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.

Couple Seeking Minister

About a month ago I traded my "go to" procrastination outlet - Internet vacation hunting - for something more concrete and tangible - wedding hunting. Fantasy Googling island rentals off Santorini has its place, but scouring the web for wedding ideas manages to hit the much sought after activity called productive procrastination. And, despite the risk of self-emasculation, I'll admit it, it's kinda fun.

It hasn't actually produced much ... yet, but one of the interesting things that I keep stumbling upon is the "wedding package". For one small/medium/large or gargantuan fee, a one-stop shop will provide everything: caterer, DJ, florist, cake, other stuff you have at a wedding, and minister.

At first, this seemed too good to be true:

Andrew: Michelle! Look at this.

Michelle: The DJ looks creepy.

Andrew: Just one click and we're done. With everything.

Michelle: So does the minister. Wait, is that...

Andrew: They provide a minister? That's weird.

Michelle: I think it's the same guy.

Andrew: No. One has a ... oh, yeah.

Michelle: Definitely same guy.

There were other more enticing versions. One offered a Tahoe lake-front mansion, string quartet, multi-tiered cake, minister, and if you asked nice I bet they could come up with a couple cute kids to carry the rings. It required a six-figure retainer. This, frighteningly enough, didn't stick out to me nearly as much as the included minister.

While patiently waiting for ceremonies to end and cocktail hour to begin, I've just kind of assumed that the bride and groom knew the guy/gal up there marrying them. They're all huddled together talking in hushed tones about important things like lifelong vows - you just figure, right?

It's an intimate moment. You're like two samurai warriors about to embark on the journey of a lifetime, you kinda want the 'til death thing to be blessed by a feudal lord you know, trust and believe in. You don't want to get all geared up, sabers blazing ready to take on the world then have Minister Mo from Sparks show up and ask to be pointed to the bride and groom. Maybe he'd do a great job, or maybe he'd insert your names into his summer wedding spiel, regurgitate it with the same monotone your grandpa used for prayer before supper, get drunk at cocktail hour then disappear into the sunset never to be seen or heard from again.

On your big day you want to know you're in good hands:



Meet Anthony Spatafora - the man that fits the bill.

You might be thinking, oh, I don't know, is this man ordained?

Yes. He assured us of this. From the Universal Life Church if any one's asking.

And then this might slip from your lips: Really?

Yes. He provided us a link to the website that granted him this privilege. He's the real deal with paper to prove it.

At which point, you might then pry: has anyone ever let him...ahem, I mean, has he ever married anyone before?

He provided his minister stats - think batting average but insert successful unions into the "batting" part of the equation. Let me tell you, Major League material. Tony's a slugger with a golden bat.

Aside from his ministerial duties Tony is also an actor. And Tony is Italian. To put simply, Tony can do our entire wedding. From catering to decorating, Master of Ceremonies to Minister, Tony can do it all. He could have his own one-stop wedding shop. At a party he recently catered, Michelle, mouth full of his mango crab salad, excitedly burst out, "Tony! You should marry us and cater the wedding!"

"There are many things I should do, Michelle. I choose my engagements wisely," Tony retorted.

Apparently we will have to settle. But like his friend in the picture, we couldn't be happier. Tony is a great treasure in our life - kind, generous and funny - a true friend. If Tony were a feudal lord, we would both don samurai gear and thrash villages to protect his land and honor. And Michelle is a particularly good samurai. Her swordsmanship is excellent. Not to brag, just to put context to our claim of loyalty.

He was the first decision we made about our wedding. We were driving home from Lake Tahoe after our engagement weekend, a little frazzled from all the champagne and celebration, and Michelle turns to me with this dreamy look in her eyes. It's the look like she's about to ask something big - let's rent out the Shah's palace in Dubai for our wedding big - but then she simply said, "Do you think Tony can marry us?"

If you keep your eyes open and remember to look I imagine there will always be moments, tidbits of life that seem inconsequential from the exterior, but to you they act as reinforcement. They remind you that you've made at least one good choice in your life; that you didn't let the good one get away; that somehow and who knows why you're one lucky sonofabitch. I turned to Michelle -

"I love Tony," I said.

She smiled back at me. I5 passed by at 80 MPH and the sun's parting rays cast some b.s. Hollywood glow on us like, well, like it was one of those moments.

"Me too," she replied.

And it was settled. Tony was our guy, our feudal lord, our Minister.

