the highs and lows of dining

It all started, two weeks ago, when my best friend Madelaine was looking for a restaurant to celebrate her upcoming Twenty-First birthday. Something "fabulous" and "light". The winner was a Mediterranean restaurant called Casablanca, located in downtown Tucson. It sounded so classy and adventurous, that I could already picture myself walking into a candle-lit room, like in those old-time black and white movies, where the people drank martini's, smoked cigarettes, and winked at the guy playing the grand piano in the corner, saying in a raspy, sexy voice, "Play it again, Sam."

We were all set. We would dine in good old-fashioned glamour and dance the night away at Level, Tucson's most exclusive club where patrons were not allowed to wear sneakers or torn jeans (finally, somebody was able to perfect the natural selection and thin out the herd of the unwanted...it was bound to happen in our little city, sometime). Then something tragic happened. The day before the party, I found out, through Alice's friend Jaz, that Casablanca was not a sanitary place to eat. Up until a few days before, Jaz was the bartender at Casablanca, but quit her job after she realized she was the only one who used soap when washing the dishes. It was just not a sanitary place to be.

I didn't know what to do. If I told Madelaine, then she'd have to find a new place to hold her party and as everyone knows, trying to find a new restaurant during graduation weekend is like trying to find humor in a Jamie Kennedy movie. On the other hand, if I didn't say anything, well…isn't there's something, anything, to say for stomach-pumping stories?

With less than 24 hours to the party, Madelaine was in panic mode and I being the good friend that I am had to help find a last minute restaurant. We went through restaurant guides and newspaper reviews, reading all about the fascinating and delicious foods that Tucson had to offer, other than the Mexican food were so well known for. Who knew there was such a vast selection? We eventually settled on an Asian fusion restaurant but then, through a series of unfortunate events, that could only happen to a couple of twenty-something’s like us, everything changed and we ended up celebrating Madelaine's birthday nuptials at Applebee’s. Eh. At least they had a half-off happy hour.

At a little past eight, I was dressed to the nines and ready to hang ten and have some fun. Everyone had called me and text me earlier that day to remind me to wear dressy shoes and not sneakers, because being turned away from Level would be just too humiliating. As if. Like I didn't know how to dress. Granted at the last formal affair I went to, I wore a skeleton pirate T-shirt with dirty denim jeans, but still. I learned from that experience, and went to the party wearing a grey Banana Republic goodie underneath a dress jacket, a look inspired by Justin Timberlake and Adam Brody, but perfected by me. Then it turns out, Level's natural selection process was on high alert and potential party-goers were being turned away, left and right, making the club an exclusive place where half of Tucson went to see if they could and or would be selected to join the worthy few. We already knew where we stood on the list (accepted, of course) and ended up spending the night in a little, crowded Mexican nightclub, El Charro, dancing and getting drunk until we could no longer say the word, "Margarita."

All in all, the birthday night wasn't a total disaster, because what came out of it, was an interest to go out and try new restaurants and new food. Maybe it was because I read so many different entrée's from so many different menus. Or maybe it was the fact that my dear blog friend Carrie had recently just written a post about her top five restaurants in Ottawa, Canada. Or maybe it was because, being a fan of the Rachel Ray show, $40 A Day, I've always wanted to go to new, far away places and enjoy three meals a day with only $40, but I figured since there were a lot of restaurants in my own city that I've yet to try. Whatever the reason was, the person who couldn't agree with me more, was none other than Colette. She had recently discovered a restaurant called NoRTH and couldn't get over the amazing cuisine that they served. And so, on five different days, during the past week, Colette invited me to five different restaurants, each pricier and more delicious than the last. Thus began the ritual known from here on out as, The Five Dinners.

1)NoRTH - Taking its cue from an Italian trattoria, NoRTH offers a contemporary approach to Modern Italian Cuisine. The carefully thought out menu highlights unique antipasti which reflects the best of the season, wood fired pizzas, inventive pasta dishes and secondi that feature many wood roasted and grilled dishes. My selections? The Prosciutto and goat cheese pizza and the salmon entrée with roasted squash and sweet onions.

2) Elle - Set in the historic Broadway Village building, designed by famed Tucson architect, Josias Joesler, Elle is a beautiful restaurant with a beautiful menu to match. The restaurant is a simple, yet tasteful place to be. Just like the food. By itself, the ingredients are simple, but together they create something spectacular. Organically-produced, locally-grown items are featured year 'round, including over forty different types of wine that give the delectable dishes an added je nais se quois. Colette and I shared the fried brie with spiced green apple chutney and roasted garlic cloves and for the main course I had pan-seared ahi tuna with a terrific pineapple-cilantro sauce.

3) Café Terra Cotta - Somewhere in the marvelous Catalina Mountains, is a marvelous restaurant that considers itself as Arizona’s first introduction to Southwestern cuisine. It combines fundamental ingredients native to the American Southwest and northern Mexico (chiles, corn, tomatoes, squash, and beans, etc.) with dishes that are normally found deep in Mexico, especially to the Yucatan, central Mexico, and Oaxaca, where the sauces are more robust, complex, and balanced, and presented in a classical French contemporary cooking techniques and presentation style. It’s really unique and really different than the Mexican food I'm used to. I had the Chef's special, which was herb-roasted quail with a pesto glaze and a garden vegetable medley, and it would have been one of the most perfect meals of my life, had I not seen a quail family run across the parking lot as we were leaving.

4. Café Poca Cosa - Hidden underneath a parking garage is a fantastic restaurant called Café Poca Cosa. In its place is a sweeping, stylish dining room with objects of Mexican art, on display, as if in a museum. I’ve raved about this restaurant in posts before, because it is simply one of the best and most satisfying Mexican restaurants in town. The menu, which seems to be inspired by Laura Esquivel’s novel, Like Water for Chocolate (side note, it’s one of the few, really great books that I think would make a terrific movie…), doesn’t feature traditional Mexican food, like tacos, burritos or enchiladas, but has a fresh selection of chilies, spices, vegetables, that Chef Susana Davila changes, several times a day. Because of the constant change, it is hard to recommend a dish. However, there is one thing that does stay the same and that is The Café Poca Cosa plate, which is a selection of three, mouth-watering entrée’s, selected by the chef, who decides what gets to go on each plate. Like a snowflake, no two plates are the same. My plate came with a breast of chicken, covered in a cream sauce made of red chile, chocolate, and wine, a grilled, shredded beef with a jalapeño chile and tomatillo sauce and a corn tamale pie, topped with a mango and cinnamon puree.

5) Montana Avenue - The menu is a delicious blend of updated comfort foods, taking its cue from the rich culinary traditions of Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona and California. A well chosen wine list will reflect a boutique selection from some of the finest American wineries and a unique specialty cocktail menu will feature one of a kind creations. The Rainbow trout and macaroni and cheese with the andouille sausage is simply to die for. At least that’s what I hear. I don’t remember.

Now, you’re probably wondering how two twenty-something’s without high-paying executive jobs could afford such places. And actually, I wondered about that too, since I didn’t pay for anything. Colette, wouldn’t let me. This was her idea, therefore, according to her, it was her tab to worry about. But still. It made me wonder how she could afford such an extravagance. That’s when she finally told me. We were at Montana Avenue, when Colette confesses that she was a stripper.

Colette had only been working as a topless performer for two weeks. It started after she quit her job at Vitamin World. Her boss, who used to be a local radio DJ, invited her to go see Spiderman 3, after closing the store one night, and Colette went obligingly. It wasn’t until the next day, that Colette regretted her decision. Her boss told her he had a great time and Colette knew he was hitting on her. So, before he could hit on her and sexually harass her, she quit. With no job and more than several bills to pay, Colette needed money. And fast.

The classifieds were chockfull of audition ad’s for strip clubs and topless bars. Sure it wasn’t as glamorous as Hollywood made it out to be, but it did help keep bread on the table and off the streets. That’s when Colette remembered that our mutual acquaintance, Devona Monet, who worked at TD’s West Club. She went in and immediately Devona got Colette a job as a waitress. Sure it wasn’t as much as Devona made, but it was a living. And the best thing was that Colette liked it. That’s when her boss took notice of her and asked Colette if she would like to try her hand at performing on stage. She was guaranteed at least $600 for one night, and the rest, as they say, is history.

So was the possibility that there could be anything romantic between us. At least I think so. After Colette confessed how she came into so much money, I didn’t know what to say. My silence reeked of confusion, disapproval, and judgment. I felt bad. And besides, it's not like The Amy Vanderbilt Complete Book of Etiquette didn’t have any pointers when a person confessed that they removed articles of clothing for strange people.

After dinner, my friend Maria called me up and suggested we go for a midnight snack at In N Out. After I told her everything about Colette and the fancy dining we had done, I realized, you can rave all you want about rich, fancy food, but when it comes to plain, good eating, there’s just nothing in the world like a simple restaurant like Applebee's or a simple meal, like a cheeseburger, French fries, and a strawberry shake.

when david met kathleen turner

Ok, so last week, when I was writing my latest post about my latest adventures around town, I realized I had way too many things to talk about. Things like the Centurion Casino Royale Party, my friend Madelaine’s birthday dinner, and of course, Colette. And if I had this many things to talk about, it probably meant that the work part of my life, you know, the boring part, was suffering. Ugh. Which explains my absence. That and the fact that something, awesomely cool has happened.

It all started two years ago when Mr. Scott Wolley, my English teacher showed the entire class the classic movie, Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? It was so dark and intense…I loved it. And so did Madelaine, who sat right next to me in class. So it only made sense that we both would go see the play when it came to town. And lo and behold, when the day finally came, I knew exactly who to call, once I got my free tickets from Broadway In Tucson.

The morning of the play, it seemed as if the entire city was in a frenzy over the arrival of Mrs. Kathleen Turner. The Broadway in Tucson staff was running around, like little children in the schoolyard, playing tag while we, at the flower shop, were preparing extravagant arrangements for Mrs. Kathleen Turner and entourage. It was so exciting to create something that would be appreciated and housed in the dressing room of a Hollywood legend. While, I was making Mrs. Kathleen Turner’s arrangement, I kept picturing how I would present the flowers to her and what I would say.

