As the time on my cable box flips to midnight, it finally becomes a reality:  My Quarter Centennial has arrived.  Never in my life could I fathom turning 25.  I remember wanting to turn 16 so I could drive a car.  After turning 16 and obtaining a license, I realized I had now become my parents’ errand boy.  I remember wanting to turn 18 so I could be free from my parents’ reign and march forward with my newfound, government-approved, independence.  After turning 18 and legally gaining my “independence,” I instantly discovered that no child will ever be free from their parents’ reign.  I remember wanting to turn 21 so I could legally drink and never have to worry about underage harassment again.  I don’t however actually remember turning 21.  I’ve been told I had a great time.

I’ve always thought that people who said, “Age is just a number” were pathetically old.  Well, turns out I was right.  When I was 20, my buddy, Griff Dawg, turned 25.  Besides my parents, he was now the oldest person who’s number was in my phone.  He told me that he didn’t feel any older than 18, and only now can I agree with him.  Some things haven’t changed:

• I still dress the same:  Sandals, baggy jeans, and no shirt.
• I still have my parents reminding me to be at the airport 8 hours early.
• I still complain about things that don’t really matter.
• I still pretend to have a clue.
• I still have a bottle of Andre permanently glued to my hand.

But many things have changed:

• No longer does my long hair and stubble make me look rugged and adventurous. Now it makes me look unbathed and unemployed.
• No longer do people tell me that school is my job.  Now they tell me to get a real job.
• No longer do girls make out with me on pool tables because their “birthday t-shirt says they have to.”  Now I get, “excuse me sir, can you take a picture of me while I make out with this kid on a pool table?”
• No longer do I have a “birthday week.”  Now I have exactly 24 hours before someone comes along and kicks me off my high horse.
• No longer do I get invite to 21st birthday parties.  Now I get invited to engagement parties and weddings.  Although, these aren’t a total bust because the booze is usually free.
• No longer do I get a Facebook message from a pretty girl that says, “Had a great time last night, can’t wait to see you again!”  Now it says, “Who are you and why did you ‘friend’ me at 3am?  Fuck off, creep.”
• No longer do I stay up until the early morning because I’m out drinking with friends.  Now I stay up because the 8 cups of coffee I had at work are still coursing through my veins.
• No longer do I see girls wearing birthday tiaras and glitter-covered shirts.  Now I see them wearing sweaty bangs and beer guts.
• No longer am I exhausted from partying for 72 solid hours.  Now I’m exhausted from the idea of partying for 72 solid hours.
• No longer do I drink shot after shot of Jager until I’m so drunk I don’t know my own name.  Now I drink bottle after bottle of wine because it’s classier.

I guess it’s not all bad?  I mean, now I can rent a car and legally be an 18-year-old’s chaperone on a cruise.  Now if only I had a reason to rent a car or a job as a high school gym teacher, I’d be in business!  When it comes to hitting the Quarter Centennial, I will say that it is much worse for a girl.  Odds are that she’s already peaked at 18, expired at 21, and is now beginning to curdle at 25.  If I was still in school, I’d be old as fuck.  But since I’m not, I only feel old as fuck.  People in the real world (old people) are actually jealous of my youth.  That’s the crazy thing about 25:  you’re too old for school, and too young for work.

There are many things in life that we can control; unfortunately time is not one of them.  I think if we can ever come to terms with that fact, then we’d all be much better off.  I guess I should be thankful, because according to my cousin, I have already “beaten my life expectancy by 7 years and am living on borrowed time.”  It really is true that “Age is just a number.”  Unfortunately, that number is now 25, and that’s halfway to 50.

I’m going to wrap this up because if I do anymore typing at my age, I see the phrase “carpal tunnel” in my not too distant future.  Also, it’s clearly way past my bedtime.  So after I polish off my glass of warm milk, empty my bed pan, and position myself gently on my bed as to not throw out my back, there is one thing that will keep me smiling as I drift off to sleep:  Griff Dawg will be turning 30.

Growing up, so many things were uncool: parents, homework, and rules… just to name a few.  A few things that were cool?  Trampolines, no homework, passing notes in class, and my personal favorite, Go Karts (I’ll be spelling this the “Nintendo” way for the rest of the story, so get used to it).  Since I couldn’t have a trampoline because the “neighbors would sue if (when) their kid fell off,” (bullshit by the way) and passing notes in class was a bit too gay for me, Go Karts really struck my fancy Keep reading…

In High School, if you can’t find a vacant house at which to party, you usually end up somewhere public; parks and apartment complexes are popular choices. Mediterranean Manors, aka M&M, happened to be both.  Technically, it was a Townhouse complex with a park in the center.  I had a friend who lived in this complex, so I discovered this gold mine when I was a sophomore in High School.  The following is an account of when our “Private Party” was interrupted by Johnny Law.  Better known as The Great Escape.

