111 Ways to Die (#11 – #20)

This is how it all begins…(or ends)  The choice is up to you!  Remember to VOTE for your Faves!

Your Choices How to DIE This Week Are:

11.  Finally being able to afford a trip to Mexico when a tumultuous Hurricane Harry hits the shore and drives a palm tree branch through your chest while you are sipping a Mai Tai on the beach.

12.  Going down in an airplane next to your mother in law, while sitting next to a newborn who has been crying the WHOLE time, an old woman with terrible gas, and one guy who is trying to tell everyone on the plane to “stay calm”

13.  Getting into a time machine and going back to watch the Beatles perform on The Ed Sullivan show, only to accidentally transport yourself into the middle of Vietnam right before the area you land in gets nuked by the United States just like that scene in Forrest Gump.

14.  Having a truck fall off an overpass onto the freeway, smashing the car you are in while you were late on your way to work, and being forced to listen to the ridiculous immigration stories of your Armenian Uber driver.

15.  Walking down to get the mail, opening a letter, getting a paper cut,  but pulling out a check for a million dollars.  You celebrate, then read a note inside that says this letter was laced with arsenic which immediately gets absorbed into your skin through the papercut and you die a few hours later when you go to cash the check, which you find out was a fake.

16.  Strapping filet mignon, porterhouse, and flank steak to your body then being thrown out of a car into an alley full of ravenous junkyard dogs who eat you alive.

17.  Being force fed beets through your mouth until you cannot eat anymore, then being force fed beets through your butt until it comes out your mouth then being left to starve to death, unless of course you want to eat those beets.  (I obviously have an issue with beets)

18.  Having to sit through a two hour conversation with your Russian neighbor, while his non English speaking wife repeatedly stabs you with an ice pick and pours top shelf vodka into your wounds. Death by Ketel One.

19.  Having to attend an entire U2 concert.

20.  Catching a foul ball during the World Series, then being interviewed by the local media when ANOTHER foul ball comes straight at you and hits you in the head causing you to die on live television.

Please share, re-blog, comment, and like.  Buzzfeed ain’t got nothing on this list!

(#21-#30 Ways to DIE: December 15th, 2015!)

Remember to Vote!

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Part 2: Ok Kimberly

Wednesday, November 27th, 2013

I’m standing outside of Harmony Gold about to watch a screening of the movie Into the Furnace. I decide this is a good time to respond to the message I received yesterday from Manhattan2LA. Yes, I realize I waited one day before I respond because I feel like that is industry standard. When connecting with someone for the first time, you don’t want to come off too eager, it’s a total turn off. It’s like basically admitting that you are so psyched to have gotten a message from her that you couldn’t hold yourself in for one day. You HAD to respond. So desperado. She writes “You’re super cute. Where are you from?” I respond with “Thank you.” And then after reading through her profile I add the phrase“I’m from New Jersey, like it said in my profile. Also I have a thing for Jewish girls who emigrated to L.A. from New York. That’s a truth I figure to myself, and that is good enough. I’m going to watch this movie with my friend and then maybe write her back later after the Q&A with the director. I’m being coy, but apparently, “Kimberly” doesn’t appreciate coy, because I receive a message from her three minutes later. And then another one, and then another one. Eventually, we set a date to go out and get a drink on Friday. I give her my phone number and I say I’m in a screening and I will talk to her later. I put my phone on silent, sit back and watch the film.

The thing with Harmony Gold is, it’s a complete sucker of cell phone battery life. Harmony Gold is a movie theater on Sunset Boulevard in West Hollywood, and I guess they must have made it out of ten feet of reinforced concrete because my phone has been pathetically searching for a signal the entire time during the movie and now my battery is down to 20%. I see I have two messages from OkKimberly. (and yes, every phone number I got was prefaced by an “Ok” then their name.) One is a picture of her on the red carpet from the American Music awards with a pair of ghastly ridiculous hipster glasses on, the other is a request for a current picture me. I guess she doesn’t trust my profile so I stall for as long as can, knowing that with each and every text I send to her explaining why I can’t send a picture right now it is only agitating her and further depleting my battery. Finally, I send her a picture of me, my business partner, and our agents on the red carpet. Tit for tat, right? Well, two minutes later she responds with… “Is that Sheila and LyNea?”

Fuck! She knows my agents? What the fuck? How does she know them? What does she do? Why the fuck is Hollywood such a small town?!?! These are the questions that are going thought my mind. She then texts me asking how Sheila’s foot is doing. Her foot? How the fuck am I supposed to know? I think the better question is how does she know about my agent’s foot surgery? My friend is laughing as we walk back to the car, and as we arrive at the watering hole of choice that night, my battery is practically dead. Before it totally dies, I sneak into the bathroom and take the dreaded selfie she has been requesting all night. 8% left, and tomorrow is Thanksgiving.

Thursday, November 28th, 2013 – Thanksgiving

I’m at a friends house drinking my fifth glass of wine and digesting one of the best meals I’ve ever had. There is a bunch of us sitting outside drinking and talking, and I bring up the fact that I have a date tomorrow night. One of my friends who is a talent manager asks who she is, so I show her a picture and say her name is Kimberly.

“Wow, she looks familiar” My friend says.

Then, within a few seconds my friend pulls up Kimberly’s full name, Twitter account, Linkedin profile and also tells me what management company she works for. I won’t reveal her REAL last name, but let’s just say it is “Goldman.” (but it’s really not) In a drunken state, and maybe trying to be a little smartass, I text Kimberly to tell her Happy Thanksgiving and to let her know I have turkeys on my socks. Then I tell her I Googled her. I never get a response. I guess she’s not impressed.

Friday November 29th, 2013

I wake up to two texts from OkKimberly. Both are about my socks. She never even mentions the whole google thing so I assume that it must not be a big deal. Around 9:45 she texts me to say she will be done her work calls at noon and for me to call her then. I say ok, and I go back to doing whatever it was I was doing. Thirty minutes later, she calls ME.

We’re on the phone for half an hour. She talks in an obvious East coast accent with a little Hollywood undertone, and low and behold she is a talent manager much like my friend from last night, although OkKimberly specializes in music and band management. Throughout the whole conversation, she comes off as being intrigued by what I do, and I tell her I’m a writer and producer who created a new sitcom, however, I never say I am an actor because of how stupid and cliché it sounds. Everyone out here is an actor or a model, or in a band. I would sound more original if I said something like I spend my weekdays on a ranch in the desert milking snakes part time, and on the weekends I work as a dog and cat food taster, but I would be lying. Besides, I’ve already lied about my age and I’m sure that will eventually come up.

