Sunday afternoon.


And finally... Spotted Friday night at South in Santa Monica: Six tight V-neck wearing dudes huddled around a single fruity cocktail in a fishbowl, simultaneously sipping on six pink straws.

In other words, they were sipping away both their drink and what remained of their heterosexuality at the same time.