(Open these Maps to follow along: Escape Path and Aerial View)

On Christmas Eve during my senior year of High School (these kinda things happen only minutes after An Hour of Prayer for a Lifetime of Sin), some friends and I needed a place where we could smoke some California Tobacco hassle-free.  So, we met up at the trusty ol’ M&M Park.  At this time, Pergola and I were the only ones in High School; we also went to different High Schools.  The others were all home for the holidays from different colleges around the country.  We were meeting here to start our evening, and then figure out where to go next.  I drove my car with a couple passengers; my buddy Guy did the same.  There were 7 of us in total:  Guy, Burn’d, Big C, Pergola, Stever, Possible Narc (the only kid I didn’t previously know), and myself.  Like usual, we sat comfortably atop one of the picnic tables and passed around the study pipe.

Somewhere amidst the second rotation, Big C notifies me that he sees two cars approaching.  I’m currently facing the water, so I can’t see what’s behind me.  Big C’s tone of voice changes as he makes a subtle announcement…

Big C  “That second car is a cop.”
Stever  “So is the first one.”

Oh shit.  Two cops trolling through a neighborhood slowly?  Not good.  Instead of continuing along the road, both cars pull onto the grass and into the park area, slowly heading straight towards us.  All signs point to fucked.  I start walking towards the water with study pipe in hand; Pergola whispers to me…

Pergola  “You gonna run?”
Me  “You bet your ass.”
Pergola  “Then take this.”

Pergola hands me a half-pound of California Tobacco; I am a team player.  I toss the study pipe somewhere in the grass, put the Cali Tobacco in my jacket, and continue walking towards the water.  There is a 2-foot drop when it turns from grass to sand; I crouch down and slowly crawl behind this sand bank.  I’ve made it about 10 yards and start to think I am home free.  All of a sudden, a spotlight hits me.

Intercom Voice  “You in the tan, FREEZE!”

I jump up, freeze, and stare into the spotlight like a deer in headlights.  I have less than a second to make a life altering decision: either put my hands up and come clean, or bolt.  I have never run so fast in all my life.  As I sprint down the beach, I attempt to toss that half-pound into one of the canoes resting along the shore.  I make a sharp left as I see a flashlight wiz passed my head, followed by an even sharper right.  Remember my friend who I said lives in this complex?  Well, good thing he never locks his front door.  I dart into his house, up the stairs and into his room.  I’m panting, sweating, and smelling like a Phish concert.

Me  “Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God…”
Friend  “What?  What’s wrong?”

We both hear sirens.

Friend  “Dear God.  What the fuck did you do?”

I explain the situation as I almost slip into a panic attack.  I wait until the siren noises fade, and then I call Big C.  No answer.  Next, I call Guy.  No answer.  Suddenly, as my buzz begins to fade, I realize that it’s a terrible idea to individually call each person who’s probably being questioned by the cops right now.  I call Guy’s sister instead and tell her to drive towards the neighborhood and tell me what’s going on.  Once she arrives, she calls me back.

Sis  “Well, there’s a cop at the entrance, other than that, it doesn’t seem too bad.  I’m turning the corner right now and… Holy fuck.”
Me  “Holy fuck?  What?  What do you see!?”
Sis  “There’s, one, two, three… seven cop cars.  Yep, there’s my dumbass brother talking to the cops.”
Me  “What else?”
Sis  “They are in 2 groups of three; each group is talking to different cops.”

Me  “That can’t be good.”
Sis  “No, it can’t.  Ok, I’m gonna take off, I think it looks weird if I just slowly keep driving around in circles.”
Me  “Right, thanks a lot.”
Sis  “Sure thing.”

At this point, I know I am definitely going to jail.  Christmas behind bars?  I just can’t stop making the family proud.  The probability of 6 people delivering a consistent alibi is practically impossible.  Also, as I previously mentioned, I did not know Possible Narc.  Although my friends are solid and trustworthy, most any High School kid will throw someone under the bus in half a second when it comes to saving their own ass, especially if they don’t know the person.  Since I’ve relived this story a million times, let’s switch to their point of view.