“Hello, Kathleen.” Too friendly.

“Hello, Mrs. Turner.” Too formal.

“Hello, Mrs. Kathleen Turner.” Too used.

“Hello, Mrs. Kathleen Magnificently-Opulent-Tremendously-Talented-Stupendously-Spectacularp-Gargantuan-Goddess of Film, Television and Stage Turner.” Perfect.

And what was even more perfect, was my plan to have her sign my DVD copy of Romancing the Stone and record my voicemail at the cast and crew party, which I made certain the staff of Broadway In Tucson invited me to. I had to meet her and get her autograph and voice on my phone. Imagine. Whenever somebody would call, I would have the one and only voice of Mrs. Jessica Rabbit telling all my friends and family to leave me a voicemail. Wow.

Later that night, me, Madelaine, and a couple of our friends sat in Row D, and watched a couple of couples play verbally, savage games against one another. It was terribly dramatic and oh so intense. Like an episode of Jerry Springer that you know you should turn away from, but cant help watch with amazement (God, I hope Edward Albee never hears me compare his work of art to low-class, trashy entertainment…) It was so surreal to see Mrs. Kathleen Turner and Bill Irwin (who played Mr. Lou Lou Who in How the Grinch Stole Christmas and Mr. Noodle in all those Elmo’s World videos…don’t ask how I know…just trust me) on stage instead of on the big screen, performing for us mere mortals.

After the play, Madelaine and I attended the cast party, at the historic Congress Hotel. It was the perfect setting for an intimate dinner with a celebrity. Walking across the marbled foyer into a room of rich, dark wood with , I felt like one of those old-time black and white movie stars. It’s the same feeling I get whenever I go to Disneyland and ride The Hollywood Tower of Terror. Soft lighting, smooth jazz, and delicious baby lamb chops. This was one big budget, for one big star. And speaking of big stars, I wondered where Mrs. Kathleen Turner was. It wasn’t until I was seated, that I realized I had just walked right by Mrs. Kathleen Turner’s table. For a big Hollywood legend, you’d think she’d walk around with her own lighting. You know, to shine and stand out in the crowd. I mean, I would. But there she was. Sitting across from me, at the next table over, looking all legendary and Hollywood, just like I imagined she would be. Here was my chance to meet some greatness.

But when I got up to meet Mrs. Kathleen Turner, so did Madelaine, my boss Alice, and her friend Julia, editor-in-chief of the local Arizona Jewish Post. Guess my meeting with Mrs. Kathleen Turner would have to be in groupie form. Ugh. There we were, not two feet away from Mrs. Kathleen Turner in stunned silence. That is until Julia broke the silence and asked Mrs. Kathleen Turner if she could bother her for an autograph. As Mrs. Kathleen Turner obliged, Julia then introduced her to Alice, as the lady who provided the snapdragons that were used on stage and the flowers that were placed in her dressing room. That’s when Madelaine got the bright idea to market Alice’s Downtown Flower Market using the simple slogan, “Flowers, as seen on stage with Mrs. Kathleen Turner,” which made Mary excited, which made Julia talk about possible advertising ideas, which made Mrs. Kathleen Turner annoyed. You could tell by her forced smile, she was not amused to hear everyone talk about a flower shop when she was standing right there, waiting to be worshipped. She even refused Madelaine’s request for a photo-op, saying she was tired. It was so humiliating. Was I the only one that knew how to act around a celebrity? Was I the only one who knew that when in the presence of a celebrity, you’re supposed to bow and speak only when spoken to?

And for a brief few moments, I lost all hope that I would ever get to shake hands with Mrs. Kathleen Turner or even get her to sign my DVD. It seemed as if it just wasn’t gonna happen. But then, thanks to the great support of my friends, I got my confidence back. Everyone at the cast party knew I was on a mission to get Mrs. Kathleen Turner to sign my DVD and when they saw that my first try had failed, they encouraged me to try again. After all, nobody gets to meet celebrities by sitting on their ass. Unless, of course, you have the TV set to Access Hollywood or the E! Network.

I had two choices. I could continue to sit and eat my skewered lamb chops, which were served on the same plate, by the same caterer, in the same intimate setting as Mrs. Kathleen Turner or, I could get up, walk right up to her, and have her sign my DVD and record my voicemail. And that’s exactly what I did.

ME: Mrs. Kathleen Turner, my name is David Tellez and I am a HUGE fan I loved you in The Man with Two Brains and Serial Mom, The Virgin Suicides, Chandler's Dad you are so amazingly terrific and I was wondering if you would be so kind as to honor me by signing my copy of Romancing the Stone I loved you in this movie because you are so incandescent and if you hold on real quick, let me just pull this cover out and oh my God, this is so embarrassing because my friend wanted me to ask you to do my voicemail, but never mind about that, thank you so much for doing this for me, you have no idea how much this means to me thank you, thank you, thank you...

Not once did I breathe or leave any room for punctuation or for Mrs. Kathleen Turner to get a word in edgewise. I didn’t even get a chance to ask Mrs. Kathleen Turner to record my voicemail. I was shaking the entire time, and I’m sure, Mrs. Kathleen Turner thought I was from the Make-A-Wish foundation. I even walked away, still bowing to her. Ugh. I was like one of those losers when they meet William Shatner at a Trekkie convention. But nonetheless, I got my DVD signed and I got to meet a big-name, classic celebrity. It doesnt get much twenty-something than that.

4 in the morning

The concert was…okay, wait, I don't want to oversell this. It was the greatest concert ever!

It all started with everyone asking me why I was going without them and when I reminded them that I was invited, they asked if I could somehow bump Colette, so that they could go instead. If I had known that a Gwen Stefani ticket had this much power, I would've bought several tickets, when they first went on sale, and made all my friends and family my personal slaves. With the entire greater Tucson area in the know that I was going to go see Gwen Stefani, I actually got a little excited. Even if it was with Confusing Colette.

Saturday morning, the day of the concert, I awoke to discover we had no ride to Phoenix. Colette had told me, instead of using her car, which was in desperate need of a tune-up, she was going to drive her dad's Firebird Convertible, for that nostalgic, riding-down-the-freeway-with-the-wind-in-our-hair-rock-n-roll kinda feeling. But as but at the last minute, her dad got into an argument with Colette's mother about, of all things, cheese and refused to let Colette or her mother drive the car.

So, with only hours before we had to be on our way, we had to find a way to get to the concert. I would have offered to drive, but everyone in my family was already using a car. My dad was using one for work, both my brothers used one the previous night, when they went out to prom and stayed the night at a hotel party, and my mom was using one to drive all the way to the Pima County Fair, where she would preach the word of God to all the fair-going heathens. It was like a sign that I shouldn't go. Like Karma was at full-time work or something.

Eventually though, after numerous phone calls and one breakdown (Colette's, not mine, which was actually a turn-on because who knew she wanted to go to Phoenix, with me, that badly?), we got a rental car. Why we didn't think of it earlier, I'm not sure, but whatever. And it was free, courtesy of this guy Colette knew, who she claimed, she could make him do anything. Anything. I'll admit it was a little weird when Colette told me how she flirted to get the car, but then again, this is the same girl that has made me forget what it feels like to be shocked.

By the time we got on the road, we only had a couple hours 'til showtime, which meant no stopping at any rest stops along the way, which meant I had to drive because Colette had to put on "her face." Ugh. Normally, I don't like to drive other people's cars on the off-chance I might crash it, but since I was a little upset about how Colette told me how she got the car and the fact that we were running late, I didn't even care.

Somewhere down the freeway, in a town time forgot, called Eloy, I think Colette sensed I was a little mad and she began to massage my right earlobe. Which kinda felt good, I guess. Truth be told, it was actually amazing. It was like she discovered a hidden weak-spot, I never knew I had. Her fingers were all over my ear and she told me she liked my lobes since they were soft and felt like putty, which was ironic since I felt like putty in her hands. By the time we got to Phoenix, I was gone. Who knew that it was a massage, and not music, that soothed the savage beast?

Traffic was brutal, as we tried to get on the off ramp to the concert. It was backed up for about a mile, with all the cars being bumper to bumper. Car radios were blasting music and excited concert-goers were just so pumped that they actually started getting out of their cars to dance and get the party started, right there on the freeway. So, of course, not wanting to look like law-abiding losers, Colette and I joined in the fun, practicing our moves before getting to the arena.

We missed the Lady Sovereign opening act, which wasn’t really a big deal, since neither Colette or I, had never really heard of her, but we were damned if we were gonna miss Akon and Gwen. And that’s when traffic cleared and we were on our way.

The entire crowd was pumped. Everyone was dancing and singing and just having a really good time. Plus, it gave me and Colette a chance to dance, which was a good thing. And gave me the idea that maybe Colette and I should go to more concerts or things where there’s lot’s of hip-shakin’ music. Hmmm. The highlight of the show was when Gwen Stefani ran off the stage and down the aisle, right past my seat, giving me the opportunity to touch her…boob. Life doesn’t get any better than when you’re given the chance to feel up a celebrity.

The Konvict Akon...I know you cant see him, but trust me that's him. Next time I wont take pictures with my Blackberry.

Gwen kicks it off (and takes it off...) with The Sweet Escape

Gwen cooks it up in her song, Yummy...and believe me...Gwen was yummy!

This is Gwen singing to me, Luxurious. Which could be a sign that Gavin might be on his way out...

And here she sings her new song, 4 in the Morning, which, if you havent gotten it yet, is what I based my title after. That and the fact at what happened at 4 in the morning.

After the concert, we headed back home since it was too late at night to go out and too early in the morning to find a suitable hotel. By the time we got back to Colette’s house, we were ready to settle down, just as the sun started to creep up over the mountains.

Colette asked where I wanted to sleep, her bed or the couch, and I opted for the couch. After all, I am a gentleman. Well, hardly, but we were too exhausted to do anything, anyways. Colette left me all alone in her room, saying she would be right back with a blanket and a pillow, but in girl talk, that meant she first had to remove her makeup, take a quick shower, and change into her pajama’s. Maybe she was lying about her energy. Hmmm.