Since we’re on that subject, let it be known that I have every intention of coming clean about my real age and my living situation at some point, just not on the first date. And believe me, my current living situation is a television sitcom waiting to happen. A few months ago, I took in a good friend of mine because she needed a place to stay for a bit, and we were both kind of hard up for cash at the time. It kind of works out because it has to. I was in a one bedroom apartment, so when she moved in we had to modify the living arrangements. There are two queen sized beds in the bedroom, and we share the rest of the house. There’s barely any privacy, there’s never enough toilet paper, and sometimes we get under each other’s skin because we live and work together and we have something of a history. We used to date some 7 years ago. Actually lived together for a year in 2008, but broke up for good in 2009. Somehow, we were able to remain friends, and since then we have become business partners. I know how that may sound to a new girl I am trying to date. My situtation would be a red flag to anyone. Ok, six red flags but regardless, I don’t have to tell my whole life story on the first date, and I certainly won’t be mentioning any of what I just said tonight. What can I say, I have some baggage. Ok, lots of baggage, but don’t we all?

We decide to meet at Fatty’s Public House on La Cienega Blvd in West Hollywood. I take an Uber there and I arrive around 7:45, fifteen full minutes early. Ironically, there is no traffic on the streets, and barely anyone at the bar. I guess I overcompensated. Anyway, I take a seat and wait eleven more minutes before I text her “At the bar.” 8:00 comes and goes without her showing up. I don’t think too much about it. I’m looking through the menu and thinking to myself “this place is pretty expensive… better stick to having a couple of drinks, no food.” I look at my phone and realize she hasn’t responded to the text I sent twenty minutes ago, and also see that it is now 8:15. She is officially late. I hate that. Look, it’s not that hard to send a text that says “running late” or “be there soon” or “ok, see you in a bit.” It’s a huge pet peeve of mine. And right before I’m about to give up on her and start boozing by myself, she walks in, twenty minutes late, looking at her phone as if to suggest she “just got my message.” Yeah fucking right. She says hello, sits down next to me at the bar, and then it begins….

She gives me the proverbial awkward hug and instantaneously the male bartender in his late thirties sporting a pseudo-beard and tight pants struts over and starts to talk to OkKimberly. They blab on and on for what feels like ten minutes about some guy who they both know who used to come into the bar, but no one has seen in months. It’s apparent that she comes here a lot and yes, she suggested this place. I start staring around the room wondering how long their conversation will last before I can get a drink. She writes down her phone number on a piece of paper and gives it to the bartender with the instructions to give it to the guy who neither one of them have heard from in months. Then she proceeds to hand the bartender her i-Phone and charger asking him to plug it in behind the bar. Are you fucking kidding me right now? At this point, I’ve waited almost a half hour for her to arrive and then I’ve been sitting there while she gets the chit-chat with someone ELSE out of the way before I can even have a drink? This is not starting off that good. I wonder if I can bail without her knowing? Her “convo” with the bartender ends, and the next thing that happens is the worst. She turns to me and says….”So, do you want to get a table?”

Ugh, a “table.” Begrudgingly, I say yes even though I feel that sitting at the bar is much more conducive to getting to know someone on a first date. When you sit across from someone at a table, you have nowhere to look other than at the other person without it being obvious you are looking away. Plus, it takes all the fun out of trying to read someone’s body language, which is key to figuring out whether or not someone is into you. I’d much rather stay at the bar I think to myself, but regardless we make our way to a corner table. She sits facing the door, and reluctantly, I sit down facing her with nothing else to stare at but a reddish-type wall. I order a vodka tonic, no lime and she starts out with glass of red wine and says that it takes her a minute to “warm up” to hard alcohol. Was that a dig at me? I can’t be sure.

OkKimberly is about five foot six with long brown hair, big eyes and a pronounced face. She is pretty, but she looks kind of hardened to me. Her nose is a little crooked but she has a slender frame, with what appears to be a nice ass. I can’t really tell. She talks a lot. She talks a lot about being a manager, and where she is from, and her time in New York and Miami and her ex-boyfriend of 7 years that didn’t want to move out to Los Angeles with her. I ask her what she did in Miami and she tells me she worked for a high profile celebrity. She won’t tell me who it was, even though I ask. What a gyp. She doesn’t ask that many questions of me, and I wonder if I should offer up information or if I should just stay quiet and listen. I have already downed my first drink in eight minutes time. I interject with the occasional “Uh-huh” or the obligatory “Oh, that’s cool,” but I’m really not saying anything at all. I order another drink, and OkKimberly finally mans up and orders some hard alcohol. Then she brings up the fact that I Googled her.

“It kind of freaked me out.” She says. But she also stated that she told her friends about it and they said she should be flattered. She then goes on to tell me about her Thanksgiving and how she spent it at the house of some big name director whom she won’t reveal to me. We chat a little more about her night and then she FINALLY asks about me. I tell her I do a little bit of acting, then she tells me a story about some actor she dated off OkCupid and how it didn’t work out, and how he stalked her at a Manager’s showcase in Burbank and started asking her all these questions about why they don’t date anymore. He wanted her to represent him and she expressed to me that a lot of guys have ulterior motives when asking her out.

“Oh really?” I said. “Well, I don’t want you to represent me.”

All I was trying to say was that I don’t have any ulterior motives other than to get to know her more. She smiled so I guess she liked hearing that, and intermittently for about half an hour, I think it’s going really well. She finally apologizes for not texting me back right away as she was on a phone call with a client. I believe her for the moment, and then we decided to order another round of drinks and some food.

I immediately realized I had broken my rule, but I didn’t care. I was actually having fun and I wanted to see where this would go. The waitress kept coming up to us like a lost and bored puppy and kept asking us questions and chatting like she knew us. It was obviously a slow night, but that didn’t stop the deejay from blasting some crappy hip-hop over the loudspeakers that were conveniently placed ten feet from our table. It was loud. Real fucking loud. So loud that I could barely hear what OkKimberly was saying to me before she asked the waitress if the deejay could turn it down. The waitress obliged and someone came over to turn down the music before our ear drums exploded. We ate our food and after the plates were cleared, the waitress drops off two shot glasses.

“What are these?” she asks.

“Fireball shots!” says the waitress. “They’re complimentary!”

Great, but I don’t like cinnamon, I think to myself. I had a bad experience with Goldschlager in 1996 and I never recovered.

“I don’t like cinnamon” OkKimberly says. (Apparently the one thing we have in common other than the fact that we both need oxygen to survive) “How about a lemon drop?”