First off, when the two original cops started chasing me, the huskier one slipped in a ditch; Needless to say, he decided to stay behind.  His embarrassment turned to anger as he pulled out his glock and told my friends, “there’s 6 of you and I have more than 6 bullets.  Don’t be stupid.”  He then proceeded to call in aerial support (a helicopter) and give the pilot my description.

Husky Cop  “We have a hot foot pursuit!  Suspect is 5’7”, 140 lbs, and wearing a tan jacket.”

Apparently the Husky Cop was also blind, because although I was wearing a tan jacket, at the time (and now) I was 5’11”, 175 lbs.  The cop who was chasing me gave up after he assumed I hopped a wall and was now running through a neighboring shopping plaza.  As the helicopter hovered above with its spotlight on, each one of my friends, with the exception of Stever, was questioned separately before being grouped together.

An important thing to remember: all of these kids were lit up like a fucking Christmas tree while being interrogated by the police.  All of the questioning revolved around me; luckily my friends are intelligent, knew exactly how to play it.  They just kept telling the cops that I had approached them because I thought I had recognized them.  They said they had no idea who I was but that I had told them my name was Ryan.  The police continued to pace around scratching their heads while trying to piece together this mystery.

The real amazing thing is that not once did the cops accuse anyone (except Burn’d; they called him “Smokey”) or even notice that all of these suspects smelled like oregano and looked like they had just used chlorine eye drops; we were literally mid-toke as the cops ambushed us.  They did however keep questioning them about my car.  My friends just kept their cool and played dumb.  Apparently a pesky neighbor had recognized my car as a frequent park visitor and phoned in the complaint.  This did shed some light on as to why the cops where there in the first place.  Like I said, M&M had become a very popular party spot.  I can recall times when we would drop kegs there and/or have full on rowdy boxing matches with no police intervention.  So it seemed very peculiar for the cops to show up when we were very calmly and quietly enjoying nature’s botanical gift.

After about 45 minutes of fruitless interrogation, and after calling in absurd amounts of back up, the fuzz had no choice but to cut my friends loose.  This seemed too good to be true; of course it was.  Right as they are free to go, one of the cops discovers the half-pound.  Apparently my attempt to throw it into a canoe did not work out as planned.  He presents the package to my friends; this is when they really put on a show.

Officer Busted  “Can you explain this?”
Guy  “What is that?”

Guy, you are hilarious.

Officer Busted  “This is a giant bag of marijuana.”
Guy  “Oh my God, are you serious?  Get that away from me, that stuff’s illegal!”

Guy, you are ridiculous.

Officer Busted  “So you fellas really can’t explain this?”
Burn’d  “Holy cow!  I bet that kid (me) was trying to sell us drugs!”

Burn’d, you are hilarious.

Officer Busted  “Oh yeah?”
Burn’d  “Must be?  And when you guys showed up he got scared and ran!”

Burn’d, you are ridiculous.

At this point, no one knows for sure if the cops are actually buying any of this shit or if they are just trying to cut their loses; they have no solid evidence that incriminates any of these so-called suspects.  Although, finding a big bag of herb can’t be good for its owner (me).  This is point when Sis drove by and gave me the details via phone.  After being separated, both groups of 3 miraculously managed to continuously spit up the exact same alibi.  Finally after about 2 hours of some serious buzz killing, the majority of the cops leave and cut all of my friends loose.  Let’s switch back to my point of view.

I’m still hold-up in my friend’s place, shaking like a crack head and now wearing his clothes; Apparently I believed changing outfits would “save the day.”  If not obvious by now, I am a dumbass.  My phone rings; it’s Burn’d.

Burn’d  “Dude!”
Me  “Dude?”
Burn’d  “Dude.”
Me  “Dude?”
Burn’d  “We just left, it’s all good.”
Me  “What?  Are you fucking serious?”
Burn’d (laughing) “Yeah man, they let us go.”
Me (crying) “What the fuck?  How did that happen?”
Burn’d  “Long story.  Hey, they kept asking about your car.”
Me  “Yeah?”
Burn’d  “Yeah, so wait a while first, then call me when you get outta there.”
Me  “Ok, sounds good.  Where are you going?”
Burn’d  “To a different park, Pergola has more weed.”