Seconds passed and I couldn’t wait for my bedgear any longer, so, I fell fast asleep in Colette’s bed. I’m not exactly sure how long I was asleep for, but when I woke up, I found myself holding Colette, like the way I used to hold all my stuffed toys when I was four. It was just like my dream. It was a perfect moment. Me, in a black T-shirt and dirty denim jeans and her in a pink baby-T and matching boy shorts, cuddled close with the smell of blackberries on her neck. We could have easily been on the cover of a best-selling romantic novel. Maybe one, entitled, “When You Wish Upon a Star…”

We woke up together, a couple of hours later, but were still too tired to get out of bed. So I just laid my head in Colette’s lap, while she played with my earlobes…

dirty rotten scoundrels

The other day I went to go see the Broadway play of Dirty Rotten Scoundrels. I had never heard of it, but according to Hadassah, it was based on a really funny movie with Sir Michael Caine and Steve Martin and since I was already on a Broadway musical kick, I figured, why not? The play was really funny and it had an unexpected twist at the end that made me wish there was a second part to it. Needless to say I loved it. Especially the fact that dirty, rotten scoundrels who swindled people out of money, could be so loveable and charming. It reminded me of that one time when I borrowed a thousand dollars in cash from a not-so-secret admirer and went on a road trip with a friend, only to have them turn all psycho and more obsessed with me. Which actually happened in the play to Lawrence Jamieson, except his crazy admirer eventually left him to be with his manservant. Too bad I don’t have one of those.

Unlike Lawrence, I was all for paying my not-so-secret admirer back, fully. But when they got too demanding and too Glenn Close, á la Fatal Attraction, well, I had to, needed to, ignore them, which wasn’t too hard, considering the fact the only way they could get a hold of me was through my cell phone, which I promptly disconnected the moment I returned from my trip. Of course, from an unbiased viewer, I know it looks like I took advantage of my secret admirer, swindling them for their money. But from a friends point of view, it was just another, roll-your-eyes-shake-your-head-and-put-your-hand-on-your-hip, “Oh, that David,” kinda thing, causing me to wonder if I got off scotch-free as a dirty, rotten scoundrel because I retold the story only among friends.

Were all dirty rotten scoundrels at one time or another, some less dirty, others more rotten, but scoundrels nonetheless. We all have moments in our life, where our actions haunt us, and we wonder out loud to our friends, why we did it in the first place. And I wondered if Colette, ever had a moment like that, about me. I mean, considering all the mixed signals she gave me, she should have had several moments, but that didn’t necessarily mean she did. Her newest mixed signal was an invitation to the upcoming Gwen Stefani concert in Phoenix…and one night in a ritzy hotel.

COLETTE: We should get a room with a Jacuzzi.
ME: Um. Yeah…that sounds good. I wonder if they have Jacuzzi rooms with double beds...
COLETTE: Double beds? Ok, Rockefeller. Don’t you know it’s cheaper if we get just the one bed?

Yeah. And it’s also cheaper if we didn’t get the Jacuzzi. Didn’t she know that? Such a scandalous scoundrel.

As luck would have it, Colette’s call waiting kicked in, leaving me a few moments to gather and collect my thoughts. Which lasted for about 15 seconds, because Colette was soon back on the line with me…talking about her “cute boss,” who apparently invited her to the movies. Ugh. Here we go again. Or is it…“went again?” Whatever. The point is, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to deal with Colette and her never-ending mixed signs. I needed to get away from reality and really think about whether or not I really wanted to travel 200 miles in a car with Colette, to go a concert. Ok, I guess it wasn’t just any ol’ concert, but still, it would be with Mrs. Mix ‘N’ Mashed Signs.

So, Hadassah invited me to two parties to get my mind off of things: a kegger at her house and Club Crawl. Club Crawl is this all night party, held Downtown, where all the bars and clubs open their doors for a small charge and you get to see, or rather, hear, over 100, different local bands. I’ve wanted to go, ever since I was a freshman in high school and saw the advertisements posted all over 4th Avenue and Downtown, but since it was a 21 and over event, I’ve had to wait with longing despair. But not anymore. It was the perfect escape. Or, if I was Gwen Stefani, the sweet escape.

It was all so wildly entertaining and fun. Club Crawl reminded me of Vegas, and how one could walk the streets with a drink in one hand and a “Rock On!” symbol in the other. Except this was Tucson, which meant I actually saved money and didn’t have to deal with drunken, foreign tourists. Just my drunken friends. Who kinda got a little too drunk. So we headed back to Hadassah’s Keg Party, which doesn’t really make sense, now that I think about it soberly, but at the time it was the absolute best solution. And speaking of Absolut, it was the preferred choice of drink at the party, rather than the beer, which meant this was one high-class college affair.

Unfortunately, the high-class affair was crashed by these dirty, rotten scoundrels, and that’s when somebody suggested a change of scenery. Like a strip club. I thought it was a most brilliant idea ever, and so I followed the voice and ended up leaving with my friend Nikki. As it turns out, we were the only ones who thought a nice strip club would be good for us, so together, we headed off to TD’s West Club. When we got there, we found out one of Nikki’s friends was having his birthday party there, in the VIP room, so not only were we granted free access, we were given unlimited drinks. And it was during my second drink, that I heard somebody calling my name.

It was Devona Monet, one of the smartest and most creative people I knew, back in high school. We had yearbook class together and I really thought she would be going places. But here she was. Smiling and waving to me. Topless. In a red, string bikini stuffed with dollar bills. It’s kinda awkward when a stripper friend gives you a hug, instead of a lap dance, because you wonder if the “Don’t Touch” rule still applies. After a brief, “Hi! How are you?” and another turn at the pole, Devona came back and talked to me catching up on old times, with everyone wondering the same thing: How did David get such a hot, topless girl to talk to him?

Meanwhile, back at the party house, someone, in a hazy state of mind, thought it wouldn’t be a true party without somebody getting married. And since Hadassah‘s friend Ruby was just ordained online through a Celestial priest, everyone figured, why not? The bride wore a cotton fleece blanket throw as a veil and carried a half-empty bottle of Bud Light while the groom carried a martini glass ring in his pocket. According to every drunken witness, it was a beautiful ceremony that ended with a lot of cheering, a lot of toasting, and a lot of noise. Which woke the neighbors, who called the police, who came to the house that Hadassah built, er, lived in.

Nikki and I got back to Hadassah’s house, the moment the police were walking up towards the front door, with all the surrounding neighbors standing outside, wondering what all the commotion was. We drove around the block once and parked far away from the house, for fear of being included with the scoundrels in the house. Walking up the driveway, the neighbor asked if we were the ones making noise, but we assured her it wasn’t us as we were just walking towards the house. Duh. All of a sudden, somebody threw a glass bottle in our direction, causing the neighbor to scream and yell out, “They’re after me!”

Turns out it wasn’t a beer bottle. It was somebody punching through Hadassah’s bedroom window to dispose a bag of weed, but then realized, the cops would probably find it outside. Nikki and I snuck in through the side and when we got in, we could see the house was in total disarray. Everyone was hiding in the bedrooms to give the illusion that the house wasn’t in full party mode as the neighbors led the police to believe. Which would’ve worked, if only the keg wasn’t right in the middle of the kitchen and the fact that Hadassah and her roommate covered the entire house with plastic, for easy cleaning, later on.

After the police left and tagged the house and everyone left, I fell asleep on the couch and had a really, really weird dream. . I dreamt that Ruby and I got married, only none of our friends were there, just her entire family and my mom and dad. Although there were a lot of people, I felt all alone and wondered what exactly was I doing. I wasnt ready to make such a big commitment, especially with someone I hardly knew. If I was going to make a commitment, it would have to be with someone I knew and it would have to start of real slow. So I went home. As I layed in my bed, Colette just sorta appeared. We got closer…and started to spoon…our bodies pressed close together…our legs entwining…then BOOM! I woke up, before I could get to the best part. If there was a best. And it was exactly that “if” part that made me take a chance, and accept Colette’s invitation. After all, as John Greenleaf Whittier once said, For all sad words of tongue and pen, the saddest are these, 'It might have been'.

the heartless homeless

A couple weeks ago, I went to see the Broadway play Rent with my good friend Hadassah. We had gotten tickets, courtesy of Broadway In Tucson, through a business trade. We provice flowers for the actors, backstage and they provide us with free opening night tickets and an invite to the cast party.

And then a funny thing happened on the way to the show. We ran into a homeless man, who wanted some money, but we ignored him thinking the same thing: he's just gonna spend it on booze. But then I thought, living life on the streets cant be easy so who am I to tell him he shouldn't have booze? And maybe he didn’t even want booze. Maybe he wanted a nice warm sandwich, layered high with turkey and ham, Swiss and provolone cheese and maybe an exotic mustard or two, to kick it up a notch. So I thought maybe a nice turkey sandwich and a bottle of malt liquor would be nice. But by that time, the homeless man got tired of us just standing there and barked at us to stop staring at him. So unbelievably rude and so not the way to get money. So we left the starving and sober homeless man and made our way to the play.

For the next two and a half hours we were enthralled with a fascinating story of eight twenty-something friends living in New York, dealing with AIDS, love, and most importantly the homeless. Although real life homeless don’t sing as much as they do in Rent, they cried for our compassion and support, pretty much the same way. And it made me feel bad that I ignored one while learning about them. From then on, I vowed to do better. After all, I did have some experience with them, so really how hard could it be to become friends with one? I would soon find out.

Directly across from Alice’s Flower Shop, in the lobby of the Frontier Building, was Kitty’s Shoe Shine Stand. Ms. Kitty was an odd lady with long fingernails that looked more like claws and an outrageous bouffant hairstyle that covered the sides of her face and made her look more like a lion than a human. Combined with her prance-like walk and the fact that she extended her eye line with black mascara, like she was Cleopatra, made Ms. Kitty even more cat-like. And weird. Her entire personality gave us enough reason to mock her and laugh behind her back. I mean, who wouldn’t laugh at a fifty-something that wears low cut tops and shakes her old, leathered breasts, to show she “still got’s it,” as she shines shoes? But it wasn’t just her sun/age-spotted breasts or the fact that she bought shoes at thrift stores and tried turning a profit for them by displaying them on plastic milk carton crates, that made us wonder about her. It was that she would hire homeless men to work for her. And then she would take them into her home, giving them room and board. And then she would sleep with them,.

