"The thought of it exhausts me," I whined into the phone.

Aries. Baby of the Zodiac. Who—me?

"So I'm throwing one for you," Rich quipped on the other end. "You're having a birthday party."

I liked the way he said having, full-on bold-face and definitive. The mere mention of the word 'party,' however? Insert cringe. Party. As in, hundreds of people? As in, who the F knows what might happen?

The previous year I'd bid aideu to degenerate youth (though damn do I ever miss it!) by throwing a Wake. I knew all the time the preps alone consumed—scouring for wreaths and funeral parlor proppage, picking out a color scheme, shopping for booze, dealing with two phone lines ringing off the hook—and just could. Not. Commit. To the terminology.

I'm a writer; nomenclature is important to me.

My toes were in the proverbial water.

What made me adjust was when we settled on the term 'happening.'

And when stylemeister Jared Gold agreed to function as the 'Special Guest Host,'
I heard myself exert an audible sigh of relief. (Not really...but REALLY)

What did that mean for me?

More fab, less gab.

Seriously, all the 'heavy helloing' at my wake just about killed me—which would've been a tad too on the nose â-la Gen X Irony. (Incidentally, another thing I miss. Gen Y and the 'Millenials'? Their HTML prowess alone dumbfounds me.)

Rich arranged the locale--West Hollywood's white-hot lounge, Pali House—and Mssr. Gold made his way around the crowd in an ensemble consisting of a black single-shoulder bondage strap cinched over a conservative button-down.

My new pal Zach drove, so all I had to do was SHOW.

I was immediately greeted by that damn adorable Pauley Perrette—one of my dearest friends, not to mention favorite people on the planet—and from that moment on? Everything went so well; it was terrifying.

In the back of my mind, I expected the sound of glass shattering, slurred arguments between internet rivals, multiple visits from the Po-Po. That's how it'd gone down 12 months prior. That, along with bathroom Who-Knows-What-Bad-Behavior which kept a serpentine mass at bay for what seemed like a short forever. (I should know: I was one of those doing the 'Pee-Pee Dance,' unfortunately!)

This year? Literally, there were several moments in which I stopped and panicked because I wasn't panicked. I caught myself saying "O.K., what's going wrong?" out loud...only to find nothing was.


And nothing did...

Instead, there was a great turn-out—not to mention a veritable Who's-Who of L.A. icons (as far as *I'm* concerned, anyway)!(Careful: they'll get you strung out! I'll vouch for that one, fer shure...)




We've been friends for like, ever. (And I ain't mad about it... Not. At. All!)

(No, seriously...)

says "The hair? Oh, I don't even THINK about pink!"

And speaking of hair:

(ahem)

Well, while I'm at it with the hyperbole...

Mega-models and me? We're like this [ENVISION IMAGE OF FINGERS CROSSED]!
whose hair particularly looks like cotton candy in this pic, doncha think?

Lookit that sly little expression on the D-Ron... CUTENESS!
Wash West and Richard Glatzer, of Quinceañera notoriety.

Daaaaamn. You'd think this was Hollywood or somethin'! [INSERT OBNOXIOUS EMOTICON WITH DEVILISH GRIN HERE]

One of the cutest damn couples in town!

Whereas

And Tarina Tarantino? HEART HER.

(Neglected to put an asterik with caption on that one... dang! Read on:
you'll understand.)

(along with the whole crew at Hairroin.)

Speaking of which,
But here's the muthra-effing MONEY SHOT!

Whew!

After all that, all ll I have to say is:
I love my friends; I loved the night, and... the word 'grateful'?

That's what made my birthday happy, truly.

THANK YOU; THANK YOU; THANK YOU

Matthew Sandusky for the Betty Crocker action,

Sarah Merrie for contributing photos (most of which are marked as * ...apologies for any I missed!)

Everyone who surprised me with the fabu gifts,

Tallulah from Too Haute Dames for the brooch
(dangling necklace by Tarina Tarantino, green tartan shirt by Jared Gold)

AND ANYONE WHO MADE IT THIS FAR!

(Shit is e p i c )

x o x o x