With only a few months to go before I’ve successfully ridden out the worst decision of my life and am back in NYC, you might think that I’d be of the mindset to make the most of my remaining days here in LA and have as much fun as possible. While this sounds good in theory, it also presupposes that there is real, actual fun to be had in Los Angeles. Since this is not the case, I have a new plan: spend my last weeks in LA spending as little money as possible so that I can blow it all when I get back to NYC.

(Before we continue, I should note that one way in which I am actually trying to enjoy LA is by getting out of LA. I was supposed to go on a road trip last weekend, but that failed; there may be a road trip to San Diego this weekend; and I have other LA-based trips forthcoming, including the big Vegas weekend in September. So there’s that.)

The good news that if anyone knows how to have fun on a budget, it’s me. Sure, I like to go out and eat my $45 steaks and drink my $15 Manhattans, but I am equally content staying in with the AC blasting, a few beers in the fridge, some good rock music playing, and a handful of murder shows on the Tivo.

What makes this process easier is that I live near a place called Wally’s Wine. Now, if you are a woman, love wine, and are capable of having an orgasm (my personal research indicates that only around 4% of women are actually capable of having an orgasm), you will undoubtedly orgasm upon entering this store. I mean, they have lots and lots and lots of wine (like, lots). But it’s not a wine warehouse; it’s all very manageable and navigable, and they have a very nice and attentive staff. Couple this with the fact they also have cheese and meats and glassware, and, really, if you’re one of the lucky 4%, you’re going to pop off. Probably.

What I like about Wally’s is that they also have a very impressive beer selection. While I generally fear and sometimes hate change, I’m always looking for new and exciting ways to get fucked up and subsequently spend my following afternoon in the shower recovering. In my younger days, my taste in beer was similar to my taste in women: I like them cheap and American, and I like for them to go down easy and have as little taste as possible (Editor’s Note: Ewwww!!!). While this is still how I prefer my women, I’ve gotten a little more adventurous with my beer, dabbling in browns and reds and IPAs, but preferring to stay away from wheats and whites. While at Wally’s last Friday and thinking about the massive amounts of Guinness I’ve been consuming lately, I decided to get some advice on the wonderful world of stouts.

Guinness, next to Bud, is my go-to beer. First, it’s a gentle kind of fucked up, one that doesn’t make you angry or (overly) horny, but takes you by the hand, dancing, and draws you into a world of warmth and happiness and blurriness. Second, not only am I convinced that I could have twelve Guinnesses and still be able to fly a plane, but the Guinness hangovers are much less severe than others (though the next-day pooping is usually not so good). Third, I like Guinness because when I drink it, I feel like a gentleman. If you have fifteen pints of Bud in an evening, you’re a slob. If you have fifteen pints of Guinness in an evening, you’re Irish and charming and wonderful. Big difference there.

(Please, I’m not coming down on Bud or saying it doesn’t have its place. When I’m in a strange hotel room, preparing for a night of getting bombed and texting a long ago ex-lady, nothing gets me to where I need to go like an ice-cold Bud bomber. In truth, if LA had these 16oz cans of Bud, I’d like it a lot more out here. But, alas.)

When looking at the various stouts, my first thought was to grab one each of about twelve of them. But then the guy who worked there starting talking to me and recommended starting slowly with two or three, with a bottle or two of each. So I walked out with three varieties of the stouts, two bottles of each, to complement the other beers I had at home.

I started the evening, as is my wont, with a vodka and sugar-free red bull, just to get my attention. I’ve been starting my drinking sessions with a vodka red bull for so long – back in NYC, I purchased my “Friday Night Special,” two sugar-free red bulls and a six-pack of bombers, every Friday night on the walk home from work – that it’s taking a special place in my heart; just as ginger snaps might remind one of Christmas or the smell of fresh apple pie might cause one to recall the halcyon summer days of their youth, the smell, and that first sip of the vodka red bull, reminds me that I’m about to most likely spend over $100 on alcohol, probably sing “Easy Lover” to the point of making others uncomfortable, and ultimately wake up with a small string of cheese from the previous night’s slice in my beard. A better way to kick off the weekend, I can think of none.

After that one vodka red bull, with the air-conditioner blasting, my belly feeling warm and my mind sharp and focused, I started on the stouts. This is where things started to get tricky.

First, before ye pass judgment, know that man is no closer to God than when he gets drunk alone. I am in no way ashamed to admit that I – a 30 year-old young man of means, talent and charm – spent my Friday night in Los Angeles, California getting absolutely, positively shit-canned alone in my apartment. If you can’t see that this is awesome, I feel genuinely sorry for you.

