Cockblocked by Snoop Dogg, and other adventures.

If there is one good thing about Hollywood, it's that it seems to be an endless supplier of ridiculous situations. Whenever I go out in this town, something interesting seems to happen. I suppose that's the inevitable result of so many ridiculous people crammed into one small city.

So last night I was out with my friend Eric, who has been my best friend for more or less my entire life, despite the fact that - at this point - we have essentially nothing in common. Much in contrast to the person I grew up with, Eric now is a total "dude." He lives down on the beach, wears flip-flops in any occasion, and always asks me if I want to come down on the weekends and play volleyball with him and his friends. I'd rather drive a rusty nail through my testicles, I tell him. But he always asks anyway. He's the kind of corny guy who hangs out at college bars, buying girls drinks and trying to outdo his personal record for how many phone numbers he can collect in one night's outing. He's always dating at least three or four girls at a time, and says cheesy misogynistic catch phrases like "chasin' tail" and "she's got a smokin' bod." And he has at any given moment exactly one thing on his mind: The pursuit of the opposite sex. All of this comes from a tremendous burst of confidence gained from a post-high school hormone explosion which has turned him from shy, scrawny shrimp to tall, muscle-bound hunk. He's training to be a firefighter, and you could easily see him as Mr. August in the firemen calendar, standing sweaty and shirtless with a suggestively-placed fire hose.

Still, I love the guy, and going out with him is always an adventure, so last night we found ourself (on his suggestion) at Sky Bar - a notoriously pretentious night spot - because Eric loves going out to trendy Hollywood bars and trying his luck with snotty socialites. And for my own part, I enjoy the absurd situations that usually come out of it.

Sky Bar, as per usual, was ripe with the scent of a hundred expensive colognes melding together, and the crowd was bustling with would-be models, industry suits, and a lot of guys wearing shiny shirts and sunglasses at night. Douchebags, the lot of them, but it's hard to complain because the place itself is so damned nice. At one point, I was standing near the bar and I turned around to see a man smiling at me and extending his hand. He was in his fifties, wearing a suit and tie, and had kind of a Ted Kennedy look to him, but not as puffy. He had a smile like a car salesman. He was holding a martini. "Hey there!" he said, and asked me how I was doing. I told him I was well, and he started complaining about having to wear a suit, that "I have to meet with these fucking business guys and I hate wearing this type of shit, I can't wait to get back into some comfortable digs." Yeah, he said "digs." His name was Pat Roxbury, he told me. But everyone calls him "Rox." He was very friendly, and quickly offered me a drink, which I declined because I had just gotten one. Then he launched right into telling me about his job at PepsiCo. Something about Taco Bell and KFC and Pizza Hut, and something about him being out here from Tennessee to meet with California politicians about some law regarding corporate health insurance and BLA BLA BLA BLA BLA. It was around this time that I recognized the source of his overbearing friendliness: He was coked up out of his mind. Fitting. So Eric and I endured his blabbering for a good ten minutes, and made inane conversation with him about the mind-numbingly boring inner workings of whatever the hell he does for a living. Then he told us he had to get back to his business companions, but told us that if we wanted a drink, to just use his tab. Just tell them Roxbury, he told us.

I asked Eric, "Does this guy want to fuck us, or is he just high?" Eric mentioned that he saw a wedding ring on his finger. "That doesn't mean he doesn't want to fuck us," I told him. Regardless, we had an alcohol benefactor, and we weren't going to let it go to waste. The first thing to do was test it. I went and ordered a drink, and said, "it's on Pat Roxbury's tab." The bartender nodded, and that was that. Free. I asked Eric if he wanted the complimentary drink, because I wasn't even halfway done with my previous one. He didn't want it. We set it down on a table and left it there. What do we care? It's free. We can always get more.

With a rich cokehead's bar tab at our disposal, a tidal wave of possibilities were flooding into our mischievous minds. We decided then that our goal of the night would be to run up this asshole's tab as high as we possibly could. So we approached a group of girls and asked them if they wanted drinks. It's on us, we told them. Well, it's on Pat. We ordered six drinks, and told the bartender, "just put it on Pat Roxbury's tab." Thanks, Rox. Then we ordered a round of shots for the ladies. Oh, and I got an extra one, for Pat Roxbury. "That's just cruel," Eric told me, and I laughed. I walked to the other side of the bar where Rox was sitting with his fellow suits. "Here, I got you a shot!" I told him. With his money, of course. He gulped it gleefully, and gave me a high five. Yes, a high five. "Thanks buddy!" He told me. "No, Rox," I told him, "thank YOU."