Of course, no one knew the men that worked for her were homeless. We just thought they were gross when they picked food out of the trash and ate it. Jimmy was such a case in point. He had long grey hair and liked to stare off into space, wondering about...actually, I’m not sure what homeless people wonder about. Maybe a nice, fancy Thanksgiving Day dinner in front of a roaring fire place? Or it could have been the simple fact that Jimmy was stoned, since he liked to have a joint twice a day. Some might say, Jimmy had a good life. He had a nice warm bed and a bed partner that would perform unspeakably filthy acts of love on him(that’s one conversation I could have done without, during my lifetime on earth!). He learned a trade, had a job, and was now able to buy cigarettes from the store, rather than pick them out of the ashtrays. But earlier last week, Jimmy’s dreams fell apart.

According to Chamo, the cook who worked next door at the The Jungle Square Restaurant, Jimmy stole $500 from Ms. Kitty and her car and went on a wild road trip to God only knows where. When he came back, he told Ms. Kitty that his brother was in the hospital and he needed the money to help pay for his bills. Classic drug-addict excuse. Still, she forgave him…until Jimmy’s brother, Timmy, came to town. That’s when Ms. Kitty found out Timmy was never in the hospital and that Jimmy had lied to her. Duh. Before you could say “Out on the street!” Ms. Kitty kicked Jimmy out of her house and threw him, well, out on the street. He begged and pleaded for his job back. He loved her and proclaimed it in the lobby of the Frontier Building, for all the world to hear. He even threw a leather bag in her face, hoping to knock some sense into her. But nothing worked. She was done with him. She was done with all his lies and his sex. And when she demanded back the boots he was wearing, because she could still turn a profit for them, we all knew it was over.

Two days later, Ms. Kitty picked up another stray. He was filthy, disgusting and oh, so vile. Had a stench that went on for miles. He wore a thick bandana across his head and cuffed his boots. His teeth were grey and yellow and his hair was dark and oily. He looked like he had just come back from a Pirates of the Caribbean screen test, as Pirate Number Five, and we thought of calling him “Bummy Depp.” But according to my Boss Alice, that was blaspheme against the hottest man in the world, Johnny Depp. Whatev. The point was, it wasn’t until Injun Joe (his real name) started working for Ms. Kitty that we found out all her past employees were homeless men. The moment I found out, I wondered if this was maybe God’s way of giving me a challenge. I had wanted to be friendly with the homeless and now I had my chance.

On his second day of work, Injun came up to me and asked if he could borrow the flower shop phone. I was beyond thrilled to give him the phone, with my blessing. I didn’t know why he needed it for, but it made me feel good for lending out a helping hand. That is, until I heard who he was speaking to. For the next ten minutes, Injun Joe spoke to a buddy of his and talked about how good life was. He had food, a bed, and “a nice piece of ass.” Ew. Calling Ms. Kitty and her dimpled thighs, “a nice piece of ass” made me want to puncture my eardrums and gouge out my eyes. Struggling to hold down my throw up, I waited for the phone to return. When it did, Injun Joe asked me if I would make a crank call to Ms. Kitty, telling her our sink overflowed and that the water had made its way to the shoe stand, ruining all her shoes. Not only was it the stupidest thing I ever heard, it was the most immature thought a grown man could ever come up with. But he was a homeless man, so maybe he didn’t know better. I would just have to teach him. Some people were called to save whales. Some were called to help children learn how to read. I was called to befriend the homeless.

At lunchtime, I asked Injun Joe if he wanted anything to eat, since our shop had credit at Mike’s Coffee Shop and he gladly accepted a Chicken Bacon Avocado sandwich. Then, while I was working, he went back to the coffee shop and ordered a Mocha Latte, a strawberry smoothie, and a chocolate fudge brownie. On our credit. Feed a man a sandwich and he will eat for a day. Teach him that you have credit at a local coffee shop and he will feed his lady friend and himself desert. After promising to pay us back later, I wondered if maybe I was doing something wrong. I mean, I was trying to be kind. I was trying to be friendly. Why then did I feel like I was being taken advantage of?

The final nail that broke the camels back (or is it the final straw in the coffin?) happened when I was trying to help a customer and Injun Joe came back behind the counter, making sad puppy eyes with a whimpering sound as he held out his hand and began to “dial” a number. I looked at him for a few brief moments in disbelief that a grown man would try and pull off such a stunt. And while I was trying to help a customer. It was beyond rude and I ignored him while I finished with my customer, who gave me a “glad I don’t work with that mess” look. He stood there, sniveling, hoping I would I knew exactly what Injun Joe wanted. But I was too mad to give it to him. He wanted to use the phone? There was one down the street, next to the public library for all I cared.

I wasn’t mad. And I’ll tell you why I was mad. Because I wasn’t mad. How did I let someone like Injun Joe get to me? I mean, I’ve dealt with homeless people before, but are there just some that are hopeless?

love, twenty-something style

How can you tell when someone is interested in you? Since no one likes to be rejected or even give the slightest hint of interest to a person without their ego being completely destroyed, it seems as though it would be a good idea to understand the signs of attraction, before putting your heart on the line, right? But, just what are the telltale signs?

The reason I ask is because lately there is the girl I've been, well, I guess you can call it "seeing." Yeah. I mean, we’re not exactly dating, but we have gone out a couple of times or so. So, I think that qualifies as “seeing." Yeah. It's just complicated. Definitely. Some of you may know her as "Prom Date Gone Wrong." Others may know her as "The Girl That's Never Seen The Movie Breakfast at Tiffany's." But most everyone knows her as Colette.

Lately, Colette and I have been talking. A lot. Nothing in particular, just, you know, good ol' fashioned talking. But the thing is, though, I cant figure her out. Her signs are all over the place, making it hard to decipher if whether or not she sees me as potential boyfriend material or as nothing more than just a friend.
I asked my friend Celina what she thought and she thought she had the answer. It went all the way back to Valentine's Day, when Colette had me a delicious dinner. According to Celina, who was an active card carrying member of the dating club, making someone a meal is a sign that you care for the person and you want to show them your love in a creative and culinary way.

See, Celina had been seeing this guy Josh for a couple of months. It started off as a movie here, a dinner there, but then soon, things got serious, and she wondered if their relationship would progress further than "dating." The fateful day came when Celina wondered what she was gonna do for dinner one night and Josh came over and made her a wonderful dinner of macaroni and cheese and chicken nuggets. Sure, it wasn't anything fancy, but the thought of Josh actually preparing dinner for her, was a sign that sent Celina soaring to Cloud 9 and beyond.

So maybe Colette's cooking was a sign. I mean, if it worked in Celina’s favor, it was bound to work in mine, right? But then what about the other signs?

When Colette told me she wanted to hang out and spend more time with me, that was a friend sign.

When Colette said it was because there was something about me that was really good, that was a girlfriend sign.

At least that's what my friend Hadassah said. She was the girl, famously involved with two guys at the same time; the lawyer, Bry, who worked upstairs in the Frontier Building and Guy, the cousin of a friend who was an all around nice guy. With the lawyer, the relationship was hot and heavy, but with Guy, it was sweet and innocent, making it that much harder for Hadassah to choose. She told me, she was waiting for one of them to tell her, what Colette had told me, that being with her was unbelievable and without her, life was unimaginable. Until then, she would stick to her infamous pros and cons list.

But then it happened. Guy found out about Bry, through a late-night drunken phone call placed by Hadassah's roommate. It was bound to happen, sooner or later, but still, I couldn't help but feel sorry for Hadassah. She thought she had it all figured out. Turns out she didn't. When she finally heard what she wanted to hear, it was followed with something she never wanted to hear: "It's over."

Meanwhile, across town, I was hearing something I didn’t want to hear. Colette had called me and asked if I wanted to take a trip with her to Phoenix. It seemed innocent enough, until I realized she wanted to spend TWO whole days there, which meant, we would have to stay the night.

COLETTE: Oh! And remember that one time we went to Phoenix to shop for my Prom Dress? And we were both in the dressing room, and I was modeling for y--…hold on, someone’s on the other line.

As Colette clicked over, I thought to myself, “Remember? How could I forget that day?” So far, it was one of the top highlights of my life, because, well...let’s just say, it was a really good day. But why did she bring it up? What the hell did that mean? When Colette clicked back, she told me it was her ex that had called. Great. As she told me what he wanted, I realized I would have to remove the boyfriend cap, and start playing the friend role.

COLETTE: He’s just no good for me. I have to keep reminding myself that when he calls. It’s just…the sex was amazing, you know? It felt so good when he came inside me.

Friend? I don’t even know. Slut? Oh hell yeah. I mean, I knew she had a past and that there were guys before me, but come on!

The next day, Easter Sunday, I went to church. Instead of the same ol’ message that most everybody heard year after year, our church put on a musical rendition of Romeo and Juliet, set during Biblical times. A Roman guard named Marcus and a Jewish girl named Hannah were two, star-crossed lovers who were madly in love, but knew they could never be, since they came from two completely different worlds. Our church went all out for this play and actually had sheep and horses roaming down the aisles. Talk about losing yourself in the story. However, unlike the classic tale of Romeo and Juliet, nobody died…well, except for Jesus, but then he came back to life in the end. And throughout the play, everybody asked the same question. Hannah asked, “Could Marcus be the one?” and Marcus asked, “Could Hannah be the one?” The Jews and the Romans asked, “Could Jesus be the Messiah?” while I asked, “Who’s gonna clean all this horse shit?” No, I’m kidding. But seriously, how do you know if a person could be the one?

whats love got to do, got to do with it?

If you’re wondering why you can’t see the last post, I had posted on Friday, there’s a legitimate reason for that. I do NOT want the aforementioned party to read what I wrote, because then there would be an awkward tension between us. Believe me, I know. I’m all about the awkward moments, always trying to avoid them but somehow managing to get in them.