The waitress frowns and takes away the shots, then returns a few moments later with two sugar rimmed glasses garnished with a wedge of lemon. We down the shots, and start talking about music. I’m pretty drunk at this point, and I like a lot of music, but she starts talking about these horrible bands she likes, and I have to restrain myself from saying something I might regret. I’m getting irritated. She’s so fucking “Hollywood.” She tells me about how cool it was to be in the studio the other day with one of her clients, and as she left the space, she peeked in on the band Imagine Dragons who were there recording some live demo bullshit. I don’t like Imagine Dragons. I find them boring and overrated….kind of like that movie American Hustle, but Kimberly is going on and on about how great they are and it’s taking all of my might to restrain myself from saying anything. She then points out some rapper dude sitting at the bar and tells me that he was in her office the other day and they might sign him. She waves to him and starts name dropping people he’s worked with and the whole time I’m getting more and more agitated that I didn’t say anything earlier about how much I hate Imagine Dragons. I start talking about The X-Factor and how I find that show to be much more enjoyable than American Idol. She defends American Idol for what feels like twenty minutes before I finally blurt out… “That show is so stupid and there’s a reason Simon Cowell left.” “And by the way, in my opinion, Imagine Dragons isn’t very good.” She takes what I say very seriously.

She starts getting defensive with me as if to suggest that my opinion of music is wrong and she states that I probably haven’t had enough life experience to appreciate a band like them.

“I’m 37,” I say in a smartass tone.

She looks shocked. She can’t believe I’m older than her and I tell her I never put my real age online just in case someone wants to call me in for a role that is ten years younger than I am.

“So you are an actor?” She asks with a tone that leads me to believe she thinks I was deceiving her this whole time.

I never said I wasn’t, and besides she knows my agents and she shares clients with them. Obviously she had to know I was “kind of” an actor, right? Seems to me this shouldn’t come as such a surprise to her, but I can tell something bad is about to happen. At this point it feels like we’re fighting with each other and the music is suddenly louder than before, and my once giddy alcoholic buzz has faded into an unnerving state of frustration and anger. This just isn’t going well. I shouldn’t be angry on a first date, and if I am, I should get the fuck out there as soon as possible. I kind of knew this was coming so I flag down the waitress. She asks if we want to order more drinks, and before Kimberly could say anything, I say we’ll just take the check. Kimberly looks at me stupefied as if she just realized, she lost. I fiddle with my phone to request an Uber to come and pick me up and we don’t say much for two minutes until the check comes. I grab it before the waitress can leave and I hand her my credit card. I didn’t even look at how much it was. I didn’t care. I just wanted to get the fuck out of there.

I sign the check, and see that the waitress actually charged me $22.00 for those shots. Complimentary my ass. My Uber arrives, and I tell OkKimberly I got to go. She is still sitting in her chair almost in disbelief that the date is over when she tells me she had a good time. “I had a blast.” I think was what she said. I respond with “I’m glad you did. Bye.” Then I get up, walk out the door and get into the black Prius that is waiting for me outside. I am so bummed out and slightly pissed and definitely frustrated on the ride home that I don’t even feel inhebriated anymore. I’m just annoyed. What a waste of time, and money. Although I did get like 300 in points on my card, so the night wasn’t a total loss. Then I get a text message from OkKimberly

you owe me another date” she writes.

I laugh to myself. Out loud for like a minute in the back of the Uber. The driver even asked me what was so funny. I can’t even believe this. I tell the driver the shortened version of the story and then I say “She wants to go out again? Was she at the same table as me for the past three hours? I want to be like, Hey Kimberly, did you go out on anotherdate after I left and have a “blast” with someone else?”
I get home, I finally text her back with…“Do you really want to go out again?” I cannot wait for her response. but it doesn’t come until the next morning.

I light another cigarette and go online to to look at me and OkKimberly’s “match percentages.” See everyone is matched based on the answers to certain questions. The more you answer, the better match you can find. I look at what it says about me and Kimberly and I’m suddenly speechless. What? These are horrible numbers, and they are DIRECTLY underneath her picture. How could I have missed this?

25% Match 12% Friend 53% Enemy.
I laugh to myself a little, because I should have fucking known better. Open your eyes, OkStupid.

Joe & Nicola (Part 1)

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It was the weekend of May 16th, 2014 and Tasha and I were in New Jersey to attend the rehearsal and wedding of one of my best friends from high school, Joseph T. Carr, aka Parr, aka “Mouse” which no one ever referred to him by, except for some girl from elementary school who called him that all the way up to his graduation day. First of all, I sincerely hope that the use of Parr’s full name and moniker just now doesn’t constitute a lawsuit from him, because if you’ve been keeping tabs on some of the ridiculous events that transpired since the start of this blog, writing that you don’t like someone and mentioning a silly nickname you had for them in high school is apparently cyber-bullying and grounds for defamation of character. But, since I like Parr and we’re friends, I’m not expecting to be served with papers anytime soon.

Parr had found someone really special a few years back when he met in my opinion the sweetest, coolest, greatest girl he’d ever dated… the one, the only, & most importantly Italian, (and therefore BEST) counterpart to his flagrant Irish personality, Nicola. I kind of knew from the first time I met her that she was going to be the one for him. She’s cool, laid back, beautiful, and she’s not crazy. Truth is, every Italian from Jersey has the capability to be crazy, myself included, but instead of crazy I like to use the word “passionate.” Nicola was passionately in love with Parr, and I was more than passionately happy to be a groomsman at their wedding. As it turns out, it would end up being one of the most memorable and slightly dramatic nights of my life, but we’ll get to that soon enough.

I met Parr way back in the early 1990s. I probably hung out with him the most back in the day and it wasn’t only because he is so god damn good looking, we had a lot in common. Look, I’m not gay, but I got to be honest, if I WERE to cross over to the “pride side,” I’d definitely get it on with Parr. I think most guys would have. He’s fun, charismatic, and for a short amount of time he closely resembled Bille Joe Armstrong from Green Day. I think we started hanging out sometime when my friendships with Chad, Gary, Boner and P-Nut were kind of on the rocks, because I did something really stupid and immature to one of them.

I wasn’t a fuck up per se, I just didn’t understand common courtesy. Moreover, I knew nothing of how to cultivate good lasting male friendships, (thank you very much step father who left me and my mom at my 8th grade graduation) So I started over with a new group of guy friends including Parr, Bezanis, Woofy, and Ian who no one has heard from since the late 1990s. Eventually, I was able to mend my friendships with Chad and P-Nut, but Boner and I never really saw eye to eye after that time. It’s probably for the best anyway. I never could tell what that guy was talking about. He used to tell this story about how the FBI confiscated his computer in the 1980s because he apparently hacked into some government mainframe. I believed him at first, but then I realized how similar Boner’s FBI story was to the premise for the movie War Games. He probably made all that shit up, especially the story he told everyone about how he had dated my sister, that is of course until my sister denied it to Chad and Boner was called out.