The Champagne Heartburn Must End ... Eventually

I'm not sure how many bottles of champagne we slugged the day we got engaged. There is a "celebratory" gene that runs in the Gogolewski bloodline. We were in Lake Tahoe, staying with Mark and Liz (Gogolewski - for those of you that don't know), and we really just went for it. For a time there, under those twinkling Tahoe stars, sitting in that bubbly hot tub, drinking those bubbly cocktails and talking about bubbly things like weddings, family and love, we forgot that we were, well, not nineteen. We celebrated the night away without fear of the morning to come.

And so the celebration began.

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

You see, when you get engaged, everyone that you know wants to celebrate. Even people you don't know want to celebrate. Don't get me wrong, this is great. We are a couple that likes to celebrate. But eventually, your body starts to get annoyed with your complete lack of regard for its frailty. About two weeks into our engagement I felt like I'd swallowed a cactus. I was choking down Dom Perignon's sweetest nectars like they were firewater. My esophagus could've doubled as a medical study on road rash. But, when you're a couple that likes to celebrate, it just doesn't make sense to let a little setback like champagne heartburn get in your way. And, for quite some time, it didn't.

Continue (ouch). Continue (ouch). Continue (ouch).

The following conversation never actually happened in our house. Eventually though, it might have:

Andrew: Ugh, more champagne, my liver's gonna resign.

Michelle, still in her twenties, just looks at me. Confused. I continue to moan -

Andrew: The bubbles are like a million little ninja-daggers stabbing my throat.

Michelle: We should throw a party.

Andrew: A pa... are you even listening to...

Michelle: An engagement party. And invite everyone. A party to end all parties.

I pause, letting the genius of this statement fully sink in. Then -

Andrew: Done. Where?




Equator Books is the kind of place Dan Brown might find himself after a self loathing-induced bender in search of his literary soul. He'd enter all drunk and repentant, slurring something about salvation and thinking he'd finally found it. The ghost of Charles Bukowski would stumble over with a twinkle in his eye and a smile all friendly like ... and kick Dan's teeth in, throw him to the curb then pour himself another drink.

Needless to say, I like the place. And they like my future wife ... and me. Not quite as much, but they like me too. You see, Michelle is cooler than I am, and at an establishment who sometimes uses the motto, "We're cool so you you don't have to be," that apparently counts for something. Actually, in this case, it counts for a lot. Living by the aforementioned motto, they will be closing their doors to the public and opening it to us on the night of May 29th for the engagement party to end all parties. Very cool.

Smash your Kindles, people. Buy at Equator.

They also scored us a bartender, a doorman and a crew to clean up after the mayhem ensues. Very, very cool.

And I'm serious. Smash those Kindles. Buy at Equator.

And then they said, "The place is yours. Don't ask, just do what ever you want."

So we got a band...

Tom With The Weather signed on to play our party - in classic friend, ahem, Rock Star form - for a handle of bourbon and all the beer they can drink. Seriously. I know they are bringing at least one groupie, but really, I just hope they come dressed like the dudes (?) in the picture above.

It appears that the moral of this story is: we are grateful to have awesome and generous friends. If our wedding is as easy to put together as this engagement party, this blog is really going to suck. Bridezilla can only handle so many rematches with Michelle.

So, to wrap things up, and to try and deliver just a little bit on the "trial and error guide to amateur wedding planning" part of this blog, I will say this:

If you get engaged, and you really like to celebrate, then stretch out the time between said engagement and your engagement party. It gives you plenty of time to celebrate individually with all of your friends. A lot. And then it brings them all together in a kind of engagement celebration finale.*

If you aren't such a celebrator - throw a party quick. Your friends will want to toast your big news. Hold a bash right off the bat and you can knock it all out in one fell swoop.
Note: This is only conjecture. Michelle and I milked this baby for two months.

Next week's Teaser:

We have made a decision about something! Finally! And yes, it has something to do with our wedding.

*My heartburn-withered body wanted me to highlight the word finale. I said no. I had to. I'm a realist, and already have my doubts about how final this finale will be.

MY FUTURE WIFE vs. BRIDEZILLA: The Cage Match

In lieu of laundry, aimless Internet surfing, refrigerator scavenging or productive writing of any kind, I thought I'd do something novel with my afternoon and stage a mock* ultimate fighting cage match between MY FUTURE WIFE and BRIDEZILLA. Yes, procrastination is a hobby of mine. And yes, you might wonder, could this post start an actual cage match between me and my future wife? Somehow, I highly doubt it.

With no further ado, it might start something like this:

The steel cage door swings open. MICHELLE (28 but looks 23), enters. The ultimate manifestation of a man-crush - glistening, toned and prowling like a lioness on the hunt.

She pounds her chest. Flex's for the adoring crowd.

In the far corner, BRIDEZILLA, cracks her knuckles. Eye-daggers zing.