Like last Tuesday, for example. My friend Maria was looking at her phone bill, when she noticed that they had included her father’s phone bill in the same envelope as well. She casually looked over the call logs and noticed that there was one number in particular that had been dialed quite a number of times. Being of the curious mind, Maria called the number and was shocked to hear a woman’s voice on the other line. She immediately told her mother and together they investigated the strange number and the even stranger woman. Turns out, Maria’s dad was having an affair. For the past two years, he was seeing another woman, something that had turn from a casual one-time fling to something really serious. Maria was devastated. Here was a man with a devoted wife and four kids at home, believing they were truly a happy family and…it was beyond sad.

Maria called and shared this shocking and intimate secret, asking if I could come over since she didn’t know what to do for her uncontrollable and heartbroken mother or how to keep her younger, unknowing siblings away from all the mess. I was unsure too, but I went, taking a tub of ice cream and a basketball. Maria’s father came home late that day. The moment he walked in through the door, all hell broke loose as Maria, her older brother, and her mother yelled at him, demanding an answer. It was really awkward, watching this grown man break down into tears, wondering when and where his life went so horribly wrong. It was like the proverbial car accident on the highway. And I had a front seat viewing. I didn’t know if this was my cue to leave or not, so I sat in stony silence, trying to blend in with the furniture. Which was kinda hard, seeing as my clothes aren’t made out of furniture fabric.

Two days later, Maria called me up again, asking me again for support. Not knowing how to handle a situation like theirs, Maria and her mother went to the church asking a Father and a Nun for help. Reminding the devastated duo about the power of forgiveness, they both advised Maria and her mom to let the adulterous adult back into the house. And they did. But not long after, Maria’s dad left again, which is why she called me. She needed someone to figuratively hold her hand while she went to go get her dad back. Turns out, the woman he was having an affair with, lived not two blocks down from Maria and her family. And outside her house, was Maria’s dad’s truck. I sat in the car, waiting, while Maria and her brother tried talking to their dad, asking him to come home and to stop hurting their family. He declined, apologizing, but making very clear that he had made his final decision.

It made me mad. I know it wasn’t even my dad, but just the fact that a person could dismiss an entire family and an entire life so easily was beyond upsetting. Her family was in shambles and obviously confused because two days later, Maria’s dad came back and the family accepted him back in. I didn’t get it. How could they welcome such a cruel man back and call him dad, all over again? Was there something I was missing? Maria said, it was because deep down, way, way deep down, they still loved him. But how was it possible to love somebody who hurts you so badly?

Later that day, my Aunt Cassandra got arrested. Talk about your awkward reading, huh? Somewhere west of Tucson, in a little small town called Ajo, my Aunt was pulled over for speeding, but ended up in jail on three counts of marijuana. How embarrassing. If you’re gonna get arrested for drugs, do something high class and designer. But in all seriousness, it was actually kinda scary. With my aunt put away behind bars and a hearing set for this Thursday, our entire family’s world turned completely upside down. First and foremost, there was my little cousins to think about. What would happen to Bianca and Anthony? Their dad didn’t want them, as he made it perfectly clear several times when he divorced my aunt, several years back and no one in my family was financially capable of adding two extra growing mouths to their own family.

That’s when my mother formed an impromptu meeting with all her brothers and sisters, minus one, and told everyone that this would be the one thing that would either break us or make us stronger as a family. Yes, we would have to make a lot of sacrifices, but that’s just what families and friends do in times of need. They help each other out. They’re just there for each other. And after spending a weekend watching my cousins, in what can only be described as a formulaic Garry Marshall movie, I understood Maria‘s family decision just a little better. Despite the fact that my aunt left my cousins so abruptly, they still loved their mother. Kinda like the way a dog still loves you, even after you punish it for chewing on all the furniture. No matter how many times they disappoint you, there are certain members in our family that we just cant let go of. The same goes for certain friends and other loved ones. It’s not so much a matter of forgiving as it is just love. Good ol’ fashioned, unconditional, I-don’t-know-why love.

the science of stress

In life, there are many questions that will always remain a mystery. Questions like, if a tree falls in the forest and there is no one around, does it make a sound or who in the hell thought it would be a great idea to put Mariah Carey in another movie? But the most puzzling question I wonder about is, why do we still have science fair projects in grade school?

It was science fair season at Gallenger Middle School and my cousin Katrina called me up and asked if I could help her put together an award winning science project. I still don't know why she asked me, since science has never been my strong point. I remember my seventh grade chemistry teacher, Mrs. Cannon, would always have me observe the science experiments we did in class instead of participate, because I broke too many mercury thermometers and used too much sand on the chemicals I accidently spilled. So I was kinda honored that my cousin thought of me, when she was planning her science fair project. Me. Mr. Science Guy. Who'da thunk? Of course now, I wish I hadn't been so eager to help.

As it turns out, my little 6th grade cousin is a perfectionist freak to the tenth power of nerdom. And her science project had to reflect just that. Katrina's teacher had handed out an example of how a science board should look like and Katrina was determined to make an exact replica. She had to. It's what the teacher wanted. It's what she expected. If you didn't do it her way, you'd end up like Jennifer Bincini.

Jennifer Bincini was a past Gallenger student who tried to add her own sense of style and flair to her science fair project and according to urban science fair lore, got an F for putting her procedure on the right side of her board, rather then on the left. I assured Katrina that nothing of the sort was possible, since you couldn't get points knocked off for creativity, but she wouldn't hear of it. She couldn't hear of it, because in the back of her mind, all she could hear was her teacher telling her to do it exactly as shown in the example handout. Or else. What the "or else..." was, I wasn't sure. All I knew was that it brought tears upon tears of fear to my cousin's face.

I wondered just what kind of facist was this woman that needed to have perfect science projects. Was she some kind of Nobel prize winner that expected her students to produce mind blowing presentations out of rubber cement and construction paper?

Either way, since I had already told katrina I would help her, I knew I would have to deal with the psychotic episodes that would surely follow. And they did. When I accidently glued her list of materials on the less "vibrant" side of the pink construction paper, she went crazy. When I arranged the title in a fun and curvy way, she had a ballistic outburst. In truth, I probably should have had her committed against her will. If she was acting like this at age 12, imagine at age 30. I would be saving her from a life of un-needed stress. But then again, it would have made the next family reunion a little awkward.

It took six diapers, five vicodin, four crying outbursts, three poster boards and two whole weeks but we finally got that project done. It was the most strenuous project I had ever participated in, that I had actual tears of joy when my cousin finally left my house.

I needed a break. I needed to escape to a place where I could be at peace and collect what was left of my sanity. My salvation came when my good friend Madelaine called me a few days later.

Madelaine had planned to spend her entire spring break visiting the beautifully, historic country of Spain. It was a total dream come true.The only trouble was, her passport had not come in. Somewhere down the processing line, someone forgot to enter her information in the computer, which meant her passport would not be ready on time, as promised. Madelaine flipped. But unlike Katrina, she had good reason to. Her only chance of getting to the country, besides selling herself on the black market for white slavery, was to go to L.A. and plead her case at the Regional Passport Agency. Only then would she know if she would be visiting Spain. And the person she asked to accompany on this impromptu trip to L.A.? Me.

So what I guess I'm trying to say is...if you're between the ages of awesome and old fart, will be in the L.A. area between now and Tuesday, and know of a really great restaurant, look me up! You have my email...

speak up

During my stay in fabulous Las Vegas, I ran into a building. Yes, an actual building. The M&M’s Store to be exact. I, of course, blame it on the 4 ft. drink I had hanging around my neck, because when you think about it, you really cant be held responsible for your actions when you’ve consumed that much alcohol. Which was really too bad, since I really needed someone to blame for my big fat toe, which had gotten bigger and fatter and turned an ugly color of bruise.

Turns out, I had aggravated an ingrown toenail, which was a direct result a bad cutting. I didn’t even know what an ingrown toenail was. All I knew was that it hurt. And it was really gross. Eventually, I made my way to a podiatrist, and I would’ve gone sooner, but I wanted a really good doctor to work on my toe. So I waited, until L.A. based podiatrist, Dr. Evans, came to Tucson.

He was supposed to be the best, but the reality was, he was the most painful doctor I ever had. Almost as if he was inexperienced. He examined my toe by squeezing it and poking it with his finger, and even though I wanted to scream, I kept my mouth shut. I figured I was supposed to be feeling pain, with my toenail cutting into my toe and whatnot. Plus, he was from L.A., and all the best doctors are in L.A. so he had to have known what he was doing. I think. At least, that’s what I kept telling myself, even after he stabbed my toe eight times with a needle to numb it.

I had my drastic toe surgery the week of Valentine’s, which is why I was thankful that President’s Day fell on the following Monday. I had the day off, and I needed it. I had been working overtime on a bad toe, which totally threw off my balance and left me looking like Bambi, after birth. I didn’t complain about it though, because I knew I had to work either way, so what would be the point? My film director friend, Jeff didn’t see it that way. He said, “When things happen to us, we do one of two things. We talk about it. Or we don’t. And for the most part, it’s the things that we don’t talk about, that we should.” I totally rolled my eyes at that one. It was a swollen toe for Pete’s sake, not a

But maybe Jeff had a point. Maybe I did need to say something. After all, if humans were capable of making mistakes, then wouldn’t doctors, who were human too, be capable of mistakes as well? Even the L.A. ones?

Later that day, at my follow-up appointment with Dr. Evans, I wondered how the treatment of my toe would go. If I felt pain, I would say something. I would speak up and turn a wrong into a right. But if it didn’t hurt, did that mean, I couldn’t complain about the last visit? I hunched over my toe to inspect Dr. Evans work as he pulled out what appeared to be, a mini grapefruit scooper and began to scoop away at the dead skin debris that had accumulated between my nail and the skin, in the space that he had created earlier. With each scoop, a shock of pain went through my entire body. It was so severe that I could feel tears start to form. I kept saying "Ow! Ow! Ow!" all to no avail. It was like having that bad dream where you’re being tied down to a pair of train tracks, by Snidely K. Whiplash, and you scream for help, but nobody can hear you because, of course, it‘s a black and white silent movie, so you scream louder and louder and louder until at the very last second you wake up in a cold sweat. Except this wasn't a dream. This was real. And so was my pain. And then in one swift movement it was all done. Dr. Evans had touched a nerve, that must’ve been linked to my left arm, because up it went, upside Dr. Evans’ head. I had hit him. I didn’t know what to say. I was shocked and so was he. We sat for a few moments in silence until Dr. Evans said, “Ok, I think we’re done here. I’ll just finish up here and you can go.”