Anyway, Chad, P-Nut, and Gary had gotten over it, which led to the melding of two groups of my guy friends that I have known since sophomore year. Like I said in previous blogs, I love these guys, and it was an honor to be part of their wedding(s) Joe (who?) and Nicola were getting married in Cape May NJ that weekend, so Tasha and I boarded a Virgin America flight in L.A. a few days before and flew all the way to Philadelphia International. I was actually a little sick on the flight out there. Sometimes when I go home, I get nervous and anxious and I had recently pulled a muscle in my shoulder which was really hurting me at the time. I couldn’t even hold a coffee cup in my left hand without feeling some level of discomfort. I’ll tell you man, getting old sucks.

Before we drove into Jersey, Tasha and I had spent the last six months shooting, and editing sizzle reels, teasers and the pilot episode of our project that used to be a web series, but had now been developed in to a 22 minute TV sitcom, Trent & Tilly. We had been meeting with a start-up cable network over the last six months who loved our idea, and who signed us to a contract to produce and air it on their channel. We did a table read, a photo shoot, attended some events and gave some interviews and we even brought in a few C-list celebs to be cast in the two supporting roles opposite us. Things appeared to be going good, except here’s the thing about Hollywood. It’s nothing until it’s something, which basically means, that contract we signed doesn’t mean anything until we have that check in our hand. And even though this network was supportive and really believed in us and our idea, because they couldn’t come up with the purchase price of the show within 45 days of signing the contract, the agreement was null and void and the ownership of the show reverted back to us. So being the innovative creators we are, we shot the pilot ourselves using our own money and slapped together a sizzle reel, a one sheet, and our agents were sending it out to networks and it was just a matter of time before it was sold and me and Tasha were millionaires and subsequently considered an “overnight success.” We knew it was going to happen, it was just a matter of when and how. I mean, why else had we put ourselves through hell, and why else were we exes still living together in a one bedroom apartment in Hollywood, and why else were we able to find a way to use that uncomfortably awkward situation and write it into one of the premises for the show? It can’t all be for nothing.

We landed in Philly, drove over to Jersey, got a hotel room in Mt. Laurel and spent the first couple days hanging with my mom and my sister, finishing off two bottles of wine at the Carrabba’s on route 73 in Marlton while catching up. The wedding was taking place at Congress Hall in Cape May so after a few days on the main land we headed down the shore to meet up with the wedding party at the hotel for the rehearsal on Thursday afternoon. Congress Hall was epic. It’s this huge old historic boarding house from the 1800’s that is located directly on the beach in Cape May. It had a bunch of rooms, a bar, a view of the ocean, and an underground speakeasy where we would eventually congregate after the wedding where some, if not all of the shit would go down. I know I’m getting ahead of myself, but bear with me. This is my last blog, and I gotta build the suspense.

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Un like that picture, the forecast was for rain on Friday, which by the look on Nicola’s face, clearly sucked. She wanted an outdoor wedding, and who doesn’t? Currently, it was sunny and bright that afternoon on Thursday in May and the wedding party practiced our procession indoors, just in case the wedding got rained out. Parr and I and the rest of groomsmen had gotten our tuxes from Men’s Warehouse which did NOT fuck up the order unlike Jos. A Bank from such previous events as P-Nut and Efia’s wedding. This time around, Chad was again the aficionado of ceremonies, and me, Gary, Steve, Ron, Adam and P-Nut were the groomsmen. His brother Shaun was the best man, and of course we were all paired with bridesmaids to walk down the aisle with. My bridesmaid was pretty, and some might say that our pairing was the catalyst that lead to the unearthing of some chaotic events the next night, but for now, let’s just imagine us all rehearsing in jeans and tee shirts and everybody getting along and no drama to be experienced, yet.

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Everyone in the wedding party on the Groom’s side had one thing in common. We all worked at the TGI Fridays in Marlton on route 73 at some point in our lives. With the exception of Shaun, everyone was at one time either a busser, a waiter, or a bartender. Gary got me the job in ’96, when Steve was already working there, P-Nut followed suit and was hired a few months after me, then after I got fired in ’98 for reasons that shall not be discussed, Parr got hired as a waiter, Chad worked there for a minute as a bus boy and hated it because if you know Chad then you know that he is NOT the poster boy for manual labor. In the years after I moved to Seattle, Parr continued to work there when Adam and Ron were hired so it was not ironic at all that a lot of the guests at the wedding were at one time part of the Friday’s crew.

Back to the rehearsal, we were all gathered in this small stuffy hallway with the drinks we got from the bar before we started proceeding down the aisle in a very odd format. Steve and Ron went first, building from the outside in, followed by me, then P-Nut, then Adam, then Gary which put Gary closest to the Groom, and by that rationale made Steve furthest from the groom.

Wait a minute, I look like Parr’s worst friend! Steve said.

This is where the groomsman location theory came about. Out of all of us, Steve and Ron should have been closer to the groom being that Parr lived with Ron for years, and hangs out with Steve on a regular basis. Shaun is Parr’s brother and isn’t going anywhere, I was smack dab in the middle, so any adjustments to the first two, or the last two wouldn’t affect me at all, so after Parr mentioned this to the wedding planner we all had to start over.  So, while the other guests were in the bar having many drinks, the groomsmen and the bridesmaids went back to the hallway outside the room, grabbed the cocktails and beers we had set down on the stairs before the FIRST rehearsal, finished them, and then proceeded into the room for the second rehearsal, this time in correct order. After we rehearsed the walking to the alter, which didn’t really exist, and the reciting of the vows which were sweet and to the point, but didn’t really mean anything yet, we were released from the muggy convention room and we all headed to the bar for more drinks.

Tasha was sitting at the bar taking selfies with all the girls who weren’t bridesmaids at the wedding which included Efia, Desiree/Destiny and Maggie. I found Tasha’s old sim card in the drawer today and came up with these gems.  She sure loves her selfies….

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I had met Maggie a few years back in 2011 when I came home for the Eagles game/Irish weekend in Wildwood. I had a little crush on her, but it never really amounted to anything because A, she had a boyfriend at the time and B, she lived 3000 miles away in Jersey.  Of course and not ironically, Maggie also worked at the TGI Friday’s in Marlton for awhile and became really good friends with Parr, Adam and Ron. Maggie had sent me a Facebook message a week before the wedding asking me to save her a dance, but when I saw her commiserating with Tasha at the bar I started to wonder A. What were they talking about and B. is this is going to turn into a classic “cock block” situation.