Meanwhile, Eric was deep in conversation with a girl he'd been eyeing all night. He bought her a drink. Thanks, Rox. They seemed to be having a good conversation. Her body language suggested she was into him. And then the most incredible thing happened. Eric is talking to this girl, and she's in mid conversation, when from out of nowhere - like a fucking hawk, swooping down on its prey - fucking SNOOP DOGG appears, puts his arm around the girl, says "wussup baby?" and ushers her away from Eric. We never saw her again. Just like that. Gone. Property of The Doggfather. We asked her friends if she knew Snoop previously. They were as befuddled as us. "No," they told us, "she's never met him before." So if you were wondering how someone like Snoop Dogg picks up chicks... wonder no longer. I couldn't resist turning to Eric and saying, "Dude. He just nizzled your shizzle."

Around this time, Pat Roxbury re-appeared, no doubt fresh off an eightball. He told us that he was on the list at the Foundation Room, and we should come with him. We thought it would probably be entertaining to tag along with this crazy drug-addled business dude, but it was getting late and we figured staying at the bar with his open tab would be more fun. So we told him "Gee, we'd love to, but unfortunately, we have to head home." We have to wake up early. Or something. Rox was disappointed, but was sure to give me his business card. He told me, for no reason in particular, that he knows a lot of big wigs in the music industry. I think he thought I was in a band. Without missing a beat, I told him my father was the president of Universal Music, and we should do business together. It didn't even make any sense, it just seemed like a funny thing to say. This piqued his interest, and he put his hand on my shoulder and said, very intently, "We should talk, big guy." Yes, "big guy." "You've got my card," he said. I told him - I actually said, with a straight face: "Have your people call my people." "Sure thing buddy!" he exclaimed. "I'll see you boys later!" And he told us, again, "If you need one more drink before you split, put it on my tab." Thanks, Rox. We'll do that. You're the best. And then he left, and our mission continued. We found several more groups of girls, buying rounds of drinks and shots for the lot of them. Drinks that no one was even drinking. Shots we left sitting on the bar. It didn't matter. Oh, and keep in mind this is one of the most expensive bars in LA. Ten, fifteen dollar drinks. We must have been running up quite a total by this point. Thanks, Rox. Eric tried to buy Snoop Dogg a drink. I suggested a bottle of Cristal. "I wonder how much that costs?" Who cares? It's free. But Snoop's unfriendly-looking body guard vetoed Eric's offer, so we had to try plan B. Eric caught the attention of the waitress who was serving Snoop's posse, and said, "Get those guys a round of drinks for me. Whatever they want. Just put it on Pat Roxbury's tab." Thanks again, Rox.

After several rounds of drinks with a group of girls from Mexico City, the bar was starting to close and Eric decided it was time for the coup de grace. Our grand finale would be a round of shots for the entire wait staff. Put it on Pat Roxbury's tab. But when Eric tried to order, the bartender told us, "Oh, that tab has been closed. Pat is over there." Our nervous eyes followed her finger down the bar, and there was Rox, at the other end, arguing with one of the bartenders about his bar tab. Oops. I guess he was sobering up. We needed to get the fuck out of there, quickly. I grabbed one of the Mexican girls, and said, "walk with me!" and I hid behind her as we slipped out of the room, behind Rox's back. Then Eric and I drove home, laughing gleefully at how many drinks we'd managed to buy with Rox's money. I'm sure it's a company expense, anyway. Thanks, PepsiCo.

In Rox's honor, I'm drinking a Diet Pepsi today instead of a Diet Coke. Fuck Diet Pepsi, it tastes like ass. This one's for you, Rox.

I just got a voice mail from Eric, saying "Hey dude, I'm just calling to confirm that all that shit really did happen last night. It seems a bit surreal." Yeah. Welcome to LA.