I could go? Just like that? No follow-up or anything? Last time I saw Dr. Evans he told me I would have to go in at least another two times. Even my paperwork said the same thing. Was he really mad that I hit him? Was he really that petty? I mean, he had to expect some sort of repercussion after hearing me tell him he was hurting my foot and ignoring my cry. Right? Maybe speaking out wasn’t the right thing to do. It cost me a third appointment, despite the fact that I tried to point out that he had said otherwise. It was just not my day. I should’ve just stayed quiet and let the doctor do what he knew best.

But, as I later learned, maybe speaking out is good. It happened the following Thursday, during the Tucson Rodeo Parade. Over half the entire city had the day off and traveled to South Tucson to sit on the curb and watch the world’s oldest and largest non-motorized parade. There were horses and cowboys galore, including the world famous Tucson Arizona Boys Chorus, which I used to be a part of when I was younger. You know, before I realized that wearing sparkly bandana’s while singing show tunes was not the road I wanted to head down. Unfortunately, I couldn’t enjoy it all, as I had to work later on that day. Which is why I left early, to make sure I would and could beat the traffic.

About five minutes after I left, five-year-old, Brielle Boisvert came riding down the street on a beautiful white horse, waving and smiling to the crowd. And right in front of my family, is where a tragedy happened. A run-away wagon bumped into Brielle’s horse, throwing her up into the air. As she landed onto the asphalt, her horse trampled over her, along with the run-away wagon and the horses pulling it. My Aunt Sylvia was the first person who rushed out to Brielle’s side and held her hand, telling her it would be alright as her mother and sisters, got off their horses and pushed through the crowd to the fallen cowgirl.

It all happened so fast, that it was almost hard to believe, hundreds of people witnessed the death of a little girl. It was all so terribly tragic as everyone discussed what they saw and what had happened to both the police and to the news crew. The only person who wasn’t talking was my Aunt Sylvia. Every time she tried to talk about it, she would burst out into an emotional flow of tears as she realized that Brielle probably died right there on the street and not on the way to the hospital, as it was reported. The case is still ongoing as police are asking the community for any and all leads as to what could have spooked the horses that trampled Brielle. I feel that my Aunt Sylvia knows a lot about what happened, since she was right there in those last crucial moments and was taking pictures of everything. But she’s not saying anything. And I don’t know how to convince her otherwise.

the young and the heartless

It's weird. When it comes to holidays, images of snowmen, Santa Claus' and baby Jesus' usually conjure up feelings of warmth and love. So it's surprising that when a holiday that specializes in hearts and being in love, does the opposite.

It all started the Thursday before Valentines Day. I had woken up with a crink in my neck, Anna Nicole Smith was found dead in an embarrassing, cheesy hotel, and my good friend Martha, just informed me that she was moving away. Before I could even get all the details, I immediately told Martha I would take her out to lunch, for one last meal, one last conversation, one last goodbye. Of course, as luck would have it, I left my brand-new, black, Water Buffalo Double Billfold Coach wallet, from Las Vegas at home, so I couldn't take my friend out to lunch. I asked my co-worker and friend, Adrianna, if I could borrow a couple bills and to my surprise she opened the cash register.

ADRIANNA: Just write an I-O-U. I do it sometimes when I need to borrow some money.
ME: But doesn't that make us short at the end of the day?
ADRIANNA: Well, I put it back the next day. Alice understands if we need to borrow a few dollars. Just so long as you pay her back. It's almost like petty cash.

As it turns out, Alice actually did understand. Sorta. What she couldn't understand, though, is why I didn't ask her, personally. And neither did Adrianna, as she shook her head at me in disappointment. In hindsight, taking money out of the register, wasn't probably the best thing to do, despite the fact that Adrianna did it on a regular basis and that my old friend was moving away, who, as it turns out, wasn't really moving away per se, just leaving her job, downtown. But nonetheless, it happened.

And though I was clearly in no situation to point the finger, I couldn't understand why Adrianna didn't say anything to back up my actions. Wasn't there an unwritten rule in the workforce, that co-workers had to stand together, united against the oppressive and tyrannical figure that was our boss? Where was the love? I'll admit, my punishment was very lenient Alice forgot about the whole missing money issue within a matter of minutes, but still, not having the support of my co-worker and friend really bothered me. It bothered me even more, when a similar incident happened later on that day.

A customer came to the shop and bought an arrangement of orange gladiolas to be sent to one of the offices upstairs. It wasn’t until after she left that I realized the arrangement was being sent to Bry, the attorney my friend Hadassah was seeing. Otherwise known, as the other man playing the part in her theory of dating. But flowers from another woman? I had to tell her. After all, she was in the middle of a Pros and Cons list, debating whether or not she would go steady with Bry or Guy. This was a factor that had to be included. Because, as Adrianna said, "You're her friend. If the tables were turned and it were you, wouldn't you want to know?"

And I would, if I were in that situation, but, as it turns out, I cant. Or at least, I'm not supposed to. Somewhere down the floral business history line, some stupid florist came up with the rule that customer relations and business with a florist must be kept secret with the utmost trust. Alice explained to me, in front of a disapproving Adrianna, that what a customer does with flowers they purchase, is there own business and not ours. For example, if a guy came to buy flowers for his mistress, knowing full well we knew his wife, we could not tell the wife. No matter what. For a half second, I kinda wished Alice's husband was having an affair, so she could see that sometimes rules have to be broken. But the thing I wished the most was, that Adrianna would actually say something, instead of leaving me out to hang dry. She made me feel guilty for keeping the information to myself. And true, I probably would've still said something to Hadassah, regardless if Adrianna said anything at all, but the fact that she did and didn't say anything about it made me wonder if she was just out to get me. Or was I just being paranoid about the whole thing?

Three days and many, many pre-made Valentine arrangements later, Adrianna and I were at Alice's mother's house, in a garage that we had converted into a freezer. Alice and her friend, Jaz, had gone to pick up more red, pink, and white roses and carnations, leaving Adrianna and me behind with two Catholic school PTA mom's and two drag queens, to get ready for our biggest day of the year. Well, one drag queen and one belly dancer. Apparently, when it came to hiring volunteers to help us out with the mad Valentine rush, Alice wasn't picky. And I don't know if it was because so much time had passed that I had forgotten about Adrianna and her silent mouth, but that Sunday afternoon, made me wonder if maybe she really was jinxing me.

I was in the bathroom, blowing my nose with single-ply toilet paper, and I started to wonder what kind of people used single-ply. I mean, with all the technological advances they do to toilet paper, to make it seem more like a fluffy, cotton towel than anything else, you'd have to wonder what of people lived in that house. And the best way to find out? The medicine cabinet. Unfortunately, besides a couple of razors and a bottle of Children's Motrin, the only interesting thing I could find was a bottle of vicodin, filled with tiny pebbles. So I left, but not before flushing my used tissue down the toilet. But it didn't go down.

Instead, more water came up, along with a small, round, quarter-size thing of...poop! It was Adrianna's! She had used the bathroom before me, and I guess all the toilet paper I used to make my own quilted, triple-ply, plugged the toilet or something because out popped a poop. Immediately I tried using a plunger, but during mid-pump, the orange rubber tore in half! I didn't know what to do, and neither did half my friends, who just laughed and laughed at my unlucky, misfortune when I called them, asking for help. I had no choice but just to wait for the water level to go down, which took a good thirty minutes and by that time it was hard to convince everybody, including the queens, that I wasn't doing what they thought I was doing, in the bathroom. And it was all Adrianna's fault. I had to get her back.

Valentines Day at a flower shop is the equivalent to being in the winner stall at the Kentucky Derby. From sun-up to sun-down, we were one busy little shop of flowers. People kept coming in, spending insane amounts of money, trying to buy the love and affection of their Valentine with roses, chocolates, cheesy Mylar balloons, basically anything with a heart. It was enough to make you sick, but it made me happy, because with all the hours I accumulated, I totally made bank on my paycheck. And though I had spent every waking moment of the past week, getting ready for this day, and was beyond exhausted, somewhere down the day, I was kinda happy that I was making other people happy with my flowers. Hell, I was probably gonna be responsible for the procreation of a whole new generation. It was actually turning out to be a good day.

And it got even better that night, after we closed. Alice wanted to take us all out for Chinese, and oddly enough, everyone accepted the invitation, but me. Guess I was the only one with real Valentine dinner plans. But on the way to my Valentine plans, I got a phone call from Alice, asking me if Adrianna had remembered to bring a dozen roses for her friend Anthony. She didn't. And since I was closer to the shop, Adrianna asked if I could just bring some roses. Which I did. But I brought a bouquet, instead of an arrangement, which did not please either Adrianna or Alice. But I didn't care. I finally got Adrianna back. And it was that satisfactory alone, that made working at a flower shop during Valentines all worth it. Of course, my Valentine date with Colette made it worth it too, but that's another story for another time.

according to rumor...

It all started a year ago, when my friend Madelaine told everybody at Alice's Downtown Flower Market that Mike Lightyear, owner of Mike's Coffee Shop and LightYear Reality wasn’t really the family man that we all thought he was. He was living a double life as a man on the down low. He was bisexual. Not that it mattered, of course, but it did make for some very interesting entertainment whenever his wife stopped by with their two year old daughter and eight month old son. So when my friend Hadassah told me Mike had a dream that she was yelling at him for yelling at me for yelling at her, I had to wonder why.

Hadassah, who used to be a barista at Mike's Coffee Shop, was recently promoted as Mike's personal secretary and therefore had access to all the upstairs office gossip. Like who was dating whom, what lawyer was walking around naked in the building after hours, and what two people were caught making love in the stairwell, thus prompting the managers of the Frontier Building to install security cameras everywhere. That sorta stuff. The only gossip that Hadassah didn’t know was Mike's sexuality. Obviously, it was something personal that Mike didn’t want Hadassah to know. But if he kept that part of his life from her, did that also mean he kept part of his dream from her too?

