LA STORY

The bright bulb of a key light burned my retinas. I kept staring at it. Really let it sear. I was sick of looking at the chirpy producer firing inane questions at me and Michelle. Near permanent blindness, in my white ether world where all I could hear was --

CHIRPY PRODUCER: Ok! Now what three words would you use to describe yourself as a couple?! But don't use fun, happy or outgoing. Everyone uses those."

-- it dawned on me that I was actually more sick of hearing the chirper chirp than I was of looking at her.

CHIRPY PRODUCER: Chirp-chirp-chirp! Chirp-chirp-chirp-chirp-chirp!?

KA-BOOOM!!!!

And then I remembered that hidden within those chirps was a question. And that Michelle was staring just as blankly as I was, probably also not sure what to make of the latest query into our personal life. We stuttered and mumbled over each other for a minute - a common practice at this point - and then I really knocked it outta the park --

ANDREW: Um, well, we like to travel.

CHIRPY PRODUCER: Whoops!:) Remember what we talked about?! Start each answer with the question first. You know, like, "the three words that I'd use to describe us as a couple are..."

ANDREW: Yeah. Ok. Got it.

Over and over and over again. The chirpy producer would lob a moronic question our way looking for a made-for-TLC soundbite. Bile would quickly rise up my trachea at the thought of delivering said bite, then I'd remember my feet weren't on my mark. I'd look to Michelle to see if she had an answer, then remember that I was supposed to face the camera at all times! and jerk my head back like I had some kind of nervous tick. This went on ad infinitum until finally the mousy producer with the notepad hiding behind the camera spoke up with --

PRODUCER WITH NOTEPAD: Let's take a quick break. Neither of you are actors are you?

FLASHBACK -- MY FIRST YEAR IN LA

Jobless. Living 300 feet from the border of Lawndale (not a nice area) in a 3 bedroom townhouse with five people. The first job to come my way was background work*. Through sheer dumb luck I found myself on a TV movie set, getting paid union wages (a big deal if you're an aspiring actor), and rather enjoying the free food, the pretty actresses ( I hadn't met Michelle yet) and the 16 hour days of doing next to nothing. Then one day I was pulled out of the herd to be "featured" in a scene with the two leads.

A.D.: Does he need a line here? Let's give him a line.

For an actor, this is huge. For an unemployed and broke LA newbie (that's me) this is also huge - an extra $500 huge. Yes, your pay rate jumps something like $500 just to say a line. But for someone who hates to be the center of attention, and doesn't have an acting bone in their body, this was awful. I really needed that $500, but I needed the breakfast burrito from craft services churning in my butterfly-filled stomach to stay right where it was more than the money.

The director pondered whether I should speak for at least a minute, long enough for me to swear off any other acting or background opportunities that may arise in my future, and then finally said no. I've never been happier to not make $500. I respect those in the acting trade, but it's just not for me. You couldn't pay me enough to be an actor. Seriously. Well, maybe Brad Pitt money and a double Xanax prescription and I'd think about it. But I emphasize the word think.

BACK TO PRESENT SITUATION

Where Michelle and I do our best not to scoff at this question. We shake our heads no. No, we're not actors. And it's highly unlikely that we will ever will be.

PRODUCER WITH THE NOTEPAD: You're a beautiful couple but you both look nervous. Especially you (she points to me. Awesome!). Just pretend the camera isn't here and we're having a conversation.

ANDREW: This isn't a conversation, this is an ambush!

That is what I wanted to say. Instead, I mumbled something more along the lines of --

ANDREW: Yeah, this is a little awkward.

We were assured that this was going to be a classy wedding show. We both had our doubts, but when someone says, "We'll give you 10 grand towards your wedding and a famous wedding planner to plan everything," you kinda have to show up and see what it's all about. We were sold on the premise that the show wasn't really about us, it was about the wedding planner. They just needed a wedding for the planner to plan. Ours.

But when we arrived and started to fill out the paperwork we quickly realized that we may have been slightly conned. The creative director introduced himself in the hall and immediately dove into what the network was looking for. As he dodged and weaved through colorful illustrations of what the "perfect couple" for the show was, it became all so crystal clear. In fact, anyone minutely familiar with the underlying principles of drama could figure what this fella was after.

CREATIVE DIRECTOR: It's super important for you to highlight your opinions. You know, maybe you (nods to Michelle) want a traditional white wedding and he (me) wants to go green with the concept. You know, do something eco? Or maybe you want a winter wonderland setting and he's insisting on fall. What's your favorite color darling?

MICHELLE: Yellow.

CREATIVE DIRECTOR: And maybe he's allergic to yellow.

Conflict. That's what they were looking for. Conflict. Conflict. Conflict.

Now, like all couples, Michelle and I differ in opinion on many things. One of the great aspects of our relationship is that we respect those differences, and are also able to easily find happy mediums when compromise is necessary. We are not a conflict couple. Great for us, bad for reality television, which survives on displaying gladiator-like spectacles to satiate their loyal viewer's blood-lust. Sorry reality fiends, but it's true.

