Oh, right. I completely forgot: Sally and I went down to St. Louis this weekend for yet another wedding. This one, however, was of the Gentile variety, and, man, maybe I'm just used to Love Jewish Style now, but this wedding...well, in a word: Oy.

(Side note: The completion of this entry was just halted by about an hour, as I just spent that time laying bed under my covers, fending off sleep and wondering whether or not to go to my first day of school, because it's cold, it's grey, I'm tired, and, frankly, I'm feeling lazy. Space heater season seems to be here again. Just a little insight into my day for you. On with the program.)

So, before I get all into this wedding, I should backtrack to Friday, which was 'What About Joan' Day. Some things have changed and some things have stayed the same. Perhaps the most consequential change is that James Brooks has disassociated himself from the show. No one was very clear on the details, but everyone was sure to mention that if the show ever goes into syndication, he will be rolling in the dough regardless because he was one of the shows creators. Clever business, this TV.

Also in show bidness gossip, my main contact at WAJ spent the summer as a production assistant for a movie that was written by the same guy who wrote 'Pi.' Movie title: Below. Premise: Haunted submarine.

You heard me. Haunted submarine. Pi was an excellent film, though.

So, the production company apparently has a new policy in that there are dogs a plenty, and they are allowed to roam freely through the office. Yes, people can bring their dogs to work here. I counted five pooches running to and fro. I love dogs, so this is fine with me. I became a temporary hero when I saved the cheeseburger of one of the writers as it was being licked by a hungry dalmatian. His mistake was leaving it on the edge of the table. The writer ate it anyway.

As I was sitting with some of the writers, (most of who I have not yet met, as they are almost an entirely new crop) somehow the topic of Chad Lowe came up. This one writer claimed to be good friends with him, and said that the day after Hillary Swank won her Oscar, he and his pals gave Chad a lot of shit, thanking him for everything Oscar Style. "Chad, I just want to thank you so much for handing me that beer," and so forth. I found that to be mildly amusing. During this conversation, I clammed up and listened. I have to admit that I was pretty much in awe of their Hollywood stories, and all I could think about was how these people are my Hollywood stories.

So, later, during the taping, I was sitting down in the writer's area on the set itself. The writer's area is a bunch of director's type chairs in front of a bank of monitors, showing what each of the cameras are taping during the shoot. I sat down next to this one guy, and I was just waiting for an in so I could introduce myself and explain that I was the new writer's intern and all that. I finally got it when this guy asked if he could see the script I was holding. I handed it over, and we got to talking. I introduced myself and explained my deal, feeling pretty happy to have finally met one of the new writers. So, a few minutes pass, and this guy says "Yeah, I've been acting here in Chicago for about five years now." Wait a minute... "Oh," I say, hesitantly. "You're an actor? You're not part of the regular cast, are you?"

Of course he wasn't. I had been chatting up a bloody extra. Damn.

The only reason I'm admitting this is because I find it both amusing and disgusting, but I no longer really felt like talking to the guy. Of course, I continued talking to him until they were ready to shoot the scene he was in, but by that point I was far too well aware that I had the L.A. posion in my blood. I mean, Ugh. I was talking to an extra.

I later realized that he did, indeed, have a few lines in that episode after all, but that doesn't change the fact that I had an ugly west coast soul for a few hours. Pin a ponytail on me and call me 'Tad.' Not my shiniest moment.

Oh, and the wedding. What to say? Sally warned me that these friends of hers were drinkers. Serious drinkers, career drinkers, certifiable lushes, each of them, to the core. I had no idea how serious the situtation was until I saw them during the reception dinner. The bar closed for the dinner, and, in anticipation of this, each of them stockpiled about three drinks apiece. Everyone at our table save Sally and I had their plates, their silverware, and three tumblers sitting in front of them. I felt like drinking pepsi just to be contrary. At the end of the night, I was feeling nicely warm off an endless supply of Cabarnet. I kid you not when I tell you that my tongue is still dark in some places. Sticking with the Cab, however, allowed me to dodge the hangover plaguing everyone else the next morning.

As far as the appetizers, the DJ, and the whole reception are concerned, it's going to take a lot to topple the last wedding I attended from it's position as The Best In Recent Memory. My friends Elise and Jaime are heroes. Sushi and chicken satay appetizers, that's all I have to say.

The DJ: Christ. I wasn't aware that "Another Day in Paradise" or whatever the hell it's called by Phil Collins was a cheery wedding song. Good lord. And if I ever decide that I want to walk into my reception to the tune of that 'Chicka-Chickaw' song made famous in Ferris Bueller, please come kill me. To top it all off, in light of Recent Events, the DJ called for a moment of silence, and then played that "Proud To Be An American" or "God Bless the USA" song, which I thought was only played at events like NASCAR rallies and white trash funerals.

The night was made complete at the hotel bar after the reception when some extremely drunk woman who wasn't associated with the wedding took a disliking to me. It got to the point where instead of antagonizing me, she turned to Sally next to me and said "I hope you never give this guy head." Sally's reply was "Oh, it's OK. I'm his sister." The drunk woman tried to process this jest, failed, and then stupidly replied "Well, I hope you don't swallow, then." I countered by saying "Of course I don't make my sister swallow. That's like fucking your dog without a condom."

Now that's a anecdote worthy of Churchill.

Checkout time was noon the next day. We called the front desk that morning and asked them to push it back to one. We then changed into bathing suits and went down to the hot tub. Coming back to the room, we intended to be out at the aforementioned time, but we were foiled by circumstances brought about because of the presence of a queen sized bed, and the fact that we had just been in a hot tub. Housekeeping was becoming fairly antsy, and I was walking down the hall to get a pop, one of them asked "Are you guys leaving today?"

The drive home proceeded without incident. Oh, except that we must have been kidnapped by aliens at one point, had our memory wiped, and then were returned to the highway, because for some reason, we managed to be going north on 55 and then, suddenly, we were going south on 55 without having taken any exits or changing lanes. Damn alien clerical errors.