I promised stories from my trip, so fasten your seatbelts boys and girls the ride is about to begin. The wedding was beautiful, but that is boring. All weddings are beautiful unless you hate the people getting married. The phrase over-top-was invented to describe this wedding weekend. Now, I know I mentioned it before, and I know I cannot stop talking about, lord knows I cannot stop thinking about, but if you are going to spend a crap load of money on a hotel room, do it at the Four Seasons. And do it in Beverly Hills. If you can throw in about 15-20 people that you know, do that too. If you can do it for free, I recommend that as well. It was like fantasy camp for adults.
The rehearsal dinner was right on the beach in Santa Monica. We ate on the rooftop deck that overlooked the ocean. We ate, we drank, and were merry. We were shuttled to and from the hotel all weekend. Yes bartender I will have another. An excellent touch and one I think you should add if you plan on spending a 1/4 mill on your wedding. Don't hold your breath it won't be at mine.
The night really got started after the dinner back at the hotel. We ran upstairs to change and get more comfortable. When I left the bathroom looked like a hurricane had blown by, all our crap was everywhere. I opened it to find all of my toiletries lined up on mat in full bibliographical order. Do you see this? The housekeeper even faced all the labels. It was like I had my own house elves. Crazy. Anyway, the elevator was taking forever to take us back down to the bar. For a moment I considered walking down. Then, ding, door opens. There was one guy standing inside with his bag, and instinctively I said "Hello." He looked up at me and said "Hello" back and it was at that moment that I realized he was Eric Clapton. Yes, that Eric Clapton. Holy crap we are riding in an elevator with Eric Clapton and Dave has not even realized it yet. It is very hard to get your boyfriend's attention in a mirrored elevator and not make it obvious. I didn't even try. Finally, Dave looks at the guy and realizes who he is. We just kind of laughed to ourselves. And, no I did not say anything to him. The last thing the poor guy wants is some neurotic woman who just took a picture of the toiletries in her bathroom to bother him. I did freak out after he walked away.
After that my whole weekend was a celebrity potpourri. A little Anna Kournikova over here, some Winona Ryder over there, Misha Barton swimming by me in the pool, Jeremy Irons dashing through the bar, LaToya Jackson sitting at the next table, James Belushi running on the beach, and Samuel L. Jackson back in the elevator with me. The only one that I interacted with was John Mayer. I was standing with a few woman chatting, when Dave's best friend comes up to me and whispers in my ear, "Your boy is getting jealous cause John Mayer keeps checking you out." Now Mr. Mayer was sitting at a nearby table with a friend eating. Was I excited, yes. Were they exaggerating the circumstances, most likely. Did I care, no. A little while later I sat down with another friend of ours who was sitting across from said celebrity. We were having a good time and we wanted to take our picture. I started to put my arm out and do the whole self portrait thing, when I just thought "ahh what the fuck?" and asked John Mayer to take the picture for us. Had it been anyone else I would have asked them. It was the least he could do after looking at my ass. This story has gotten a lot of mileage as you can imagine. This officially makes me a name dropping celebrity whore, but when you are this fabulous does it really matter?
Me tired. More later.
Touch the ice boys, don't be afraid.