So here we were thinking we're signing up to audition for a show looking for a "happy couple that hadn't done much in terms of wedding planning" and instead we're getting coached on how to highlight, or make up, dramatically differing opinions on camera; how to manufacture conflict. Of course, neither of us willing to do that, we ended up looking like two little doe's caught in the high beams of a Humvee when the camera rolled. Which is probably why, after asking if we were actors, the producer with the notepad went on to tell us --

PRODUCER WITH THE NOTEPAD: You're a television friendly couple (insert: Michelle is hot and looks good on film), but you need to be more than just good looking for the network to bite.

It was the second time that she used this technique. In Los Angeles, I imagine it works quite well with people. Tell them they're beautiful and they forget they're nervous. Stroke their narcissistic tendencies and, too distracted by their own beauty to think of anything else -like self-respect or self-loathing for instance - they deliver the goods on cue.

I figured, since I kept flubbing the 'repeat the question in your answer' bit and then generally just babbling with no coherent point in response to their stupid questions, that she meant me. That I needed to offer up more panache, more spice, more drama. That I needed to charm the camera. Unfortunately though, this was not the approach to win me over. All I could think was, do I actually look that vapid? The sad truth is, with thoughts like stand on your mark, keep contact with Michelle's shoulder, look at the camera when your future wife is talking, answer the question with the question, don't be fun, happy or outgoing, relax your face, chirp, chirp, chirp, chirp clouding the neural pathways from the auditory part of my brain, I probably did.

We started up again after out little break/confidence boosting session. I pasted a smile to my face once again, stared into the camera while my future wife chatted away next to me, and tried to mask the rising anxiety infecting the marrow in my bones. I couldn't keep the possibilities at bay:

MICHELLE AND ANDREW'S CEREMONY - TAKE ONE

TONY THE MINISTER: Andrew, do you take Michelle to be your lawful wedded wife, to love, respect and cherish her, in sickness and in health, till death do you part?

ANDREW: Do I take Michelle to be my lawful wedded wife? To love, respect and cherish her, in sickness and in health, till death do us part?... I do.

The Chirpy Producer jumps from the front row --

CHIRPY PRODUCER: Whoops!:) Silly! You don't have to begin that answer with the question. Let's try it again. Go ahead, Tony. From the top.

MICHELLE AND ANDREW'S WEDDING -- TAKE TWO

TONY THE MINISTER: yada, yada, yada ... till death do you part?

MICHELLE: I do.

The creative director leaps from video village --

CREATIVE DIRECTOR: No! No, you don't! Your line is, "I don't. Not until you put on that yellow lapel, then I might change my mind."

He turns to the shocked gathering of our family and friends --

CREATIVE DIRECTOR: Sorry folks. Amateurs. Let's take lunch and pick up the vows in 30.

MICHELLE AND ANDREW'S WEDDING -- TAKE THREE

TONY THE MINISTER: yada, yada, yada ... till death do you part?

ANDREW: I do.

The producer with the notepad runs over and adjusts my gaze away from Michelle's eyes --

PRODUCER WITH THE NOTEPAD: Look at the camera when you say that. At the camera. And try and relax your face a little.

Needless to say, with catastrophe fantasies running through my brain I continued to come of as a nervous, vapid bystander. Not that I really cared. When you spend a considerable amount of time with someone, enough to want to marry and spend the rest of your life with them, you acquire a sixth sense which is basically an extension of your partner's senses. Standing there, I knew Michelle was losing interest in this thing fast and hard. Which was good. I didn't feel nearly as guilty for silently hating on it, and hoping with all my heart it would just end.

They wrapped up the interview, lied and told us we were awesome! fabulous! dynamite! and then we hit the street and let out a couple deep, hot breaths.

Michelle: What'd you think?

Andrew: That was awful. I was awful.

Michelle: You were great. I don't know why she said you looked nervous. I thought I looked nervous.

Andrew: No, you were good.

For the next week I lived in downright terror that they would actually call us back - tell us we were the chosen ones. It was as if I was stuck in that moment from years back, where my acting fate and the contents of my stomach were held in a TV director's hand. But this wasn't just one minute of agony, it was days worth of jitters, nightmares and fantasies of doom and dread. Of course, I didn't really think they would call us. I'm a realist and I knew that we, thank God, are not a "reality TV couple." But the world works in strange ways sometimes, so I remained on edge.

Days passed. They never called. Weeks passed. They never called. Months passed. That's right, they never called. Despite our effort, you will not be seeing our happy mugs in a wedding planning show on some estrogen sponsored network. And baby, I'll tell ya, rejection has never felt so good.

*For those of you not familiar with the business of making movies, the masses of people you see running from dragons and fireballs, or cheering for the hero on the sidelines - they're all actors. They are doing what's called background work.

