Watch as I Turn Into "That F*cking Creepy Guy" Before Your Eyes

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OK, so it's been a while since I wrote anything. Tough. I've had lots to do. Here's a rundown of the last month:

--Worked
--Beached
--Golfed
--Moved

So I'm in my own place, I've got my own internet connection, things are going swimmingly. For the most part.

I'm going to tell you a story that, for anyone who knows me personally, is direct proof that I am neither becomeing a man nor maturing in any sense of the word. Do I have other things to talk about? Sure. Is this better than other things I could talk about? Absolutely.

Background info:

A) I am a lightweight drinker. Seriously.
B) I just moved in with two 20 year-old females. I have known them for a total of five days.
C) Some people from work take part in the Wednesday Night World Dive Bar Tour, which takes them to a different sh*tty bar in the Hollywood area each week. This week was my maiden voyage.

This week's event was at the Powerhouse bar on the corner of Hollywood and Highland. In supreme throwback fashion, this bar has three taps that serve nothing but Natural Light. The good stuff. Pitchers are a steal at $9.

(EDITOR'S NOTE: I can hear some of you scoffing at that last remark "...a steal at $9". Consider that, in Los Angeles, you're lucky to find a bottle at a bar under $6. So a pitcher for $9? Heaven, yet I have to admit I miss terribly cheap pitchers at Dave's in good ol' Harrisonburg.)

The place is a hole but not in a dangerous way. They've got an old-fashioned juke box that spits out three songs for a buck. It's a blast. Like a hundred people in the place last night.

Now some sad b*stard before me played 18 songs in a row for his $5. The problem is that they weren't good bar songs. They were ratty Zepplin numbers and the occasional Billy Joel B-Side; not the fare you're looking for whilst throwing darts and ogling women. So I took it upon myself to play three songs that I knew would set the room on fire. The place was relatively quiet before my first song started, no one singing along or giving any indication that they were there to rock. Then "The Safety Dance" by Men Without Hats begins. There are cheers. People sing along. I dance like a robot. Good times. But it's not nearly over. "Don't Stop Believing" by Journey hits the speakers. Near madness. Clapping, people really singing. Then we drop the bomb: "Livin' On a Prayer", Bon Jovi. The place goes f*cking apesh*t. Loudest singing ever. They actually mute the juke so everyone in the bar can sing a line of the chorus. Pandemonium. So what do I do? I drink.

I think I had put five pitchers away by myself by the end of the night. I have no way of knowing because I remember little to nothing after Jon Bon. What I do know is this:

I wake up in my room this morning with my roommate Liz standing in front of me, saying she's going to get ready for work. I have no idea why she's in my room much less telling me this info at eight in the AM. Then, through a searing headache the likes of which I have not been afflicted with in ages, I look around the room. It ain't mine. It's Liz's. Confused, I inquire as to what I'm doing in her bed in her bedroom. Apparently, I had taken occasion to walk in at four AM, refuse to answer questions, and immediately pass out.

NOTE: I've known this poor girl for five days. Five. Days. Now I'm Geoff the Creepy F*cking Roommate. Good times.

Liz takes everything in stride and doesn't seem totally disgusted/frightened. I, on the other hand, am rather worried. Searching for answers, I look through my call log from the previous night. This is ALWAYS a disaster. Always. Mortifying, like, "Oh no, I should have deleted that number for this exact situation. Dear God." You know you have to look, and you're dreading it like there's a plane crash and you're looking for your parent's names on a victims list. So I scroll through the numbers I called (it was a doozy, and factor in that most of the calls are made to the East Coast, so I've called people between the hours of 5-7 AM their time) and talk to the last person on my list. This person wishes to remain anonymous because...well, because he/she was the reason I became Sketchy Geoff.

I relate my story to the person. The person says I was "slurring like crazy" and "barely understandable". At one point I remarked that it was "cold in my room". Jokingly, my friend suggested I climb in bed with one of my roommates. I declined. Still joking, this person said, quote, "I dare you." There was a click and I was gone. You do not dare someone who is drunk out of their mind. You simply do not. Let's make this a rule: no Drunken Dares (TM) unless you are willing & able to clean up the mess that this person will undoubtedly create.

Other than that, things are peachy. The women are insane, though if hell freezes over at some point and I'm actually in a position to invite a girl back to my place, the phrase "My car does not exist" is going to pretty much destroy the whole charade. And for those of you who are asking, here is a list of celebrities I've met/seen so far:

--Joan Rivers
--Joe Pesci
--Schuyler Fisk (she was in Orange County with Jack Black...I actually talked to her - again, drunk - and said told her, literally, that she was "in luck" because "I only need to sleep with someone kind of famous." Again...good times.)
--Nicole Ritchie (physically ran into her near my office in Beverly Hills. Was looking at my phone. Was very sweet about the fact that I nearly killed her.)
--Tommy Lee
--Andie McDowell
--Brendan Frasier (who is like 30 feet tall and getting fat, which is fun)

Also, a very nice girl I met out here named Jen Morrison (a friend of a friend, she was in Grind and Final Destination II) just got her pilot House picked up by Fox for the fall season. Congrats Jen. When I tell people from back home about this she will be known as "my friend Jen". Inaccurate, but do I seem like someone who cares?