That’s what my co-worker Adrianna and I wondered aloud as we talked about Mike and the dream and whether or not Mike had an infatuation with me or if it was purely coincidental because we both worked in the same building. He certainly was hanging around the lobby more often and he was smiling and waving at us more than usual. Before we could come out with a definitive answer, Chamo, the cook who worked next door at The Jungle Square Restaurant, was silently sitting in the lobby, listening to our conversation and immeadiately reported back everything he heard to the restaurant bartender, in front of two employees that worked in the building. Before the day ended, rumors began to speculate all around the building that Mike was trying to hook up with me.

Of course, nobody dared to ask Mike, so they asked me. I couldnt believe how fast word got out about Mike's dream and how so many people believed it. And when I paused for an answer, some people, actually most people, took that as the only answer they needed. I had outed one of Tucson's promienent business men. But it wasnt my fault. I didnt go around and tell people that Mike was bi. But then again, I didnt deny that he was. But was it so bad that the truth had inadvertenly come out?

It wasnt until Super Bowl Sunday when a rumor of my own came out that I wondered just how Mike might feel. I had gone to a party the previous night and came home with more than just a hangover. I came home with a hickey. Actually, it was a little group of hickies. And though they werent my first, they were a little higher on my neck than usual, which made it that much harder to hide. I couldnt wear a turtle neck since it wasnt 1987 and I wasnt Bazooka Joe's friend, Mort. It was too warm for a scarf, and I didnt have any makeup, so I made due with my hoodie, by pulling the strings.

Unfortunately, the strings loosened, and my mother saw the plum-colored bruises. Immeadiately, she freaked, as did I. Of all the people in my house, why did my religious fanatic mother have to be the first to lay eyes on my exposed neck? I called Hadassah, asked for help, and tried every trick in the book. The brush, the comb, the icepack, the hot tea bags, Icy Hot, toothpaste, deodorant, you name it. But nothing worked. Talk about powerful suction.

And speaking of things that sucked, my mother totally took all the fun out of the Super Bowl party, when she cried to her sisters, my aunts, that I had gotten a hickey, which, as everyone in my family knows, is just a short leap to birthing bastard children. And the person she blamed it on? My friend, Hadassah. I could've told her the absolute truth, but who, other than a character from WB, tells the absolute truth to their mother?

Hadassah and I had been going out to Happy Hour, for the past two weeks, as nothing more than just mere friends. But to the unknowing, it seemed like much more. And it wasnt my mother that thought we were dating. It was half of downtown. Apparently, a girl on one arm plus a drink in one hand equaled a cute couple. People would smile at us and since we paused when they asked if we were dating, we would get free food. It was the perfect plan. Until, of course, my mother made my friend sound like a low-class whore. And it wasnt just my mother. It was also one of Hadassah's boyfriend's too.

Hadassah was in the middle of dating two guys, a theory that my blog friend Carrie< proved was the smart thing to do when dealing with a potential mate. Having been burned badly from her last lover, Hadassah was playing it safe and having fun, which was something she stated clearly when she entered the dating world. The only problem was it didnt abide well with most of her friends or Guy, one of her suitors. He heard it through the grapevine that she was seeing someone other than him. He thought it was me, when in reality, it was actually one of the lawyers upstairs. Somewhere down the line, names got crossed and when Guy told her she had to choose him or the other guy, Hadassah didnt like having her choices limited, so Guy suggested they go on a break. A choice that left Hadassah in tears.

Maybe she did have strong feelings for Guy than she thought she did. Maybe it was time to get serious and choose. In any event, I couldnt help but feel like it was all my fault. Mike, Guy, my mother thinking Hadassah was a whore. I know now, I probably shouldnt have paused as long as I did and let the stories spin out of control, but since I cant go back in the past and change it, I wonder if spreading a vicious rumor about myself will help. The only thing is, what would I say?

*By the way, in case there was any confusion to that whole Las Vegas wedding story, yeah, they did get married. The happy couple will be getting the traditional, matching, His & Her "Bitch" tattoos before Valentine's.

what happens in vegas...

Whenever people go and visit the fabulous city of Las Vegas, they always say, "Whatever happens in Vegas stays in Vegas." These people obviously didnt have a good time. Or maybe it's because they had too good a time. But how could you not? The beautiful hotels, the friendly people, and all the free alcohol to be used at your disposal...

In my fantasy trip, Rose and I would have been greeted at the airport by a yellow and black checkered cab, the kind with all that extra plush space to lounge around and act all 1940s decadent and driven by a jolly man with a funny accent and a newsboy cap. Instead, the only taxi's available outside the McCarran International Airport were those big, ugly minivan kind that smelled like two parts Lysol, five parts Airwick Solid. In my opinion, that was just no way to arrive in Vegas. So I ordered a limo. A white stretchmobile, fully equipped, fully accessorized, and fully capable of helping us make our grand entrance.

As we drove down the strip, I felt like I was in one of those video montages you see in the movies with the actors looking out the window in awe at all the sights and sounds of the city. Only this was my montage, with that cheesey Elvis song "Viva Las Vegas" playing in the background. And it continued to play well into the night as we made our way to Jet, the ultimate nightclub in Vegas, strolling past the outside lines and velvet ropes, courtesy of a call made to my new friend Rod earlier that day.

The next day, with enough alcohol in our system to fill up our marble hot tub, we donned our dark, oversized sunglasses and Venti Caramel Macchiatos and stumbled our way to Chapel of the Bells, which was the closet thing we could find to a church on a Sunday morning, on the strip. It was also a chance for me and Rose to get a feel of how her upcoming nuptials would be like and a chance for me to see if marriage with Damien was something she really wanted to do.

Turns out it was. True, Damien wasnt a candidate for Boyfriend, Father, or even Human of the Year, but he did have his good qualities. Which I really cant recall at the moment, since I was unable to function properly during my state of inebriation. But I do know I left the chapel with a new mission in mind: to try and stop this bizzare wedding. I only had about a day before the rest of our friends and the groom-to-be would arrive so I had to work fast, because, as the old saying goes, friends dont let friends become members of the Future Bitter Divorcees of America Club.

After witnessing several, “what the hell?” marriages Rose and I made our way back to the Mirage to Japonais, for a free mid-day meal, courtesy again, of Rod, my soon-to-be best friend. After eating the best sushi of my life, we headed to the casinos and for a brief mortal minute, I forgot all about my mission, because I was on a total roll. On my very first try, I won$40 on the dollar machine. And then $35. And then $20. And then $12. And then $11.75. And then I stopped because I finally saw the pattern in my winnings and realized I didn’t have a house to mortgage off for some extra cash. So I did the next best thing and moved to the penny slots where, on my first try, I won ten thousand...pennies. Which added up to about a hundred bucks, but that was totally fine by me because it was way more than what I, an unprofessional, inexperienced gambler, expected to win.

With my winnings in tow, Rose and I ventured down the strip and began to do all the tourist-y things like collect those little cards with the hookers posted on them, posed with both living and dead celebrities at Madame Tussaud's, watched the water show at Bellagio, saw the sexy sirens of T.I. have a verbal battle of innuendos with fellow pirates, and cheered on the Coyote Ugly girls as they danced on the bar and kept our glasses filled with refreshing and delicious alcohol.

With another day gone to waste and me being wasted beyond all human belief, I knew I had to hurry if I was to put a stop on this wedding. And fast. I tried bringing up past horror stories of Damien's actions, to which Rose replied, "If it was possible to erase all those days, I'd still want to be with him." I tried pointing out all of Damien's flaws, including the fact that he had no arm definition and that his moustache made him look like a mouse, to which Rose replied, "It's not what's on the outside, it's what's on the inside that counts." Damn the person who created that hateful speech.

None of my influential ideas were working. I needed to find sanctuary in a place where I could gather my thoughts and regain my strength. That's when I decided to bring out the big guns and take Rose to a male strip show with guys who had even bigger guns. One call to my BFFL, best friend for life, Rod, and I had a pair of comped passes to Austrailia's Thunder From Down Under. Hopefully the sight of ten gyrating crotches would help Rose forget about her own soon-to-be, wedded crotch. It didnt help. Instead, the sight of all those swarthy hunks dancing around us only made Rose hot and horny and by the time we got to the airport to meet and greet the rest of her wedding entourage, Rose and Damien were like one. One big mess of kissy, huggy love. Blech. I guess getting off the plane made you realize how important love was. And how important getting off was. Ew.

But with new, flown-in reinforcements, I knew Operation: Stop Rose And Damien From Entering A Marriage That Would Most Likely End Due To A Conflict Shown On An Episode Of COPS was back on track and good to go. The only thing was, everyone was kinda for this wedding. The general feeling was, if this wedding made Rose happy, then what was the real harm? Everybody wanted Rose to be happy. Was I the only one who cared about her?

The next day, with our friends in tow, we did even more tourist-y things, like walk to the top of the Stratosphere Hotel and watch wannabe singers perform as Britney Spears, pre-Cheeto diet, Elvis, post-Priscilla marriage, and Michael Jackson, pre/post/mid-cosmetic surgerical operation. Then it happened. Between a Cher and Madonna tribute, Rose and Damien started having one of their classic arguements. If they were rich and powerful and lived in the glamourous hills of Beverly, those two would succeed at becoming a tabloid Hollywood couple yet. But for now, their heated arguements were reserved only for me and our friends. And the other poor, paying customers that sat amoung us. It got so bad, that eventually Rose dragged me and our friends Pamela and Josh outside, where we walked in complete silence to the Bellagio. I didnt know what to do or say, but inside, I was jumping up for joy-joy, knowing a wedding was definitely not on the horizon.

Josh and Pamela wanted to do some gambling and I figured it was the perfect way to help clear Rose's mind. So we made our way around the tables and ended up watching this older English gent play Craps. His accent was so funny and so British that we couldnt help but adopt English accents ourselves and cheer on Mr. Carpenter. And though our bloody accents were Dick Van Dyke-bad, Mr. Carpenter had a jolly good laugh and promised us $100 poker chips and dinner at Olives, if we continued to keep cheering him on. Mr. Carpenter hit the jackpot and won over $67,000 that night, but it was around the $30,000 mark that I realized maybe I was wrong about Rose and Damien.