The Countdown Begins ... Officially Part 2

A giant storm-cloud blocked the ray of sun shining on my ticker. This one doesn't work either. Let's be honest, it probably does, I just can't get it to. I'm quickly regretting calling my future brother-in-laws "(annoyingly) computer literate". Hopefully the comparison to Shakespeare makes up for it.

Until they help me out and get the ticker actually ticking, the day we are counting down to is:

SATURDAY, AUGUST 7th 2010

The Countdown Begins ... Officially

Yes, we have picked a date. More on all of this process later. For now, just enjoy the not so nifty ticker on the right side of the page. I've been very excited about installing this since the countdown sort of began many months ago. I had some ideas of grandeur for the layout: shooting stars, exploding fireworks, maybe a champagne bottle uncorking. But alas, I am computer technology illiterate. It's taken me four frustrating internet sessions hunting down a "countdown plugin" that actually works, or more truthfully, that I can get to work. This is what I've come up with. Well, for now anyway, until I consult with either of my two future brother-in-laws. They are both (annoyingly) computer literate, like Shakespeare literate, and one of them is an artist. I'm sure the pedestrian, half-baked excuse for a countdown display is grating every esthetic sensibility in his soul right now. If I weren't so proud of the fact that there is an actual ticker in my blog that is ticking I'd be scowling at it too. But I'm not. In fact, I'm half convinced I see a golden glow around the damn thing - the sun shining on my tech-savvy moment.

Hunting the Hunter Part II

Where was I? Right...

THE TIGER CUB

Just past the main drag where the ritzier realty establishments house themselves we found a place specializing in lake front rentals. The woman behind the desk was an outdoorsy type in her mid-thirties; warm as fresh baked pie. She arrived in Tahoe from SoCal eighteen years ago and never left. She loved skiing and hated all the road bikers that clog the single lane highway that wraps around the lake. We gleaned this information within five minutes.

After a few earlier mishaps, stutters, blank looks and what not, we were far more confident this time around. The irony being that we probably didn't have to be.

ME: We're having a family reunion here next summer, and we're looking for a place on the lake that can house 12-15, but accommodate a lot of people coming and going.

She knew. They all do. But instead of trying to pry, she just smiled, pulled out a couple keys, and said:

TIGER CUB: I've got time to show you one. It's an unbelievable property. And I'll give you keys to a few more you can check out on your own.

We followed her down the highway . It was slow going for seemingly no reason until we passed a gaggle of bikers on a charity ride. New light was shed on the Tiger Cub's random tirade about road bikers.

We pulled into a paved driveway. It was long enough to park a good 20-25 cars - something to consider when throwing a party. The property was magnificent in an understated, "this is how Tahoe should be" kind of way. The house sat a good hundred yards back and up from the lake and was on over an acre of land. It had a sprawling deck, a pool to the side, a paved volleyball/basketball court with a horseshoe pit next to it, and a stone fire pit/grill of sorts with the largest built-in Lazy Susan I've ever seen.

Before us, basically, was an ideal we were searching for and never expected to find. Sure, it was a little rustic. Sure, one of our friends would probably get drunk and nearly drown in the pool. Sure, the "aisle" was a steep and treacherous dirt path from the house to the lake. But man, the idea of a week in this house with family and friends; swimming, bbqing horse-shoeing, tanning on the two docks, and finally, at the end of it all, throwing a festivus-maximus of a wedding.

The Tiger cub could sense our excitement. With undeniable good will, but a certain underlying killer instinct apparently intrinsic in all tigers, she smiled and purred:

TIGER CUB: Don't tell the owner, but I've rented it and thrown a couple parties here myself. We had like 60 or 70 people here for my husbands 40th; it's such a great party house.

This was code for: I don't care. Do whatever you want here. As long as the owners don't know, I won't have to charge you an "event fee." (I will speak more on this "event fee" later)

ANDREW/MICHELLE: Yeah. Wow! It really is! This place is amazing, etc...

TIGER CUB: I've got some work to do back at the office. I'll leave you guys here to look around some more. Just lock up on your way out.

For at least another half hour we pretended we just won the lottery and splurged on a lake house. We perused our new property, relaxed on the dock, dipped our feet in the icy water and discussed what renovations were in order. What can I say, the place spoke to us.

We drove up the long driveway counting imaginary parking spaces.

MICHELLE: Maybe we could squeeze 27 or 28 cars.

ANDREW: We'll probably have to bus people in.

There were a few other minor problems with the place, but nothing insurmountable. We headed back into Tahoe City feeling just a little bit lighter about our location situation. At last, we had an option. Yes, just one, but at this point it was a long journey from none.

THE SABER-TOOTHED ASSASSIN

With no interest in finding my bank account stripped, my credit frozen or a waking to a silenced-Glock pressed to my forehead, I won't post the advertised picture of the lake house I speak of next. I have little doubt that the glitzy, high profile real estate agency could and would seek retribution through one of the various back channels they have on speed dial. Having a general idea of what the picture looked like, however, is important to understanding the beast we were dealing with.