Every once in a while, Johnny Law bends over and takes what he has coming to him.  A few months ago, I was unjustly issued a parking ticket by the City of Los Angeles Parking Violations Bureau; I submitted my appeal which I assumed they would have used as toilet paper or a coaster.  It must have been a clerical error, because somehow they decided to overturn the ruling and give me the victory.  The feeling is rather bittersweet though, because the same day I received this letter, I got another parking ticket; that ticket, however, was entirely my fault.  I truly am just a dumbass.  If you never read Fuck You, City of Los Angeles Parking Violations Bureau!, I recommend you do that first.

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Ladies and Gentlemen,

I bring to you some bad news.  A brave soldier, a God among men, a being so great that he was not even human, has passed on.  The Hero that was, and the Legend that is Master Golden Nugget aka “Nugs”.  At the tender age of 13 and 3 quarters, approximately 96 in human years, our old friend and confidant has moved on to his final resting place, better known as “Doggie Heaven.”  Now, if you are reading this eulogy, it is because in some way, direct or indirect, this unicorn-esque creature has touched your life.

It all started back in ‘95.  My folks made the mistake of taking my sister and I to a breeder’s house.  “I’ll walk him every day!”, “I’ll feed him and give him baths too!” were the lies that I shouted as we searched for the perfect pet.  Meanwhile, my dad stood nearby with a convincing head nod and smile.  It was hard for me to know back then that he was really thinking “Oh God, am I really gonna have to take care of this thing for 15 fucking years?”  Yes dad, you are.  So we had narrowed it down to 2 candidates, Nugget vs Stupid Ugly Dog that my sister wanted.  My mom was going to call for them, and the first one to run to her would then forever rank ahead of me on the Family Ladder of Importance.  Emotions were high as the dogs took off.  Stupid Ugly Dog made it to my mom in seconds, Nugget navigated his way to a shaded area and found it an appropriate place and time to take a nap.  I was devastated, but this was just a little hiccup.  Clearly, Stupid Ugly Dog would not be coming home with us, that’s not the way I would have it.  I ran over to Nugget and proclaimed my love for him loud enough for all to hear (I cried like a little bitch until my parents gave in and let me have him)!  Team Me/Nugget 1, Team Sister/Stupid Ugly Dog 0.

Once he found his new home, he fit right in.  Not unlike his owner (myself), he led a rigorous lifestyle of laying around, eating, watching TV, eating, occasionally peeing outside, eating, occasionally throwing up, eating, occasionally wetting the bed, eating (ok, so his lifestyle was identical to that of his owner).  He loved Nerf Wars (if you don’t know what a Nerf War is, try going back in time to your childhood and enjoying it) just as much as the next guy.  Teams were a bit lopsided when it was Jadidian, Rzymek, Cola (childhood friends) and myself vs. him, but he didn’t seem to mind.  He was a team player.  Well trained from the beginning, he would even bring his owner the remote control.  He might put a few bite marks in it first, run around the house several times, and insist that his owner chase him down and pry it from his gator-tight lockjaw grip, but he had good intentions.  The remote was for a pay-per-view black box that his family was using illegally anyways, so in a way, by destroying the remote, he was just fighting crime (go fuck yourself McGruff).

And let’s all tip our hats to the lad, 96?  Wow!  I never thought he’d make it passed his owner’s High School days.  My mom always jokes about the things that Nugget could probably tell her (which he wouldn’t, because of course he always followed the strict guy code of “bros before hos”), but his silence allowed so many great memories to be made.  If not for his code of ethics and cooperation, many of us would have been completely and utterly fucked, doggy style.  Whether he was witnessing a nervous 14 year old boy try to impress a bunch of girls by taking his first shot of Tequila, only to spit it all over the wall, the girls, and himself (this man graduated from an ivy league school and now works for a very high-powered consulting firm, go figure), or watching his owner find out the hard way that if you replace too much of the vodka in the freezer with water, it will in fact freeze, thus foiling the original plan of inconspicuous consumption (this man later graduated from a state university, maybe not ivy league, but definitely not community college), he never lost his cool.  Even when a tired (passed out) High School pal of his would steal his bed at night, would Nugget bark to wake him up?  No way.  Would he gnaw at his foot?  Hardly.  Instead, he would simply nestle up beside (on top of) him and gently lick his face (this man happens to be an up and coming Tulane Law student).  When his owner would repeatedly trip over him night after night while fidgeting around in the kitchen at 2 in the morning because of hunger which I’m sure was due to natural causes, would he bark or growl in rage?  Of course not!  In fact, he would join his owner in enjoying a taste of whatever masterpiece he had so gracefully (drunkenly) created.