The upside to having a best friend/business partner who is both smart and hot is that it works wonders when dealing with business stuff in a male dominated environment such as Hollywood. She does all the talking sometimes because she is charming and men like a woman who knows her shit. The downside to having a best friend/business partner who is both smart and hot is that every where I go with her, people assume we are boyfriend/girlfriend, so I never get hit on by any other woman. Tasha is sometimes what I like to consider a cock blocker through no fault of her own. It’s not her fault that chicks don’t talk to me when I’m with her, but it’s also her being “with me” that is the fault of why chicks don’t talk to me when I am. Regardless, I said hello to Maggie and a bunch of other guests that had arrived at the bar, and then I pulled Tasha aside.

“Talking to Maggie huh? How’s that going?” I asked.

She’s sweet.” She replied. “I told her we’re not together.

Really?” I said. “I just thought it would be a classic cock block situation.”

On the contrary I let her know it’s cool, so in a sense I’m cock allowing.” she stated

I don’t think that’s the way you say that.” I replied.

I’m allowing cock into your life.” She said.

That’s worse than the first thing you said!” I stated.

I knew what she was trying to say, I just don’t think there is a definitive term that means “not” cock blocking someone, but I thought it was nice that at least she was putting in some good words. I got to be honest, it’s kind of weird when your ex-girlfriend is trying to play matchmaker at your best friend’s wedding, especially since we had been sharing a hotel room for the past three days and that trend will continue tonight and tomorrow.

The last wedding we went to left me with a strange taste in my mouth, and I mean that both literally because I rolfed that night, but also figuratively because I wasn’t sure what to make of all this. We were in some kind of unchartered territory, but I would like to think our friendship has evolved past the point of jealousy, meaning that I’m cool if she hooks up, and she’s cool if I hook up, but I get the feeling that even though both of us are cool like that, neither one of us would actually want to witness the hook up first hand.

After about an hour of drinking and snacking from the bowl of pretzels and spicy crackers at the bar, the guests were getting ready to head to the Bayview in Wildwood for the rehearsal dinner, even though it wasn’t really going to be a traditional dinner. It was more like a bunch of Parr and Nicola’s friends getting drunk and eating bar food together the night before the wedding. Tasha and I headed back to the car which I had illegally parked somewhere on the backlot of the hotel, but before we made our way to the bar, we had to drive back to North Wildwood, otherwise known as “NoWo” to check into our room for the night at the Lollipop, otherwise known as that outrageous looking rainbow colored motel on the corner of 23rd and Atlantic whose main sign shows two close-up drawings of these random blonde haired creepy little kid faces. You see what I mean?

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I had booked the motel last minute because we needed a place to stay that was close to Cape May, but not actually in Cape May because of the location of the Bayview. The motel was close to Parr’s parents house, and even though it got a bad reputation because it looks likes it’s the perfect place for a pedophile to hang out, I went ahead and took a chance. Steve booked a room there too, but he went straight to the bar first. We got to the motel office and opened the door and went in. In the office were some pamphlets, a few pictures of local sights like the boardwalk and the pier, and a couple house plants. I heard the sound of the TV from this back room connected to the office covered by a curtain, which I would assume is where the hotel manager and their kids slept. On the desk in front of me where the pamphlets and parking passes were laid out was this black and white cat who was staring at me and Tasha.

We’d like to check in please.” I said to the cat.

Naturally, it didn’t answer but a few seconds later a man in his mid thirties appeared from behind the curtain like the great and powerful Oz, and we started the check in process. He told tell us stories of how all these crazy “Jersey Shore” types started coming down in the past few summers.

In fact,” he said “one of them crazy I-talians threw a TV in the pool last year.

“Well I’m Italian, but definitely not crazy, just passionate…. and maybe a little crazy.” I replied.

I think his name was John and he seemed really nice to us and gave us our key which was an actual key, not like one of those cards with the magnetic strip on it that they give you in modern hotels. It’s been awhile since I stayed in a hotel room where you physically get a key to the place. It felt so antiquated. We went up one flight and entered room 202 which was directly above the office. The room was….how can I put this….very quaint and “oceanic.” There was single bed, a couch, a tube television from the late 1990s, some really tacky wallpaper, a microwave, a tiny little bathroom and a bunch of nautical instruments on the wall.

“I call the bed!” Tasha exclaimed.

Fine, I call the pull-out couch.” I said.

I had done a little research on some of the hotels in Wildwood before I left. What I found by reading some of the Yelp reviews of other places was quite concerning. The Lollipop however, had gotten some relatively good reviews, it just looked like a shit hole place that would have gotten terrible reviews. Still, I did the first thing I do when I check into a shady motel, I got my flashlight, and checked for bed bugs.

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I actually had an issue with bed bugs a year before. My bed was slightly infested with them, and it sucked. For two months, I couldn’t sleep at all and it freaked me out right up until the whole apartment had to be exterminated. I won’t go into the details of how Tasha brought home a painting from her ex-boyfriend’s house and how that painting ended up against the wall next to my bed and how after I found out I had bed bugs I looked inside the frame of said painting and sure enough that’s where all the bugs had come from, or maybe I just did go into detail about that.  Regardless, I had to throw my old bed away so Tasha bought me a new one because even though I’m not pointing the finger directly at her, maybe she felt kind of gulity and maybe the whole the thing had “something” to do with that painting she brought home. Just a theory of mine.

After I found the sleeping quarters to be safe, we changed clothes, hopped in the car and headed over to the Bayview in Wildwood Crest. It was almost dark by he time we got there but when we walked in, everyone was gathered around the bar drinking and having some food. Most of Nicola’s friends and family were there, and of course ALL of Parr’s family and friends were there too, mainly because they are Irish and alcoholics, respectively. I went over to and said hi to my friends Halin, Rotzko, and Reynolds, who I refer to by their last names, and then we said hello to my friends Dave, Jenna and Tim who I refer to by their first names. There’s this weird thing about calling someone by their last names that I think only applies to guys. I’ve never heard Tasha refer to Mary and say “I’m getting a drink with Quinlan,” and I’ve never heard Mary refer to Tasha by saying “Do you know where Tacosa is?” I just think it’s a guy related sports thing, because that one time in 2007 when I did refer to Tasha as “Tacosa,” she stated “Hey, I’m not on your baseball team.” Point taken.

The next couple of hours reminded me of being at a mini-high school reunion. I caught up with people I hadn’t seen in awhile, put some music on the jukebox and ate some bar food that I think I remember was pretty good but to be honest, it was the company we kept that made it so much fun. It was nice to see all of these people in one place again, and it only made me look forward to the wedding tomorrow that much more. I ordered another drink and spotted Maggie at the bar. She came up to me and said hi, and then she told me she had talked to Tasha.

“Tasha’s really cool.” She said.