On their website full of professionally photographed cabins, houses but mostly mansions for rent we came across a red farmhouse with a sprawling mint green lawn. To one side there was a gazebo with a hot tub, and meandering through the lawn was a rock-laden path leading to the lake and to a picturesque dock that extended far out into the blue Tahoe water. Paradise.

To rent the place for the week wasn't cheap, but if it would house family and friends and also act as our wedding ceremony and reception location it seemed like a fair deal. So, after a couple cocktails at the Bridgetender to warm up our negotiating tongues we sauntered in to the real estate agency. There were two well-dressed agents busy with clients. They hardly batted an eye at the smell of fresh meat, but we certainly didn't go unnoticed. A kind smile and a finger - one minute - from the fellow nearest to us. We pretended to seem interested in a folder full of eight-figure mansions for sale until he finished up.

A few minutes later we were comfortably perched around this slick assassins work station, a flat-panel display in front of us with various shots of the lake front farmhouse that piqued out interest.

SABER-TOOTHED ASSASSIN: It's a spectacular property. The pictures don't do it justice.

Hard to believe, but whatever. There was a soft, sweet bourbon tone in this guys delivery that made you want to drink the kool-aid.

ME: Really? Wow! Can we take a look at it?

SABER-TOOTHED ASSASSIN: Unfortunately...(pause)... there's no one that can take you there today. Hmmm...(looks at his schedule)... How's tomorrow morning work?

We nod. Yeah, that works fine. He smiles. Then, because he's a Saber-Toothed Assassin and not just some over-fed zoo cat, he lunges straight for the elephant in the room - fangs bared.

SABER-TOOTHED ASSASSIN: You two are really going to love it. It's one of the only wedding friendly private rentals on the lake. Most won't do them.

So smooth that it took a minute...did we mention anything about a wedding? Huh, I don't think we did. But cool, they're wedding friendly. That's GREAT!

I will concede that there are many interpretations of wedding friendly. Mine is by no means the platinum standard, and apparently, when dealing with death-machine of this caliber, you have to be prepared for anything.

SABER-TOOTHED ASSASSIN: The love it when guests throw weddings on their property. How couldn't they, right.

It guess it did make sense. If I owned a place like this (which I don't, so I can't really verify what I'm about to say, but...), I suppose I'd want happy couples (like Michelle and me) to have the opportunity to experience their special day in the version of paradise I owned and rented. If you've got it, share it. Right?

SABER-TOOTHED ASSASSIN: Now, there is an event fee. It's (insert the weekly summer rate for the house).

ANDREW: I thought that was the price to rent the place for the week.

SABER-TOOTHED ASSASSIN: Yes, and then the fee is to hold an event there.

He smiled like it was worth every hard-earned penny. I imagine this is the part in the script where he hopes that either I or Michelle has fallen so ass-over-teakettle for the place that all rational neurons have gone bat-shit crazy. That we'd whip out a suitcase full of green backs, sign on the dotted line and offer our jugulars without so much as a cat-fight.

Not the case. Michelle and I looked at each other and let out a mutual sigh about as aggressively passive-aggressive as you can make. The assassin didn't miss a punch.

SABER-TOOTHED ASSASSIN: I could talk to the owners if you like. They're good people. Maybe I could get the fee down to around (insert 45% less than before).

While the whole notion of renting a house for a week and then paying a large additional fee to basically have some people over seems insane, he was at least trying to sweeten up the insanity a bit. Pander to our quickly waning interest.

I can't remember exactly how we left it with him. Probably that we'd call to set up a time to look at the property the next day. We were glad to escape, and despite our near death by mauling, still somewhat intrigued by this property. We put off the much needed hot tub and beer waiting for us back at the cabin and went on a scouting mission. It was the best idea we had all day.

From the pictures, the "farmhouse" appeared to be on a decent plot of land and remote enough to have a party with no worry. In fact, when viewing the house from the road, it was nothing like that. It was practically attached to the houses on either side, and located on a narrow road with no parking whatsoever. The side of the house we were looking at was not red, and had no apparent features that you'd expect from a traditional "farmhouse". Literally it was as if we were staring at the backside of a movie set - just stilts and framing holding up the pseudo American dream on the other side. Annoying at first, but then I felt like I wanted to pat the assassin on the back (and hire his photographer for our wedding). Perfect trap, my friend, perfect trap.

Had the assassin accompanied us, I'm sure he'd have tried to hypnotize us with kaleidoscope eyes. Maybe even offer some LCD laced bubbly to seal the deal. Or, more likely, tried to sell us on something more suitable, a.k.a. more expensive, for our wedding location. Luckily we circumvented his devious ways. The answer was simple - not interested.