ANNOUNCER: In the right corner, weighing in at one hundred and perfect-perfect pounds, Michelle Gogolewskiiiii!!!!

The cage rattles with the deafening roar of the crowd.

ANNOUNCER: And in the left corner, weighing in at three hundred and evil-evil pounds, BRIDEZILLAAAAA!!!!

Yeah, she's got a few kindred spirits out there. They cheer.

ANNOUNCER: Ladies and Gentleman, let's get ready to rummmmblllle!!!!(or is that boxing? I don't really know. Anyway...)

The women circle each other, muscles taught, ready to lunge on a twitch.

And so the match begins. Now, there are a multitude of reasons why my future wife would kick Bridezilla's ass in a cage match. What gets tricky is assigning each reason with a particular fighting move, kill-shot, death blow or whatever they're called in Ultimate Fighting. For instance, Michelle wants pudding cake instead of an elaborate 8-tiered, marbled, bedazzled, 18 carat tower of pastry chef sweat and tears. Is that equivalent to a Roundhouse Uppercut combo, a Reverse Hay Maker, or a leaping Body-Slam? I don't know. The best I can do is just guess. So please bear with me and enjoy, it's only a cage match after all.

We'll start with a familiar one --

Michelle wants pudding cake instead of an elaborate 8-tiered, marbled, bedazzled, 18-carat tower of pastry chef sweat and tears:

Bridezilla lunges for Michelle's throat. Michelle Jujitsu's to the side. Lets out a mighty "high-yah", and connects a swift chop to Bridezilla's spine.

Bam. She hits the mat hard. Her eyes ignite.

Michelle would rather get married outdoors surrounded by the decadence of nature than in The Ritz. Yes, she wears a suit to work, and work is in a stately building in the financial district downtown. Wolfgang Puck caters an occasional lunch. They have free bubbly water and ergonomic work stations. She sits in meetings all day where they hash about, "subordinated unsecured creditors," and "collateralized bond obligations," while their blackberries accumulate ping's in silent mode. She is a pedigreed corporate vixen. But don't let this fool you. Lurking just beneath the surface of this ostensible urban poster child is a yogafied, farmers market friendly, nature loving, hike enthusiast - a bonafide Santa Monica hippy. It is this sensibility that has already begun to infuse itself in our wedding plans. And so:

Bridezilla whirls with a roundabout kick. Grazes Michelle's face. A drop of blood falls.

Michelle scales the cage wall like a tarantula. Double-back flips off it Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon style. Lands in a double leg-lock around Bridezilla's neck.

They crash to the floor - Bridezilla caught in Michelle's deadly vice grip. Veins pulse. Bridezilla claws. Michelle clamps harder.

At our reception Michelle wants a barbeque; albeit with wild salmon, an assortment of organic vegetables (probably from sustainable farms), a variety of salad options (also organic and probably sustainable) and, of course, the pudding cake. She doesn't care if Mario Batali is working the grill or Martha Stewart frosts the cake. In fact, it's more than likely that I will be a Groomzilla in this department. I'm not a fanatic, but I'm a fan of food. If I could get Mario behind the grill, I probably would. But this isn't my cage match. So:

Wily as ever, Bridezilla slithers loose from Michelle's clutches. Rebounds off the cage. Charges.

Michelle ducks, grapples Zilla's legs. Punishes her headfirst into the mat - the perfect Reverse Piledriver.

Animated stars circle Bridezilla's noggin.

There's been no mention of riding into the ceremony on a white stallion. Or arriving via yacht. Or anything more extravagant than our feet at this point. Of course, Michelle would look great cantering up to the ceremony on a glistening steed. Her bridesmaids in tow on a line of ponies as trumpeters herald the event with resounding notes. Or maybe I've had too much coffee. Yes, indeed I have. No horses, yachts or ponies on the list. So we go to:

Michelle leaps off the cage wall. Crushes an elbow-first body slam into Zilla's dazed frame. Wraps her in the headlock-of-death. Bridezilla gasps for breath...

In an excited conversation about the wedding dress I offered to call Oscar and Vera**. Michelle shrugged and tossed out her trademark "eh". She has a very clear idea of what the dress will look like, but doesn't seem concerned by whose fingers stitch the seems. From the limits imposed on my brain by my maleness regarding visualizing wedding dresses, I can only tell you that it sounds nice, and then defer you to her for the specifics. Back to:

Bridezilla's eyes roll back. Michelle lets up...

WHAM! Michelle's airborne. Nails the cage roof. Drops to the floor in shock.

Ahh, Bridezilla. You sneaky devil. Alive and well, she cackles and leaps to her feet. Darts at Michelle.