ROSE: I say, the ol' chap should just stop right now. He 'as too much at stake.
ME: Bloody 'ell! You're only saying that because you lost a hundred pounds.
ROSE: Quite right. Quite right. But, if I had that much I would stop all-togetha now. Just think of 'ow much 'E could do with all that money. And 'e's just gambling it all away.
ME: Because maybe 'E enjoys taking risks. Maybe 'E's tired of always playing it safe and never winning.
ROSE: But that's playing too bloody dangerously, dont you think?
ME: But it makes 'im one 'appy chap, eh?
ROSE: 'E's gonna be one sorry chap in a moment.
ME: Who cares? So long as 'E's 'appy and living in the moment, then what's the harm?

It was then that I had a crystalized clear thought and realized that the same philosphy I was preaching in the City of Mortal Sin, could be used towards Rose and Damien. Sure, they had issues. A lot of issues. Like more than your average newstand, amount of issues, but if getting married was something they wanted to do, then really, who was I to try and stop them? Besides, when I thought about it, Rose didnt ask for my opinion on whether or not she and Damien should get married. She just asked for my support. And what kind of person did that make me if I couldnt support a friend? After all, husbands and wives come and go, but it's the people who are your best friends that stay with you forever. Or until someone with better connections comes along. And though I know it's totally cliché, but, if you're able to make a friend into a spouse, well then that's something worth betting on.

for better and for worse

Everyone is born, but not everyone is born the same. Some will grow to be butchers, or bakers, or candlestick makers. Some will only be really good at making Jell-O salad. One way or another, though, every human being is unique, for better or for worse. And the person you couldnt deny that was ultimately unique, for better or for worse, was my friend Rose.

I had known Rose since my days as a sales associate at my first job, Forever 21. And though I never would have predicted in a million years that I would be friends with such a sassy and brassy person, I did. And still was. In fact, if looked at a certain angle, most people would raise their eyebrows in question as to how two completely different people like me and Rose could ever be friends. But we were. Which is why I was one of the few people, not related to her, invited to her birthday dinner. Her family considered me more than just a friend. They considered me a part of their family and made me the guest of honor.

As the guest of honor, I was the most talked-about and talked-to person of the party. Next to the birthday girl, of course. And though the limelight seemed to be shining on me more than it should have, it was because Rose's entire family was thankful and utterly grateful for my pressence in Rose's life.

According to Rose's family, I had been a major catalyst who helped make a tremendous change in Rose's life. Before me, Rose was a high school drop-out, living with her baby-daddy, Damien, always getting drunk and higher than Snoop Dogg, every weekend. Of course, I couldnt take too much credit for the "change" in Rose, since it was a series of "cant-remember-a-thing" parties that made us closer, but over the course of our friendship, as I matured, so did she. She stopped the all-night partying along with the binge drinking and the heavy smoking. She left Damien and saw that there were other guys out there who did and would apprieciate her. But the biggest change of all, was that Rose was actually studying for her GED, in the hopes that she could take some classes at a community college. That task alone showed a growth in Rose, that her family never saw possible, but ultimately made them thankful.

I had no idea I had such an influence. It was like that post, my blog friend Jillian wrote last week. During his days as a firefighter, Jillian's dad had to defibrillate a man's heart, only a week after recieving his paramedic certification. Up until that moment, it was one of the most nerve-wrecking events in his life, as he wondered if whether or not he was capable of saving a man's life. Turns out, he was. In more ways than one. That story was a reminder that we all play a part in the grand scheme of life and you never know just whose life you may touch or change.

And it wasnt only Rose's life I changed. It was her entire family. Small little things I did, like shopping with a few members of Rose's family or even just having a small conversation with them, affected their actions and words. And they showed their appreciation by profusely thanking me over and over again. Who knew I had such an impact on so many lives?

The next day, as we made our way to the airport and through a sea of fake pony-skin and Samsonite-wannabe suitcases, I began to wonder how many lives in Las Vegas I could and would help change. It would be like that movie, Pay It Foward, only there wouldnt be any hooking up or any tragic deaths. But there would be a few choice comedic moments. Like when airport security made Rose go back outside and dump out her tangerine/almond/mint shampoo into plastic baggies because she was over the limit that was permitted. Like it was my fault Rose hadn't kept up with the new traveling guidelines. But, after we were seated on the plane, Rose said something to me that made me wonder if I had any part in her deluded decision.

ROSE: David.
ME: What?
ROSE: I actually have a confession.
ME: Well, since I am an ordained priest.
ROSE: Shut up. No. I actually have an ALL-tierior motive for coming here.
ME: You mean, UL-terior.
ROSE: Whatever. I'm getting married.
ME: What?! To who?!
ROSE: To Damien.

People are always telling me things I dont want to hear. This one had crossed the line. I caught a glimpse of Las Vegas as we circled before landing. It was weird. I'd seen that view a million times in movies, TV, magazines, newspapers. So it was like I'd been here before. Except I hadn't. This time I wasnt taking in the view of Las Vegas while a list of opening credits rolled. This was real. The Bellagio, the Wynn, the MGM Grand, all the spectacular monuments leading to the heart of the city. But the only heart that mattered to me, was that of my friend Rose.

frenemies and enemends

It all started the week after my birthday, when my friend Rose tried to think up of ways to make up for the drama I encountered. And the number one idea was…drum roll, please…a trip to Las Vegas! Of course, the trip would be the week of her birthday, but it was a free trip, nonetheless. And since the word “F-R-E-E” is my favorite four-letter word, next to “S-A-L-E”, how could I refuse?

Just thinking about partying and living it up in the City of Sin had me all giddy and so thankful I took that seasonal job at Gap. I became even more giddy, when my friend Kelly introduced me to Rod, the party host at The Mirage during a seasonal party. Man, talk about being in the right place at the right time, meeting the right people who could get you into the right places at the right time. Seeing the way Kelly laughed at all of Rod’s bad jokes and the way she tenderly stroked his arm, despite the fact that he was wearing jeans from the late 80s/early 90s, it was nice to know I could count on my friends using their whorish ways to gain me free access to clubs while in Vegas.

And speaking of all things good and free in the City of Sin, a local radio show was holding a contest, in which the 49th caller would win tickets to go and see that Canadian Showboat, Celine Dion along with a three-day, two-night stay at Caesar's Palace. I had to win. If only for the free night's stay at an internationally known hotel. Unfortunately, after listening to Soft Rock Hits of the 70s, 80s, and 90s for hours upon hours the only place I placed was second and ended up winning a pair of tickets to a motivational conference and passes for the Arizona Diamondbacks spring training. The person that did win? Brenda Lewis. Ugh.

Next to Isabel Dior, Brenda Lewis ranked just as high on the mortal enemy list. There was just no reasoning with someone who would never forgive or forget past petty differences. That’s when I got an idea. Maybe I could become "friends" with an enemy. A frenemy, or enemend, if you will. It would be like one of those old war movies where a stunning and captivating spy infiltrates the enemy camp, gains access to all things guarded and private and escapes in the nick of time to great success. Of course, I knew it was the stuff of Hollywood dreams, but dont some dreams come true?

Meanwhile, across town, a friendship was being renewed via cellular. After hearing of Isabel's newlywed status, Maria felt that, as an old friend, it was her duty to congratulate the bride and groom. And as my friend, it was Maria's duty to fill me in with all the gossip. Suffice to say, Maria learned that marriage had changed Isabel. It actually made her way more mature. According to Maria, Isabel had finally recieved her much needed reality check and saw that the world wasnt her own big, giant playground as she once thought it was. She had grown as a person and Maria felt that maybe this time around, we could all actually sit down and have a polite and cordial dinner, forgetting our hurtful past and creating a better future.

Of course, I had different plans. Maybe if I was able to become friends with Isabel, then maybe that would be a way for me to fix things with Brenda and then maybe that would be a way for me to try and convince her to give me the Celine Dion tickets and three-day, two-night stay at Caesar's Palace and maybe, just maybe, justice would be restored. I mean, would it be so terribly wrong to become friends with somebody in the hopes you could get something out of it?

Later that week at eight, I was dressed to the nines, waiting for a party of ten outside of NoRTH, with my friend Maria. She and Isabel had combined forces and planned an impromptu dinner party at one of Tucson's hottest restaurants and I was bestowed an invitation to what would be an interesting night. As Maria had predicted earlier that week, married life did wonders for Isabel. She spoke with a voice that was more calm and less shrill and in a surprise I never saw coming, Isabel was less, dare I say...selfish? She was actually listening to people's stories rather than trying to top them and she was…well…just less selfish. You had to actually know Isabel in order to fully understand that last thought, but trust me, if I’m able to say that the girl who convinced her parents to let her "disappear" in Mexico for a couple of months during her senior year because she was "overwhelmed" and "stressed," was less selfish, then she was.

But being less selfish wasn’t the only change I saw in Isabel. During her barely three-week old marriage to Ed, Isabel had actually gained confidence. Not that she wasn’t confident before, but there was a sense that she was much stronger in spirit than before. Isabel was actually walking the walk, rather than just talking the talk, a task that was once believed to be as unfathomable as Neil Armstrong walking on the moon. But she was.

Like when she told Brenda’s new husband at work, he was wearing a nice shirt that complimented his biceps, that was something Isabel would never have done before. When Brenda called Isabel to ask why she was checking out her husband and Isabel told her to calm down and to stop being so paranoid, that was something she never would have done before. And when Isabel called out Brenda’s bluff, as Brenda tried to come up with a lie as to why she did not invite Isabel to her small wedding nuptials, despite the fact that it was Isabel who introduced Brenda to her husband, that completely let me know Isabel had changed. Getting those Las Vegas tickets now, would certainly not be an easy task.

Isabel had gone from mortal enemy number one to someone I could actually respect and, dare I say, like. Not that I didnt like her before, but obviously when we stopped being friends, she stopped being liked. The weird thing is, if she acted the way she does now, back when we were in high school, I dont think I would have been her friend. But now that she's changed...does that mean the qualities I look for in friends has too? In which case, that would mean I've changed. But I havent changed...have I?