Complications ensued when we really got into the nitty-gritty of throwing an on-the-sly wedding at a private residence. As excited as we were to tussle with the Tiger Cub, we recognized that we were still playing with tigers and there was good chance of getting scratched. There was another location that we had been considering all along, one that I didn't mention so far because it didn't require real estate agents or banquet facility coordinators.

We found a place free of any hunters. We actually had to hunt them down for information and a way to secure the deal. Sure, they want some money for the location, but a friendly amount. Sure, they have someone in charge of weddings (I can't even call her a coordinator), but she's not there to badger, push and up-sell us into anything. Really, she's just there to collect that paperwork and answer questions . And what's even better, it's an entity that we both support and frequently enjoy - California State Parks. We may come across a bear or two, but one thing I'm certain, we're safe from the Saber-Toothed Tigers.

Hunting the Hunter

Say, for instance, you're hunting in India. Suddenly, fifty yards separates you and the Bengal Tiger you've come for. Even at this distance her warm breath prickles the fur on your back; somehow you smell she's hungry. This beast, this creature of the wild that eats ninety pounds of flesh in one sitting locks eyes with you. Strange, she doesn't look quite as you remember. The picture, that one from National Geographic a year and a half ago? You know, the one that got you excited enough to book this adventure across the globe to a mysterious land to hunt a large and oft starved cat? Yeah, well, news to you, there is a certain visceral quality missing from that photograph that isn't apparent until now. Until the Bengal Tiger is actually in front of you, so close that the glean off her damp coat shimmers hypnotically. Your knees knock at the thought of those sabers (much larger and sharper in real life) digging into your sculpted torso. Mauling the body you've worked so hard on these last six months while preparing for this - The Hunt.

You thought you'd be tough. You thought you'd take steady aim, fire before the Tiger even noticed your existence. You pictured yourself laying in front of a crackling fire on your tiger skin rug admiring the head of your spoils stuffed and mounted above the mantle. The hunted on the wall of the hunter.

But now, again, back in this rugged and foreign land, with your rifle aimed square at this imposing beast as she charges towards you - the delight of fatty American flesh on her mind you're sure - you question your role in this scenario. Out of the corner of your eye you swear two more tigers emerge from the brush. Maybe it's coincidence. Maybe they're just out for a stroll. Or maybe, the horn's been sounded and they're here for the hunt; here to hunt the hunter. And then those two tigers you think you saw, well, you did. And they're charging at you too. It all comes together in one split second of fear-inspired enlightenment. This is the land of the Saber Toothed Tiger. You don't belong here unless you're ready. Unless you're skilled. Unless you're wise to their aggressive ways. In this land, their land, you are always the hunted. Never the hunter. Period.

Michelle and I have never hunted Bengal Tigers in India, but over a rainy weekend in June we did hunt for wedding locations in Lake Tahoe. While I can't say for certain which is more dangerous, I can tell you with a great amount of assurance that the hunt of the illusive wedding location is a precarious activity. We marched in with the confidence of General Zarroff, but quickly realized in this version of The Most Dangerous Game, even poor old Sanger Rainsford had us in spades.

Our grand plan was to rent out a house on the lake for week and just throw the wedding there. Sounds simple, right? About as simple as hunting a Bengal tiger sounds to someone that doesn't hunt. Just point your gun and shoot. What's the big deal? It's an over-sized cat.

Before our trip we perused online to get a lay of the land. We didn't look too hard though, so when we arrived we had some serious pavement to pound. Many real estate offices line the main drag in Tahoe City. With the exception of one, the lair of the Saber-Toothed Assassin which I will get to later, none stood out above the others. So, we just started popping in at random. Luckily, our first stop was an easy cat to handle.

THE ZOO TIGER

We walked into the first Real Estate Agent's office. It was a low-key place - seemed to deal with properties on the low to middle end of the spectrum. The Agent noticed us immediately, eyed us up and down, then gave a docile smile. Oh, the smell of fresh meat.

She was smoker and a little overweight. She wheezed up every set of stairs we climbed. It wasn't hard to tell she led a sedentary life. She'd been a real estate agent in North Lake for over twenty years - at this point, the rental business practically ran itself. The same people rent the same place for the same week every summer. She just does the paperwork. She may once have roamed free with other killer cats, but through one twist of fate or another, she ended up in the zoo. Yes, she was a caged and domesticated tiger. Fed on routine by the zookeeper, and in no real danger of extinction.

She didn't have much to offer. But, in her defense, she gave it her best shot. We were like two monkeys that somehow escaped the rain forest exhibit and accidentally fell into her world. Sure, if she could catch us we'd be a nice meal, but she'd be fed either way, so there was no reason to tire herself in a prolonged hunt. So...

She went straight for the kill.

REAL ESTATE AGENT: I've got the perfect lake front house for you guys. They're renovating it right now, but lets just swing by so you can get a feel for it.

We followed her downstairs. Through her passenger window I could see fast food wrappers and empty Winston cartons littering the inside of her car.