But a lightning jab to the throat catches her. Bam! Bridezilla hits the mat hard.

Michelle tosses her over one shoulder and... SMACK! Crushes Zilla with an Inverted Haymaker.

I could literally go on for pages, but it's fair to say Bridezilla's taken enough drubbing for one cage match.

In the end, I know my future wife cares about many things involving our wedding. I certainly do, too. Some of those things Michelle might care about a lot, but none of them she cares about too much. Well, maybe the pudding cake. If you've tasted the pudding cake we speak of, you'd get it. I do. I get warm and Tootsie Roll chewy when I think about that cake, and when I think about my future wife ... and how she might end this cage match:

Bridezilla sprawled out - down but not out. Michelle straddled on top, knees pinned to Zilla's shoulders.

BRIDEZILLA: Damn you. Damn you and everything you stand for you low-maintenance bi...

SLAM. Bridezilla's face meets the bloodied mat.

SLAM -- SLAM -- SLAM. Michelle doesn't let up --

MICHELLE: I (slam) JUST (slam) WANT (slam) TO (slam) GET (slam) MARRIED (slam) IN (slam) MY (slam) BARE (slam) FEET!

And one big, final SLAM!

The thought of getting married in anything other than Louboutin's or Choo's knocks Bridezilla unconscious.

The Ref pulls Michelle from Zilla's limp frame. Raises her arm in the air.

A Champion is crowned.

Like I said, warm and Tootsie Roll chewy all over. Bridezilla's excluded, who couldn't love my future wife?

*I pitched an actual cage match featuring MY FUTURE WIFE vs. BRIDEZILLA to the folks over at Pay per View. I thought it would be a nice way to pay for our honeymoon. They didn't agree.

** It was a fairly safe offer since I know neither designer personally. Since you can't Google my net worth, I doubt they'd take my call.

The Countdown Begins ... Sort Of

For any self respecting countdown to begin, one must first have something to count down to.

Wedding. Check.

Blog#1 was supposed to be quick. Something simple like: 372 DAYS AND COUNTING... STAY TUNED, COMPADRES!

I was really excited about the font highlight, and maybe finding a ticker to embed that automatically keeps track of the countdown. But before I could even type that big, bold and exciting number I realized, in my zeal, I had overlooked a fundamental flaw -

The Date.

Crap. Foiled already.

Yes, apparently you actually need a date to count back from to use 372 DAYS AND COUNTING... STAY TUNED, COMPADRES! Otherwise it's just ? DAYS AND COUNTING... and that just doesn't hold the same muster.

Let me tell you my friends, choosing a date is no easy task.

JANUARY: OUT. I like to get fat over the holidays. Dieting from Thanksgiving through Christmas is not a viable option.

FEBRUARY: OUT. It's the best month for powder in Tahoe. Since we are getting married in Tahoe, that just won't work. I know my friends - they would skip our wedding for a powder day. I know my brother - he would skip our wedding for a powder day. I know my future brother and sister in law - they would skip our wedding for a powder day. I know myself - and I would definitely show up to our wedding - in my ski boots. Probably late. Maybe bleeding. And I know my future wife...

MARCH: OUT. No need to compete with the most important holiday of the year - St Patrick's Day.

APRIL: OUT. Due to my genes, I don't know much about tanning. All I know is that Michelle would like to have one on our wedding day. Even in LA it's tough to be tan by April. Well, the natural way that is.

MAY: OUT. My Birthday. As I creep into my thirties I can really only handle one celebration a month.

JUNE: LIKELY. So far, no strikes against June.

JULY: OUT. Michelle's Birthday. We usually spend the entire month celebrating it.

AUGUST: OUT. I usually spend the entire month recovering from celebrating all of July. And apparently it's booked through 2012.

SEPTEMBER: POSSIBLE. Late September might be chilly in Tahoe. But otherwise, no strikes against it.

OCTOBER: OUT. The idea of a Halloween themed wedding is more frightening than the costumes that our LA friends* would likely show up in.

NOVEMBER: OUT. I spend the first three weeks of November thinking about all the food I'm going to eat on Thanksgiving, and the last week regretting/digesting all the food I ate on Thanksgiving. So does my brother, only worse. We would be useless.

DECEMBER: OUT. I can't say I'm religious, but I still don't want to compete with Jesus.

It has taken Michelle and I approximately one month to get this far. I'm not sure if we should pat ourselves on the back or slap ourselves in the face.

In either case, wish us luck.

*For some reason Halloween lives on well into your thirties and forties here in Los Angeles. I don't know why. Really, I just don't.