Yeah, she’s great.” I replied. “What did you guys talk about?

“Nothing.” She said.

“Did you talk about me?” I asked.

No.” She said with a smirk. “Just remember to save me that dance tomorrow.”

I didn’t know what kind of reverse bro-mance was going on with them. For all I knew this could be a set up, but in reality I don’t think that was the case. Did Maggie and Tasha have a little girl crush thing going on? Possibly, but at this point it didn’t really matter. I know Tasha has my back, especially in situations like this that we’ve NEVER been in before. It’s just the kind of relationship we have. We want each other to be happy, and we want each other to have fun and I’m sure that if there was some guy there that wanted me to try and sweet talk Tasha into “dancing” with him I would have done the same thing. That’s just what friends do, especially friends who I used to date 7 years ago, but who I don’t anymore, even though at this point we still shared a bedroom and shared many arguments about which one of us keeps leaving dirty dishes piling up in the kitchen sink.

Everyone in that room was a good friend of mine. I shared some great memories with each and every person going all the way back to 1992 when I first met Chad, Gary and P-Nut and we snuck out to the fields behind my house in the Vineyards in the middle of the night and saw what we thought to be the Jersey Devil. Then a few years later when I met Parr, Dave, Rotzko, Reynolds, and Woofy I threw a NYE party in a hotel room somewhere in Vorhees where I got violently sick and ended up puking and clogging the sink, and my boy Gary took care of me.

The friends I’ve known for years have each other’s backs, and they stick up for each other, and yes, it’s required in that same vein of existence they may also get into fights and bust each other’s balls in the process, but that’s just how it goes. We did almost everything together growing up, and I don’t have any regrets about the way things turned out, and I would hope the same goes for them.  As I’ve been writing this blog, I’ve been finding out who my real friends are, and that night on the eve of Parr and Nicola’s wedding I was happy to know I was in a room full of them.

Way back in the day we used to listen to this song by the hard core band “H2o” called “5 Year Plan” It wasn’t the greatest song in the world, but the first 8 words of the tune really emphasizes my point.

My friends look out for me like family”

That’s the way it should always be. For me, I didn’t grow up with a father or a brother, or any real extended family so naturally, my best friends became my family. I won’t ever know what it’s like to grow up as a kid in the world today, but I bet it’s not half as entertaining as it was for us back then.

Back at the bar, there was still drinking and chatting going on, but Tasha and I left a little earlier than everyone else that night because we were tired and tipsy and we headed back to the motel to get some sleep before the wedding tomorrow.

So….what did you say to Maggie?” I asked her

“I gave her my blessing” Tasha said with a smile.

It was a sweet and selfless thing to do.  I didn’t know what was going to happen the next night, but I do know that two amazing people were going to get married, and I was going to be able to be a part of it, and all of it’s legendary glory.

“Thanks Tacosa.” I replied.

You’re welcome, but I’m not on your baseball team.”

Part 2: June 24th, 2015

Follow on Twitter @CMarc333

Aaron & Marlowe

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It was April 13th 2013, but you could hardly tell it was Spring by the weather that afternoon. The day Aaron and Marlowe got married in Malibu, California it was overcast and chilly, and in addition to their beautiful ceremony, and amazing buffet spread, an extra redeeming quality for me was being able to gather with my west coast Philly sports family for a celebration that would include so much food, so much drink, and so much debauchery.

Tasha and I had been living together as roommates for the past 8 months. Within the four walls of my apartment all the time were me, Tasha, all of our stuff, my pet cat, and her pet rabbit.

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#bffs

We were kind of like one small dysfunctional family the last few months however during that time, Tasha and I had somehow worked together to write and produce 8 episodes of our award winning web series, Trent & Tilly. It was a small accomplishment in the grand scheme of things, but it was enough for us to gain some confidence moving forward as we tried to figure out how to make this little show into a much bigger show. The wedding couldn’t have come at a better time, as we both needed a little break to relax, unwind, and hang out with our big dysfunctional family, “The Nest of the West.”

I met Aaron at the bar one Sunday afternoon while we all were watching the Eagles game. Aaron loves his football, his wife, and yelling at Cowboys fans who try to taunt us.  Every Sunday it was usually me, Tasha, Shaun, John, Tim, Adam, Dave, Leland, Kerry, the Sinkler twins, our server Kym…. and the rest. We even harbored our friend Drew who is ironically a Redskins fan. Normally, I wouldn’t associate with the enemy on game day, but Drew gets a pass because I’ve known him since the 90s, he’s a good guy, and he takes the most amount of shit talk by sitting with us during the games. It’s great when we’re winning, but it sucks when we’re losing.  How would you like it if there is one guy sitting amongst you cheering loudly when your team fumbles the ball into the hands of the defense.  Sucks.  I always thought inviting us all to a wedding would be very similar to us all being at the bar, except we would all look a lot nicer, the food would be way better, and since Aaron and Marlowe provided transportation to and from the event, we would all be able to get a lot drunker, if that was even possible, but as I would find out later that, it certainly WAS possible.

Tasha and I parked our car at one of the valet pickup spots on Sunset Blvd. A few of us gathered into a pass van and made our way to the top of a mountain in Malibu wearing spring dresses and Calvin Klein suits. As the van climbed through the overcast skies into the upper stratosphere of this well known beach city, I stopped being able to see anything out the window than the road and the clouds. To be honest, it was pretty scary. The lanes going up the mountain were extremely narrow, and we had to pull over to let other cars pass us on the vertical trek to the house. Once we got there, it was pretty clear that we couldn’t see anything past the cliffs at the edge of the property. I had a few thoughts running through my head, one of them, was where the hell were we in relation to L.A., because none of us got any cell phone service up there. The other one was, just how much money did it cost to rent out a three million dollar mansion for the weekend, and how did Aaron get to know these people whose house he rented?

Aaron is a line producer and has worked on some big budget projects, and Marlowe is an exotic animal trainer, (hope I got that right) and she works at the L.A. Zoo, so I’m sure they have their connections. Still, I had been to Malibu before, but when we took a right turn off the Pacific Coast Highway and then headed up a steep road where I thought I was going to die a few times on the ride, I completely lost any sense of time and direction. Things would pretty much exist inside that bubble for the next 6 hours.

The location was decorated with black tablecloths, red roses, a stone patio, and a small set of chairs for the parents and the wedding party. We all gathered in the backyard of the mansion, and the ceremony took place just a few feet away from where we were standing. Most of us didn’t sit down for the ceremony, mainly because there weren’t any chairs for us to sit down in. I kind of liked the idea of Aaron and Marlowe having a wedding so quick and to the point, that within two minutes of them saying I do, and us all clapping and celebrating their union together, we were all at the bar, three feet away getting our drink on. It was just that kind of day. I knew from the start that this wouldn’t necessarily bring about any emotional revelations for me, nor would it bring me back to a time where I would reminisce about growing up with all these guys because for the most part, I had only known them for the last few years, but the people at this wedding are my west coast family, and I love them all, even if I don’t see them that much in between football seasons.