REAL ESTATE AGENT: Why don't ...(weaze)...you two...(weaze)...follow me.

Good idea. Five minutes later we arrived at a mansion wedged between other mansions on the lake. F-150's, table-saws, lumber and extension cords littered the slate driveway.

The agent got out of her car. She looked peppy again, or as peppy as she could muster. Probably hacked down a cigarette on the drive over for a little nicotine burst. She needed help.

REAL ESTATE AGENT: So, what's the occasion?

Michelle and I had been warned about this question. For good reason, and I'll get to that in Part Two, we lied.

MICHELLE OR ME: Family reunion.

REAL ESTATE AGENT: Oh, perfect. How fun! You know, I don't know how many people you'll be having...

Her eyes probed our faces for a tell. We gave nothing.

REAL ESTATE AGENT: ... but I've got this place across the street, too. In case you need more space. Let's take a look?

And without a response she trudged across the street and up the driveway of a ramshackle, 70's retro, semi A-frame kind of thing. You could see the inch-long shag carpet through the window from fifty yards out. In its defense, it had a big deck and a few separate apartments which apparently, "are good...(cough)...for the relatives...(weaze)...with kids".

The place was a dump-hole and she knew it. But this dump-hole was also an added bonus, and she knew that too. What she was really saying when she was wheezing about a good place to put relatives with kids was,"this is a perfect place to house all the idiot drunk friends you guys are inviting to the wedding you're not telling me about." Every seasoned Saber Tooth has a method of hunt, and hers, while fairly simple in nature, was effective nonetheless. This was step one: Sweeten the meat.

Michelle winked at me behind the Zoo tiger's back --

MICHELLE: Yeah, this would be a great place to..."put the relatives with kids."

ME: There's a lot of 'em*. And they're really loud and obnoxious. This is...perfect.

Zoo Tiger could hardly keep the saliva in her mouth as she loped down the driveway to the big kahuna lake front mansion. With the meat sweetened, she was giddy to lay it out for bait.

REAL ESTATE AGENT: Careful...(hack)...of all the...(weaze)...extension cords.

We watched our step and entered.

REAL ESTATE AGENT: Stunning, isn't it?

It was only half-remodeled, but enough was done to imagine a QVC millionaire relaxing on a leopard print couch, sipping an apple martini and basking in every ostentatious last detail of his dream house. I turned the corner into the bathroom half-expecting a tub supported by four gold paws and 18 carat rendition of Aslan for a faucet. No such luck. The tub was still in Italy.

Unfamiliar with the tone of young and wild animals, I'm fairly certain that the Zoo Tiger misinterpreted the meaning of the "Wows" that kept slipping from our mouths like little scoff daggers. Tipped by what she perceived as our excitement, she chose this moment for the final step in the hunt - The Big Kill. And when I say big...

REAL ESTATE AGENT: I have to talk to the owner, but I can probably do (insert the price of a Prius) for a week. And, of course, that comes with use of the slip out front.

MICHELLE AND ANDREW: WOW!

The Zoo Tiger's keen ears easily picked up on the change of tone. The "holy shit that's astonishing" WOW! when spoken in close proximity to the scoffish, "I can't believe people call this taste" WOW! really highlights the differing intentions of the same word.

She had obviously hoped that either Michelle or I would fall head over heals for the place. So much so that any rational thoughts about our financial future would seem inconsequential in the face of the perfect wedding location. But we didn't bite the bait.

Zoo Tiger's dinner: Fresh meat out. Zoo scrum in.

REAL ESTATE AGENT: I've got to get back to the office. Think it over. If you want me to call the owner, here's my card.

We left the encounter unscathed. But this was only the Zoo Tiger.

Coming Soon: Part II: The Tiger Cub and the Saber-Toothed Assassin.

*Idiot drunk friends. Not annoying relatives.

Letting Loose in the Great Wide Open

Eight or nine years ago I was living in a little box of a duplex. There were four of us crammed into a two-bedroom not much over a thousand square feet; off-campus housing at its best. We had a yard large enough for a Beirut table - great for college - but it didn't quite compare to the acreage I'd grown up with on the dirt road in New Hampshire or at high school in northern Vermont. Not only was it small, generally muddy and littered with shards of plywood and Beast Light empties, the yard was also very public. We shared it with the girls living above us in the duplex, and across the parking lot a 16 unit apartment building glared at us day and night. Not that I cared. Not usually, anyway. It was college.

Every once in awhile, though, I'd get nostalgic. It would manifest in different ways - most need no mention - but on a late (we'll call it Tuesday) night, I penned an essay for my Wednesday presentation in Prose Writing. It was more a manifesto than an essay. I wish I still had it. I don't. But the gist of it was this:

I found a tee-shirt at a chainsaw festival in Northern Vermont. It was a plain old thing with simple block writing that said, "You ain't livin' unless you can piss in your front yard."There were other funnier, dirtier, and dumber variations of tee-shirt truisms on sale, but this one had one of those heaven-sent golden rays beaming on it. Why? Well, for context let's rewind a bit...