Some 8 years ago, during a period better known as “The Sophomore Haze”, not only was Nugget a great friend to have, but he also doubled as a superb party host.  Greeting people at the door (sniffing their asses), entertaining (wagging his tail), showing off his talents (lapping up spilt beer), and if that wasn’t enough, if we ran out of cups, he would offer up his dog bowl in a split second (as long as he got first dibs)!  And man oh man was he a heart throb, while at the same time managing to remain humble as pie.  He would listen to girls drone on and on about how cute he was and how much they loved him (this particular girl is the only person to speak more human talk to Nugs than my mother, she now resides in Dunedin, Florida and goes to nursing school), even if all he actually wanted to do was lick his crotch and go to sleep.  He had a heart of gold.  It’s a miracle that he was always still eager (able) to wag his tail through the years, having had it slammed in the door multiple times by kids who were a little under the weather (too high to function).  Although at times, Nugs may have been equally as high, and I know that he, being a man of principle, would probably be the first to share the blame.

Even when his owner would sneak out, practically every night, not once did he bark.  Now some will claim this is because he barely ever barked, and ultimately lost the ability to bark, or that he would sleep more deeply than a college kid on New Year’s Eve, but this is not the case.  Nugget’s silence was for his owner’s safety.  He knew that if he made any noise and awoke anybody who really didn’t need to be awaken, that his owner would in fact catch a vicious grounding.  When his owner returned home one night, too tired (inebriated) to open the door, he actually jumped up and pawed it open!  And if he had opposable thumbs, I’m willing to bet he would have been holding a cup of coffee for his owner.  But he wasn’t always silent, especially when he feared his owner’s life to be in danger!  So many times his owner would be enjoying a cocktail, or perhaps a California cigarette, on the back porch.  The instant Nugs heard the garage door open, he would rush out back to alert his owner that figures of authority had arrived.  This gave his owner just the right amount of time to put his cell phone next to his ear and alert the curious authority figure(s) that he “gets better reception outside”.  Now if only it was as simple to explain the popcorn in the microwave, the bowl of cereal on the counter, the bagel bites in the oven, and the opened bag of carrots which appeared to have been dipped in marinara sauce before eaten.

One night, his owner decided to have a little too much fun (drink beyond excess), sneak out, wreck his car, and park it back in its original spot.  It was actually Nugs’ idea to go with the “somebody stole it, wrecked it, and brought it back” alibi.  Although not his best idea, it was way better than that of his owner’s, which sounded something like “Uh, I don’t know what happened, I was sleeping”.  By 2004, at the ripe age of 10, Nugget was a master of deception, and a veteran partyer.  Fearing that his dog’s alcoholism and slight marijuana addiction may in fact turn into a full blown coke habit, his owner decided it would be best to move out and let “the Nug” (his street name) get clean.  Yes mom and dad, you finally understand why I went to college.  It was not so I could further my education and become a success in this world, or so that I could entangle myself in many compromising situations with promiscuous girls who could hardly be categorized as sanitary, it was so our beloved Nugget could kick his habits.  And he did!  At the age of 70, he had cleaned up his act, going cold turkey since the day his owner left.

His final years were his finest years.  With his drinking problem tamed, Nugs went back to the simpler life of eating, sleeping, eating, watching TV, eating, sleeping.  As for going to the restroom, at his age there was really no need to go outside.  Some may argue that he lost control of his bladder and his bowels, I beg to differ.  The man was clearly making a statement.  I mean really, if you’re 80 something years old, and somebody tells you when and where to go to the bathroom, I think you’d shit right on their floor as well.  And by age 90, you have earned the right to piss wherever and on whatever you please!  Hell, some of you (us) have been doing it on occasion (often) since High School; who are we to judge?

Unfortunately, the time had come for our gracious companion to leave this world behind.  Pain-free and happy, he went to a better place.  He is sharing a cocktail (it’s ok to start again in Doggie Heaven) and a laugh with the likes of other animal greats such as, Thunder (perhaps not in Doggie Heaven), Rebel, Mookey, and the kindergarten class hamster that passed on because I thought the clear ball he walked around in was a pool toy.  And you better believe he will be the first one at the gate, with a bottle of Andre in his paw, a limo cap on his head, and a sign in his hand that reads “Duke, Cleo, Nikki, Welcome to the Party!”  So friends and family, next time you pick up a drink, pour a bit out and share a memory about a great friend of mine and a great friend of yours!  My Dog, My Hero.

MASTER GOLDEN NUGGET aka “NUGS”      Sept 1st, 1995 – June 1st, 2009