There was ahi tuna, steak, chicken, sushi, and other delicious food being passed around on server trays. Strong cocktails were being consumed all over the grounds, and a buffet was set up in the living room of the mansion where we could all gorge ourselves on many different types of meats, cheeses, salads and more apps. Aaron and Marlowe had what I called an “East Coast” California wedding. It wasn’t your traditional California wedding because there was so much bread and booze and food that you knew the Bride and Groom weren’t from California.  Aaron said that he wanted to keep the decorations and ceremony to a minimum, but he added one element we could all partake in that set this wedding apart from any other wedding I’ve been to. Gambling.

Not like real gambling where you lose your own money, however if we did run out of the fake cash in the perk pack we received at the start of the reception, we could pay for some more. I don’t remember if there were prizes or what not for the person with the most amount of chips, and I don’t recall any dancing or any other type of traditional wedding activities, although looking at this picture of Aaron and Marlowe below being held up on two wooden chairs, I could easily assume there was some traditional jewish element to it.

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Before I made my way up stairs where the blackjack, roulette, and poker tables were,  I had a few drinks, took some pictures with my boys, and ate a good amount of food, or so I thought. I got to be honest, that’s where the pictures stopped for me. It was as if as soon as I got a little bit more drunk than normal, I stopped taking pictures, the sun set, or at least the hazy ominous light from the where the sun would be if I could tell what direction I was facing had set, and I went up stairs with my bag of chips and sat at a table with Kym, John, and John’s “not” date to the wedding, Zenobia.

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John is like my brother from another mother. I mean, people literally think we are related. He’s a good guy with an creative sense of pride and he’s very opinionated, so we get along fine.  Kym was our server at the bar on Sundays for the past 6 years, and it may be true that Kym and I had a love/hate relationship sometimes, but that could possibly be attributed to the fact that we may or may not have gone out on a date or two that didn’t quite pan out, or ended with us getting totally drunk and screaming at each other in a public or private setting. Hey, sometimes those things happen and when they do happen, that’s when you know that some things just aren’t meant to be. She’s a comedienne, and a good person at heart, and maybe she’ll write me into her stand up routine one day if she hasn’t already. Finally, there was John’s “not date” to the wedding, Zenobia.

I didn’t really know Zenobia, but she kind of came off a little snobby to me, however I’m sure that had everything to do with the first question I asked her that night which was….. “What the hell kind of name is Zenobia?”

I never really got an answer. She seemed kind of…privileged. I don’t know where she is from, but I assume she probably moved here to be an actress from some place in the mid-west, possibly. She was younger than us, and acted very “west coast”  meaning she was not that friendly, kind of stand-offish, a little vapid, and trying so hard to be cool. It’s not all her fault, because if you put her in a room with a bunch of guys and girls who’ve all known each other for years and who have no filter on their mouths who also like to get drunk at weddings and on Sundays and don’t really care about the consequences, you might pick up on some or all of those traits I mentioned earlier. Maybe it’s a defense mechanism, maybe it’s just someone being a bitch. I don’t really know.  I kind of wanted to say…

We’re at a wedding, lighten up. Life isn’t that serious right now. Maybe have another glass of pink champagne and stop trying to be the coolest person in the room”

But look, I get that my group of Eagles boys and gals are an intimidating bunch, especially since we bust on each other a lot, and we all have big personalities. Regardless, I don’t really know or wanted to know what her deal was at this point, so after I blew all my money on roulette, blackjack and two hands of Pai Gow or whatever game we were playing, I made my way back downstairs to get myself another drink.

I traded in my empty glass for a full one. I was on my fourth, or maybe fifth vodka because at this point in the night, they just go down so easily. I turned around and started heading back into the house when I ran into Kristin. Kristin and I had hung out a couple times over the last few months, but we kept it really quiet because we both didn’t like people in our personal business. Of course, all of that is negated now that I am writing about her in a public blog.

I liked Kristin. She was a pretty, down to earth, and not like most of the girls in L.A. who think their shit doesn’t stink. She’s a tom boy, from the east coast, wasn’t an actress, nor confrontational, and she had a high level of self esteem. The downside was that she lived all the way in Venice, and I lived all the way in Hollywood, and shared a bedroom with Tasha which definitely complicated any and all dating scenarios that may have arose during that time. Kristen knew about my living situation and I guess she didn’t really care, at least not at this point in the night. So, without really saying much we started a self guided tour of the mansion and eventually disappeared somewhere inside that house.

“What about here?” I asked.

“The bathroom?” She stated. “Not going to work.”

We tried to make the bathroom work for a minute, but as it turns out, Kristin was right… that bathroom was quite cramped and way too bright, so on to plan B. Next, we did what anyone who was drunk at a wedding and looking to hook up would do, we found a bedroom in the back of the house that no one was currently using, we went in, and locked the door behind us.

I don’t know if anyone saw us but to be honest, the idea that somebody might have was kind of exciting. I mean, it felt like we were doing something wrong, even though technically we weren’t but morally we might have been, and in a certain sense I think that added a level of intrigue to the events that took place that night. It felt like we were getting away with something….for now anyway.

I did know that some people were staying over at the house that night as I could tell someone had claimed this room due to the fact that there was a bag of clothes and other personal belongings on the bed, like a hair curler and blow dryer. Oh shit…was this Aaron and Marlowe’s room? I kind of felt bad, but then I thought about the relationship Aaron and Marlowe have and how they probably would have encouraged two guests to hook up at their wedding, and since this bedroom was kind of small and located on the ground floor, the chances of this being the Bride and Groom’s suite for the night were pretty slim, so we continued with our carnal encounter.

Then, five minutes later, and before anything erotic or carnal could actually transpire, we heard a knocking on the door and a very agitated high pitched female voice asking who was in “their” room.

“Oh shit, who is that?” I whispered.

“I don’t know.” Kristin said. “But we better open the door.”

I so did NOT want to open that door. I kept wondering is there a window we could crawl out of? Is there a secret pathway back to the living room that we could escape into like the underground railroad? Let’s face it, we were trapped together and we were going to be found out. I just really hope it wasn’t Marlowe. To have the Bride find you getting it on in their bedroom not only would be embarrassing, it would be very disrespectful, and that’s the last thing I wanted to have happen.

“Get your shit together, I’m opening the door.” Kristin said.