... to the first day of sophomore year, high school. My roommate was a newbie, a transfer from another school. We had briefly spoken on the phone, but never met in person. A quick reintroduction/introduction was made, and then, like any self-consumed teenager I bolted off to find all the friends I'd missed for three long summer months - and left Gary behind. I don't know what he did with his day, he was pretty shy back then, but I didn't see him. Not until the following morning, actually, at four A.M. I shuffled in bed and noticed Gary across the room, standing in his boxers in front of our window, gazing out at pre-dawn in the North East Kingdom. This was the view - nearest I could find on the Internet - that he was looking at:


Sure, beautiful. Pre-dawn? Kinda weird.

Our friendship grew, and about a month into school we had one of those conversations that usually resides in the history of most great man-panions. The 'I thought you were really strange when I first met you and now we're almost best friends' kind if conversation. While we were talking I brought up the moment. The pre-dawn moment. The moment that still stood between me accepting him as a normal enough dude to qualify for best friend status. He laughed, then said, "I was taking a piss, man."

I went over to the window. Sure enough, a healthy-sized spot of dead, brown grass below. Apparently this hadn't been a onetime occurrence. I was relieved that Gary wasn't a closet nut bag, and equally intrigued by his casual disinterest in modern plumbing. So intrigued, in fact, that the next time my bladder called, instead of heading downstairs to the loo, I whipped open the sill and let loose in the great wide open. Pissed right out the window into the front yard of our dorm house.

Let me tell you, liberation never felt so good.

The patch of dead grass grew beneath our window. It was not as much an adolescent act of defiance as it was an embrace of the rustic freedom the sparsely inhabited yet wondrously beautiful N.E.K. inspired. The opportunity to do what you want without scrutiny from the rest of the world. Even if your neighbor's last name is Jones, they live so far down the dirt road that you don't know what kind of baby stroller or bicycle you're trying to keep up with. No billboards telling you where to eat, sleep, drink, socialize and find your match. All of this space, this rugged, majestic, unadulterated land at your fingertips. Encouraging you to be yourself. To be authentic. To live bold, wild and free.

The characters that inhabited this northern New England community were an eclectic bunch. There was Mike, the poma liftie (lift attendant) at Burke Mountain, who'd spend days off in the summer hiking the trails, probably harvesting his personal stash of homegrown while cutting secret back-country ski runs for the winter ahead. When the snow would fall heavy Mike would disappear for a few days, probably enjoying his personal stash of herb, and definitely poaching his personal stash of powder. Sure, this way of life isn't everyone's ideal. But it was Mike's. And he didn't really give a hoot what city-slickers in their weekend Range Rovers thought of it. This was the way he wanted to live. Then there was George, the retired Type-A lawyer that set to hiking the same mountain, Burke, daily. Over time he logged well over a million vertical feet hiking tirelessly through spring, summer and fall. In the winter he would trade his boots for skis, and in various neon suits, always at fifty-plus mph, rip down the mountain yowling at the top of his lungs at the sheer greatness of, well, life I guess. Just the chance to see the loud-mouthed, madman senior-citizen bombing ski runs in neon was worth the price of a lift ticket.

So, back to college and that duplex I was living in. Every so often, like any practicing Irishman in their youth, I'd wander down to the bar for a pint. On those nights when one pint became more, I would stumble home late in the evening, perhaps singing an Irish fight song or two. My little duplex, with its six by eight patch of mud, and the giant slab of paved parking lot a stone's throw from the 'rural highway' that runs through Durham, would never cease to turn my Irish spirit into something more ornery.

"This isn't livin'," I'd slur to no one in particular. And then, sometimes, for old time's sake and a sense of counterbalance, I'd pee in the yard. Of course, while peeing I'd slur with greater conviction, "This is livin', this is livin'!"...

And then my neighbor's window would fling open:

Cheryl: Hey, shut the fu ... Dude!

Me: Hey Cheryl.

Cheryl: You're peeing in our yard.

Me: I am?

Cherly: Again!

The window slams shut. Pause. I'd gather my surroundings...

Me: So I am. Sorry.

... and make my way inside. I'd scavenge around my room until I found it - my favorite tee-shirt - then conk out with some delusional sense of accomplishment.

For many of us that ever harbored Thoreau-inspired ideals, you get older and your big-city goals instigate compromise. Michelle and I live in Los Angeles. We don't have something that even resembles a yard, and I certainly don't come home and pee on our concrete porch when I'm feeling too cosmopolitan. You settle for getting into nature when you can. When you can't, you attempt to live with the same joie de vivre that you would if you could pee in your front yard. You settle for wearing the tee-shirt, not necessarily in public, and doing your best to let its sentiment guide you.