Second, I gotta be honest, I’m not really sure how it all went down. The guy at the beer store warmed me about the stouts, saying that they were strong, but I just assumed that he was a total pussy. It’s beer. And there are only six of them. I can drink – and regularly do drink – that much while showering. So step off, gaybird.

But boy, that gentleman was correct. The first problem was that the stouts were delicious. I can only remember the name of my favorite, the 8-Ball Stout from Lost Coast Brewery, but my goodness, it was like drinking pints full of clouds – deep, dark, rich clouds that made you want to call up your ex-wife, just to check in, or, if you don’t have an ex-wife, troll Facebook for as many bikini pictures that you can find.

(A confession: I get unreasonably excited when a girl lists both “Men” and “Women” in the “Interested In” part of her profile on Facebook. Really. I’m like a retarded boy eating a Pixie stick: I start fidgeting around, sweating, maybe make some barely audible grunting noises and bouncing up and down a little bit, etc. It’s really quite embarrassing, but I am powerless to stop it.)

What added to the fuzziness of the next few hours was the re-discovery of an old friend, an album called “Tattoo You” by a little band out of the UK called The Rolling Stones. Many moons ago, I owned this album, but I bought it for “Waiting on a Friend” and didn’t give the rest of it a shot, since the first song on the album is my least-favorite Stones song, “Start Me Up.” I’m not sure what inspired it, but I purchased the entire album on iTunes this particular evening, having decided to give it a shot.

Most of the album sounds like the soundtrack of the darkest, most smoke-filled bar that you’ll never be cool enough to drink at. This is the best way I can think of to explain it, but I’m not doing it justice, since it’s kind of indescribable; I can tell you that at one point, I actually went online to find out if the song “Slave” was ever used in a movie, because it surely should be. But any way you look at it, it’s ideal getting fucked up music – serious, strange, moody, bluesy, ballsy, cocky music, made for serious, strange, moody, bluesy, ballsy, cocky drunks. Highly, highly recommended.

Somewhere through the third playing of the album (or thereabouts), the wheels completely came off. Inspired by the egregious shot-taking that goes on in “The Wire” (I’ve finished season one and am working my way through season two and, FYI, still not really getting what all the fuss is about), I thought it might be a good idea to do some shots of vodka – which, of course, turned out to be a not a good idea at all. I don’t remember much of the next few hours, but there was a lot of mustard everywhere when I woke up. I still can’t determine what the mustard was put on, but the leader is dry slices of bread (as I have no cheese or lunchmeat in my apartment).

The next morning, fighting through the hangover, I did a fantasy football draft and was up for a few hours, recovering, before I noticed a document on my computer’s desktop called “Will.” I clicked on it, and, sure enough, in my drunken state I had composed my first-ever will.

Well. This was new – even at the peak of my hypochondria, I had never written a will. This was probably because I had nothing to bequeath aside from student loans and some poorly cared for musical instruments. But at this point in my life, I’m not hypochondriacal at all, so it’s not like I thought I was going to die in my sleep (though I could have been legitimately afraid of a mustard overdose). I also still have very little to leave to anyone, so it’s not as though I’m concerned that my family will fight over my vast assets after I’ve left this world. Fittingly, the will was a simple one, a standard form that states my assets should be divided into quarters between my dad, mom, brother and sister. By my rough calculations – and I’d have to check with my accountant on this – that means each will receive the princely sum of $18.46. But again, I’ll have to check with my accountant on this.

But the fact remains: I got black-out drunk, woke up the next morning, and had no recollection of writing an at least rudimentary will. Yikes. Usually when I wake up hungover, only somewhat familiar with the previous night’s events, I’m prepared for a number of possibilities, usually involving inappropriate texts, emails, phone calls, purchases (mostly music or porn) or website visits (craigslist -> los angeles -> casual encounters -> mm4m). But again, a will was definitely new.

Part of me, upon this discovery, wanted to be horrified. A will – how macabre! What demons must have I been wrestling with, between the stouts and the shots and the mustard? Was I really debating my own mortality? Did I fear that my time on this earth was coming to an end? Or I am just losing my mind completely?

But instead of being concerned, I’m actually proud of this. While I am used to doing those stupid things while bombed, writing a will is far and away the most responsible thing I’ve ever done while drunk, and one of the most responsible things I’ve ever done, period. As far as I’m concerned, this is tremendous, tremendous progress. Perhaps tonight I’ll get drunk and study for the CA license test or get the receipts for my 2009 tax write-offs together or apply for a mortgage.

Really, the possibilities are endless. But at least this time I’ll know to take it a little easier on those stouts (way, way too many typos in that will).