I grabbed my shirt, my tie, and my suit jacket and then the door to the bedroom opened, and in marched the one person who I didn’t really want to talk to before, and who I definitely didn’t want to talk to or see at THIS point in the night. The one, the only, the unequivocally pissed off cockblocker of the night, Zenobia.

“What were you guys doing in here?” She stammered.

Just checking out the rest of the house.” I said with a shit eating grin on my face.

Yep, she hates me.  If she hadn’t before, she definitely did now and with that, we left Zenobia to wonder what had or had not just transpired in her room, and we made our way down the hall and back outside to the party, slightly embarrassed but also incredibly relieved. Once we were back in civilization, one of our friends was smoking a joint,  and we both decided to join in for a few puffs. If I hadn’t learned my lesson from getting stoned at weddings in the past, here’s where I had a crash course in reality, as everything finally became unravelled.

At first, I was overcome with a sense of giddy pride and accomplishment for almost being found out and the feeling that at some point in my life, I would be able to tell the story of what just happened and laugh about it, maybe years later. Then I thought about how good the food was at this wedding, but how I don’t really remember eating a lot of carbs or bread, even though there were plenty to go around. Then I started thinking about how many drinks I had drank that night which led to me getting the spins, and the uneasy feeling in my stomach that this was not going to have a happy ending like I wished it would have. Was there a double meaning in that statement? Probably, but all that was in the past right now and I was living in the present, the present where I could feel myself stumbling around in the darkness, trying to find a secluded place out of sight from the rest of the guests where I could do my dirtiest work of the night.

I’ve never gotten so drunk that I puked at a wedding before, let alone puked while wearing a suit and tie, but there’s always a first time for everything, right? Inevitably it happened, right there in front of what I think was the garage of this three million dollar house in Malibu. I ended up vomiting out the five or so drinks, and whatever ahi tuna, chicken or steak appetizers I had consumed in the hours before. For a minute, I couldn’t really tell where I was, or what was happening, but I knew I wouldn’t be feeling very good for awhile. And even though I’m sure she didn’t want to witness it, Kristin, like the sweetheart she is was there to help me up from the ground after my exasperating bout of regurgitating everything I had enjoyed eating at Aaron and Marlowe’s wedding.

We sat on the stones near the edge of the property and looked out into the dimly lit sky. I apologized again for having to put her through such a disgusting experience, and when she asked me if I was going to stay over, all I could think of was how badly I wanted to leave, brush my teeth, take off my puke suit, and go to bed. My head was pounding, my stomach was rumbling, and I just needed to find Tasha so we could catch the last ride back to civilization and go home.

Speaking of Tasha, where was she? I hadn’t seen her in what felt like all night. I went back into the house and walked around trying to find her, but to no avail. I asked a few people where she was, and they had said they had seen her in the back about an hour ago, but I still couldn’t find her. Then, all of a sudden I ran into John outside. He took one look at me and said…

“Dude, are you ok? You look like you’re about to puke.”

“Thanks John, but I already did that.” I replied.

Then I turned around and saw Tasha and Adam approaching us. There was something weird about them. I asked Tasha if she was ready to go and she said yes, but with a strange look on her face. Then I looked at Adam, and he had the exact strange look on his face too, as if they knew something I didn’t.

Did they hear about me and Kristin in the back room, or worse,.. did they disappear into a back room of their own?  Nah, I couldn’t see that happening. Don’t get me wrong, Adam is a good looking guy, and I always knew he and Tasha kind of liked each other, but I don’t think one of my friends would bang my ex-girlfriend at a wedding that I was also a guest at. This is my life, not Californication.

“Alright, well I just vomited all over what I think was the garage, so I’m ready to go.”  I said

“Great.” She said. “Let’s go.”

We said goodbye to whomever was within ear shot, and we grabbed our stuff and made our way down the dark and dimly lit driveway to the street where the last passenger van of the night was to pick us up. I wasn’t drunk anymore, and I was actually pretty happy we had a half hour ride back to the car from Malibu so I could rest my eyes for minute. We headed down the mountain via that creepy winding one lane road, and instead of looking out the window and fearing that we would tumble off the edge of the cliffs again, I just closed my eyes, and fell asleep. When I woke up thirty minutes later, I was cold, I was hungry, but it was time to get into the car and go home.

This was a strange wedding. I was happy for Aaron and Marlowe, the venue was apocalyptically beautiful, I got violently sick, and I feared for my life on the ride up to the house. I hooked up with another girl that wasn’t my date, and even though I thought I had a good time, if I had it to do over again, I think I might have done things differently. Mainly, I wouldn’t have gotten sick, I might have bet a little more with my head, instead of over it, and I would have tried to have a more traditional experience, but I live my life with no regrets, and I guess in some way it was part of the process.

I know Tasha and I weren’t together, but there was a part of me that still felt guilty about the events that transpired. I mean, just six months ago I was in Florida at P-Nut and Efia’s wedding and I was coming to so many emotional and grown-up realizations about life and love, that compared to this wedding I felt like I took a step back tonight. Maybe I was being too hard on myself, or maybe I just didn’t feel good and I was taking things too seriously. I’m allowed to have fun, and not every wedding needs to be a positive learning lesson, right? I guess when it comes down to it, I just feel like in my life I want to evolve, not digress.

I started my car and let it warm up a bit and I turned on some music and put on my glasses I need to see the road with, but still something was on my mind and I had to get it out in the most honest and blunt way I know.

Did you bang Adam?” I casually asked Tasha.

“What? No I did NOT bang Adam. How can you ask me that?” She replied.

“You made out with him though, right?” I said in a matter of fact tone.

“Adam is cute, so yeah maybe we made out.” She said.

“Ok that’s fine.” I replied.

Honestly, I was fine with it. I know Tasha is a pretty girl and Adam is a good looking guy and at wedding two attractive people will flirt and sometimes get drunk and maybe they will end up making out with each other. I mean, I certainly had no room to talk.

You sure you didn’t bang him?” I asked half jokingly.

“Shut up Christian, let’s just go home.” She replied.

And with that, I put the car in drive, released the E-brake and I drove me and my ex-girlfriend/roommate/business partner back to the one bedroom apartment in Hollywood we shared with my pet cat, and her pet rabbit. Just one “sometimes happy yet always slightly dysfunctional” family.

It would be a little over a year before Tasha and I went to another wedding together, but before I made my final appearance as a groomsman in a wedding on the east coast with all of my best friends from high school in attendance, something really big was about to happen in me and Tasha’s professional life. However as we would soon come to learn, in Hollywood, something is still really nothing, until it’s really something.

Last wedding: June 16th, 2015

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All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.