I tossed and turned at night. With each passing day, the weight of indecision burdened my mind like, I don’t know, something heavy. But after countless hours of inner debate, my choice has been made: I’m coming out of retirement. I’m returning to the blogosphere.
As some of you know, I’m a one-hit wonder blogger. I still like to drink a whiskey and revel in the fact that over 80,000 people read my extremely biased, pro-Buckeyes rant, compared to my average readership of 7 (luckily I have a lot of sisters, though I think Gail only read the 1/10th-viral post*). I imagine this kind of clinging to past success is what the rest of the Funky Bunch goes through as they watch Marky Mark star in another movie.*
So let’s get you caught up on my life. My last post was about moving to Columbia, Missouri. In the 2 years since, I’ve:
- Been the only guy at a bachelorette party of primarily 29-year-old ladies. And it was a blast.*
- Co-emceed my sister, Julie’s, wedding. This is important to note in 4 lines.
- Gotten engaged to my totally awesome wife*
- Driven 11 hours through the night to be in downtown Cleveland for Game 7 of the NBA Finals (and it was obviously worth it)
- Went on a 5-day, sleep-deprived road trip through Eastern Europe.
- Gotten married to my totally awesome wife. Planning was super easy because we already knew of an incredible band and a cheap emcee from Julie and Jeromy’s wedding. Maybe super easy is an exaggeration… but easier!
- And, finally, the reason for my grand return to the world of writing sans proofreading: I planned the most epic honeymoon ever. I’ve had 4 people say they want to read updates throughout the journey, and with that kind of demand, how could I not oblige?
Our honeymoon began the way I imagine most do—pulling an all-nighter to get ready, quadruple-checking for passports, and arguing whether or not to waste a precious protein bar, topped off by a 4AM, stress-filled walk through the Kansas City Airport parking garage wondering where the heck the elevators are.
But after an incredibly efficient security process (just another reason Kansas City is way better than St. Louis), we were off to La La Land.
Our wonderful host, Bri, picked us up from LAX and sped us back to her home for a much-needed nap. Bri and I go way back—we met our sophomore year at Point Park and spent countless nights getting drinks at Courthouse or, when times were tighter, just drinking our own alcohol on the roof of the Carlyle. We even tag-teamed a project that we were apparently not supposed to tag-team, and, were it not for our incredible charm and general attractiveness, would have had to re-take the class.* In other words: a bond was formed.
Upon our awakening, all of us got ready for the evening and went out to a delicious Mexican place in long beach. It may have been the fact that I was so gung-ho on the whole “don’t waste any protein bars” thing, and therefore hadn’t eaten in close to 24 hours, but WOW was this burrito delicious. The margarita was equally amazing—a little bit of mango, a little tequila, and a little freedom. Shaken, not stirred.
The rest of our night was just spent catching up with Bri and getting to know her longtime boyfriend, John, who is equally fantastic, albeit slightly taller. En la mañana, we set off for Venice Beach. People watching is one of my favorite activities, so VB was pretty much all I could ask for.
There were the cringeworthy moments: some guy walking on a bunch of broken bottles, or the dude on bath salts (not confirmed, just Courtny’s theory) struggling to walk while screaming random words that always seemed to be followed by the name of our new President. Not even necessarily bad words, though, just random phrases that didn’t really make any sense.
There were the bizarre moments: a shirtless, tiny-undied (pronounced UN-deed, as in underwear) man walking down the street while wearing horns on his head. Strangely, this is the only bizarre moment I can think of right now, though I think Bathsalts Man qualifies as both cringe-worthy and bizarre.
There was a moment of truth: due to my Oakley’s, it was impossible for people to make eye contact with me, so it was rare for someone to come up and ask me to buy their mixtapes.* However, I did have one man come up to me and ask me where I was from. In my mind, I was like, “Redondo (part of LA that’s super fun to say). Just say Redondo and he gives up and leaves you alone.” I hesitated. “CLEVELAND, baby!” Of course he then tried to haggle me to buy his meditation book, but it was worth it.
And, of course, there were the beautiful moments: the skateboarders being pulled by their smiling dogs, the sun-kissed waves crashing onto the beach… But nothing topped the electric violinist playing on the Santa Monica pier. He did get my money. And a lot of other peoples’ money. And he was amaze-balls.
We followed up the beach with a journey to Hollywood, where CoJo saw Shania Twain………’s name written on a star. Does Marky Mark have a star? I should have been looking for that.
Today, we fly to New Zealand, where we hope to gain accents, curly hair, and a nice patch of fur on our feet to complete our transition into hobbits. Wish us well! Deuces, Merica.
*We’ll find out in the Facebook comments at some point
*If you don’t have “Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch Radio” on your Pandora playlists, you are living a fake life.
*It’s easy to ignore the “your man-card is taken” text from your brother-in-law when you’re robed up and sipping champagne in your floor-to-ceiling windowed suite at the Trump Hotel in Chicago.
*Seriously, she’s so lovable. Unfortunately, by comparison, I become less lovable to new acquaintances, so I usually try to make my 5-minute impression before introducing her.
*Or some kind of similar punishment.
*Microsoft word tells me that “mixtape” should be 2 words. If this is the case, then the English language is wrong and I hate it.