17 Weeks Pregnant – Bachelor Party Baby

17 Weeks Pregnant – Bachelor Party Baby

As my fiancé and I suffer from premature impregnation, we’re already 17 weeks pregnant while our wedding is happening just 3 weeks from now. As such, I had my bachelor party last night and discovered that my baby and I have a lot in common at this stage in our lives. At 17 weeks, according to a pregnancy website, my kid is currently the size of a turnip. In honor of this, I decided to get turnip as well. Now I know the commonly used phrase these days is “turnt up”, but I’d rather cut off my own penis and bake it in a crescent roll than utter that term outside of ridiculing the type of people that use it, of course. Not to mention that “turnt up”, by definition, describes how hard someone parties. At this stage of my life, “turnip” is certainly a more appropriate description of how I throw down. In fact, it might be a little to aggressive to describe my style of partying.

A decade ago my bachelor party would have involved a road trip to Vegas for at least 48 hours of non-stop binge drinking with women who pay their rent in one dollar bills. I would have left behind a chorus of, “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” at virtually every establishment I patronized, and needed to rely on photographic documentation to recall a good 90% of my own actions. When I partied, I did it on an epic level and left an indelible mark on each person, place, and thing I tried to pee on during my blackout.

Today, at age 44, things are slightly different. Rather than going to bed at 6am, I generally wake up around that time, without an alarm. It’s likely because I fall asleep by 10pm most nights without the assistance of so much as a cup of Sleepytime tea to pass out. I haven’t had a sip of alcohol in over 9 years and don’t touch any drug stronger than an Advil. As of this morning, and this isn’t a joke, I stopped using sweetener in my coffee. Next to “Party” in the dictionary is a picture of me with the caption, “Not this guy.” And truth be told, I’m quite content with that. My “FOMO” (Fear Of Missing Out) has been replaced with “FIAS” (Fuck I Am Sleepy).

I used to worry that not partying would make me feel old and boring. Actually, it’s quite the opposite. I feel younger than ever. I eat healthy, exercise,  and enjoy the daylight more than I ever did the nightlife. Don’t get me wrong, I had fun during those years. A lot of fun. An immoral, illegal, would-be-going-to-hell-if-there-was-one-but-I’m-an-Atheist-and-hell-is-pretend amount of fun. I wouldn’t trade those experiences for anything, but I’ve moved on. And not because I’m old or boring, but because that kind of fun got old and boring. Now my fun consists of early morning workouts, Spartan Races, looking death in the eye by riding my Harley in LA traffic, shooting guns, shopping for baby clothes, and binge watching Netflix with Lisa. Truth be told, this is the most alive I’ve ever felt.

That said, on to the sordid details of my insane bachelor “party”.

Although I live 1.5 miles from the beach, I decided to rent a place that was 100 yards from the ocean to hold the shindig. Partially to have a dedicated party pad, and partially because my apartment isn’t quite big enough. My guests were told to arrive around 7pm but I decided to go a few hours early and pre-game. You know, get an early start removing my chain so, upon their arrival, things could already be “off the chain.” On the way to the party palace I stopped by Jamba Juice and got a Protein Berry Workout smoothie, well-blended with an extra scoop of whey. Shit just got real.

Upon my arrival I headed down to the beach to begin documenting the shenanigans. Here I am all hyped up.


That particular photo above didn’t make the cut because I felt that the silhouette was misleading and made me look pear-shaped, so I tried…


Here I didn’t sit down because too many people were walking by and I didn’t want to make it obvious that I was taking selfies of my back. I didn’t mind it as much as the previous pear-shaped photo but it looks like I might be about to take a dump, so this didn’t work either.


Finally I got to this one, which was perfect. I don’t look like a sadly shaped fruit or like I’m dropping a deuce on the sand. However, you can see the tread of my shoe that set my iPhone on to get the correct height for the pic. That’s a problem solved by…


Instagram! Boom. No shoe tread. Cropped for intimate feel. And filtered to look like an infinitely more beautiful sunset.This glorious shot was posted with the caption, “Thinking about this life I live” to make me look deep and pensive rather than like a guy taking selfies of his own back.


The party train has left the station people, hold on. Ok, I admit that this is getting ridiculous. I don’t party. I don’t want to party. I didn’t party. What I did do was spend a fun and relaxing evening with some great friends. I actually did secure the beachfront house on Airbnb but only because I wanted an ocean view and a dining room table big enough to accommodate more people than the one in my apartment can seat.

My LA-OG-BFF, Leyna, got there before anyone else. She was my first real friend on the West Coast. I met her just over a decade ago and we were thick as thieves from day one. Today she remains one of my best friends, closest confidants, personal photographer, and semi-professional team selfie partner.


Shortly after our Myspace throwback photo shoot, Craig arrived and the three of us adjourned to the patio where Leyna began angrily lecturing the delicious cheese platter.

Bad Ass Dad

Once the cheese had been thoroughly berated, Leyna took a few candid photos of me looking extremely handsome, which is redundant.


I’m smiling to let the cheese know that everything is going to be okay.


Explaining that the sun isn’t actually a god, but a big ball of gas, much like me after a cheese platter.


And finally I stare directly into the sun until that little pussy went and hid below the horizon. I am obviously the lord of all things except for burned out retinas.

Soon the rest of my friends arrived and we got down to the telling of embarrassing stories about me and the eating of food that was not cheese. We’d hired a personal chef who almost killed us with a non-stop barrage of perfectly prepared food, and a massive amount of it at that. He started off with marinated artichokes for each of us as appetizers, followed by a salad. After that were monster steaks (mine was 2lbs!) with baked potatoes as big as a newborn baby, sautéed vegetables, and a dessert that consisted of a fresh baked brownie on top of ice cream on top of a fresh baked brownie.  By the end of dinner everyone’s eyes had glazed over and, for once, I wasn’t the only one ready to go to bed at 9pm.


From Left to Right: Leyna, Craig’s forehead, Jeff, Robert, James, and Sharon.

Here’s a little rundown of the guest list:

Leyna – My longest term LA friend; an amazing professional photographer (look HERE): and the person responsible for my career in television; knows most of my secrets.
Craig – A multiple Emmy award winning documentary producer; television story producer; my go-to guy for creative collaboration.
Jeff – A former Venice Beach roommate; the officiant at my upcoming wedding; driving alongside me as we both travel the road of marriage and kids simultaneously.
Robert – Owner of The Ave Barbershop in Redondo Beach (look HERE); person who makes my perfect hair look more perfecter; recently had 2nd baby and challenged me to have one.
James – A talented professional screenwriter; one of the funniest people I know; we share a mutual love of Prince; love interest of Sharon.
Sharon – My second longest LA friend; one of the most loyal people I’ve ever known; an advertising executive; knows the rest of my secrets.

After dinner we did what any crazy party people would do, played “Cards Against Humanity” for two hours.


James gives me a knowing/creepy/pervy wink while Jeff and Robert watch Leyna explain how Craig is cheating.

At that point it was around 11pm and the only thing keeping any of us awake was the cacophony of yawns reverberating off the walls. So, like any gracious host, I looked around at my wonderful friends and gave my speech…

“I’m tired, get out.”


Finally, in the wee hours of the night (cough*11:42pm*cough), I put on my sleeping spirit hood and pondered my life in the giant all knowing nipple of humanity.


And with amazing friends, a great family, a perfect bride-to-be, a baby on the way, and glorious adventures ahead, I realized that I need not ask for meaning from the giant nipple because I already had the answer. Life is good. Very, very good.


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