Michelle and I got engaged up in Lake Tahoe. On that same weekend we pretty much decided we wanted to get married there too. For some people, choosing a general location is probably a nightmare. For us, it was the one if the easiest decisions yet. While the lake certainly has its share of million dollar homes dotting its shore and the surrounding mountains, they hardly trivialize the rugged, natural mystique. Whenever we're there hiking, skiing, floating the river or whatever, not a day goes by that we don't look at each other and go, "this is livin'."

Due to his small bladder and Irish proclivity for a drink or two, I imagine that Gary may be the first to unzip his trousers and find a tree or open patch of grass at our wedding reception. He won't be the only one, that I'm sure of. In fact, it's one of the better reasons that we decided on an outdoorsy, nature wedding. No, not for easy access, but to get our family and friends together for a fresh breath what life is all about. To kick off our shoes; let the cool grass tickle our feet, shiver our spines, and clear our minds. To eat, drink and rock out under a star lit sky. For Michelle and I to celebrate the commitment to adventure life together, and to have that celebration in a place that inspires us to make our adventure bold, wild and free. Yes, to get married and let loose in the great wide open.

The Meta-Cheesy Party To End All Parties Recap

We have a subscription to US Magazine. I could point to a certain best friend of Michelle's and label her The Culprit for getting us said subscription, but, truth be told, we were celebrity smut rag junkies well before they started arriving at our door weekly.

To share a little further: I read the articles. Yeah, that's right. Cover to cover, baby.

In tabloid-glossy world this is akin to admitting you look at the pictures in Playboy. Actually, it's probably worse. I haven't kept up since college, and I spent most of every Women's Lit. class dodging invisible flaming arrows and generally trying to disappear into my chair, but I vaguely remember discussions about being in a neo-liberal post modern feminist era ... or something of that nature. Translated loosely, I think it means that it's PC for men to admit they get Playboy for the articles and the pictures. It's some new kind of sociably acceptable and preferred norm.

Disclaimer: I could be dead wrong on this. Remember, I was preoccupied with invisible flaming arrows and such ... which, come to think of it, may have to do with the above interpretation ... maybe.

Anyway, back to the point:

With celebrity gossip glossies, no one gets them for the articles. No One.

I mean, they do, they just don't admit it. If you actually find someone that cops to a tabloid habit, they'll insist it's only for the pictures. Apparently it's still taboo to admit that you actually spend intellectual man-hours on what equates to literary smut.

I don't know why I read the articles. To venture a psychoanalytic guess it probably has something to do with ego and self-worth in the sometimes grim world of being a writer. You can always turn to tabloids for comfort and say, "at least I don't write this bad most of the time*."

They really are just awful - stick your face in a cave full of porcupines awful. And because of them, with a post-party hangover and an inner lit. critic wrestling me to the mat every time I dared to even think about writing a recap of The Party to End All Parties, a serious bout of blog-block ensued.

A party recap? I can't write that. It's so, you know, US Magazine. It makes me prickle to even entertain the idea of something that might turn out like...


The V.I.P. Party Scene
Michelle and Andrew's Engagement Bash - May 29th

It was guest-list only for Michelle and Andrew's exclusive fete at underground celebrity hot-spot, Equator Books. Doors opened at nine and the party was in full swing by the ten-o-clock hour.


Bold and beautiful revelers sipped on Che Lager and Angel City IPA as well as an assortment of (semi-crappy) tannin delights from Bevmo! They rocked out to the likes of Datarock, Santigold and Crystal Castles off Michelle's Engagement Party Playlist and grooved to a live performance by LA rock n' roll phenoms Tom with the Weather.

(Ryan, Tom, Beej and Daniel of Tom with the Weather)

Band groupie, JK, cozied up to Tony Spatafora (minister to the stars) while her on-again off-again flame and Tom with the Weather guitarist, Ryan Nosker, jammed on his Stratocaster.

(JK getting hot and scandalous with the Minister, natch)

The strictly-liquid menu caused many a make-out session as happy-go-lucky party people caved to their hedonistic urges. Namely, my future wife...

(Michelle noshing on Andrew's face in lieu of dinner)

Many a guest took pause from the bacchanal delights to pose for revered shutterbug, Tertius Bune. He deftly captured the party, the players and the frolicking mood of this Midsummer Night's Dream.

(A-listers strike a pose)


(Sans children, the Gogolewski/Wyffels crew exercise their celebratory gene)

After the last drops of lager poured, hugs all around, and a bum rush for cabs on Abbot Kinney, the doors were finally locked near 3 a.m.

(Zoe 'I don't get hangovers' Maas bids adieu)

The other guy in the picture - that's me. Pointing at you, saying thank you for tuning in.

For those that couldn't make it. We missed you. Now you have an abridged and saccharine understanding of what went down.

For those that attended. Thank you. It was a special evening, indeed.

And now, I'm done. It's all the tabloid recap I can take.

*Unless someone is paying me. Then I will write anything. Good or bad - don't care. Anything.