Trail Of Beers

Well, it's on. Fresh off a beautiful trip to Hood River, OR, I booked the flight to LA to be in a TV project, which absolutely cracks me up. I'd give away the premise, but it's not really mine to give away. So, put that on the list with all the other shit that makes no sense that I do. The only acting that I've ever done in my life is that musical when I was like 8 and various instances of creative lying. Oh, I've also acted like I had Down's syndrome when my sister and I were shopping for pants once. She got superpissed about it.

So, the recent Hood River trip. It was for a friend's wedding and I was staying with two of the dopest people I know in a really nice place that would cost way too much if it were located in the Bay Area. We even got a special guest visitor on the couch that I took to Shari's at three in the morning for some fine barefoot dining while wrapped in a TrailOfTears blanket that was worth $500 in this particular circumstance.

The condo was within walking distance of a severely confused British pub that became post-festivity headquarters. I call it confused because there was a fucking Frommer's guide to Ireland on the bar and not one TV for showing soccer. Plus, they weren't even open for the first EPL game of the day on Saturday. I guess if you fly the Union Jack and serve Bass, you are British enough.

The condo also had a view of Washington conducting commerce and for $1.50 American, you could cross a bridge and pay sales tax and pump your own gas. It was brilliant and the weather was a borderline sign of the apocalypse. It was just perfect.

The pub, however, had one thing going in their favor in the form of a bartender that I was lightly smitten with on the first night that we got there. The last night I was there, I ended up with her at another bar with her bartender friend that she had to have been sharing a bed with, but stranger things have happend. It was the Pacific Northwest, though, so I may have been reading her wrong.

The next day, I woke up and had a slip of paper with a penis drawn on it and her girlfriend's name written above it. That makes us BFFs. I don't remember a tremendous amount of the latter part of the night, but my left nipple was in severe pain the next morning when we disembarked on the scenic route to the airport. There are a lot of waterfalls in Oregon. Pro Tip.

Now, for notes from the wedding, I'll just bulletpoint some quotes/conversations:

Conversation 1
Her: "I was told that you are my best chance for getting laid at this wedding and I've already thought of some disgusting things to do to you."

Me: "And your name is?"

Conversation 2
Other Her: "Has anyone told you that you look like Dane Cook?"

Me: "No. And I don't enjoy his humor. Have you ever heard of Bill Hicks?"

Conversation 3
Other Her: "I heard you call some girl a moose at the bar. Is that what you call me?"

Me: "Uhhh. No. Of course not. Swear."

Conversation 4
Dude: "Robert Palmer is dead?"

Me: "Yeah, he died like five years ago."

Dude: "What did he die of?"

Me: "I don't know. Maybe a love addiction?"