I Played Beer Pong With Avril Lavigne and Brody Jenner and All I Got Was This Stupid Hangover

March 28, 2010

“Re-rack. Triangle.”

It’s nine in the morning. I’m staring across a beer pong table at Avril Lavigne and Brody Jenner.

It’s hot, I’m drunk.

And I’m losing miserably.

Where am I? How did I get here? And why are my pants soaked in warm Coors Light?

Read on.

A mere 6 hours earlier, I was resting comfortably in my quiet Hollywood apartment, enjoying a cold slice of Domino’s over an enchanting Billy Mays infomercial.

It was then — without warning — that Hurricane J.J. struck.

At 2:32am Pacific Standard, J.J. Jones made landfall at my front door, bursting half-cocked through the living room, whirling wildly and spouting something incoherent about an after-party.

“Get on the fun train baby!” says JJ. “Time to be on this fun train, whoo-WHOO!”

Um, what?

“Get on some pants and bring that guitar!” he hollers. “Train’s leaving!”

Nope. Sorry JJ, not this time…

Five minutes later, I’m in the back of JJ’s Escalade. I am wearing pants.

The stereo is cranked. I’m seated between 3 other party-goers and my roommate Colin. Where we’re headed, no one knows. My black Fender acoustic lays askew on the seat beside me.

It’s 3:05 by the time we pull up to the W on Sunset. We’re led down a series of hallways until we reach what looks like a posh Renaissance speakeasy, abandoned save for 10 or so people mingling around an empty bar.

10 people. Awesome, J.J.

A warm bed and cold pizza is starting to sound real good about right now.

I step behind the un-manned bar and reach for the whiskey. A guy to my right looks over and introduces himself.

“Hey man, have we met?”

“I’m not sure… maybe – I’m Paz,” I extend a hand.

“Cool,” he says as we shake, “I’m Brody. Brody Jenner.”

Right.

I begin searching for ice. There’s an emo looking chick sitting on the bar above the ice machine. I nod hello.

“What’s your name?” she asks.

She’s a tiny girl with chunky black boots and eyeliner for days.

“I’m Paz, nice to meet you.”

“Ha, cool name, “ she says, “I have a funny one too. I’m Avril.”

Of course you are.

I shake my head and take a quick glance around the room, just to make sure Justin Bieber isn’t ambling through the foyer.

(He’s not.)

Someone grabs me by the forearm. It’s J.J.

“Yo. I’m calling my driver – guitar’s coming, get ready.”

What?! NO.

There are like 10 people in the room, half of whom are likely more qualified to sling a 6-string than me. Plus there’s already music playing.

But 90 seconds later, JJ’s driver is parading my black Fender through the curious crowd.  JJ takes it from him and hands it to me.

He then scales the bar, stands atop it and bellows…

“YO YO TURN THE MUSIC OFF! Everybody SHUT the FUCK up!”

Jesus.

The music is killed. Avril boos.

“YO. Listen up! My boy Paz is gonna play something.” He looks down and slaps me on the shoulder. “Dude, play that thing.”

24 eyes swing squarely to me… at least 2 of them heavily eyelinered.

There’s nothing I can possibly do at this point. The collective laser-like gaze of the room is boring a hole through my forehead.

Someone coughs uncomfortably.

I slowly lift the guitar, slip the pick out from between the strings on the headstock, and strum the most awkward G major I’ve ever strummed in my life.

“In L-A…” I start quietly, “Welcome to the jungle of big dreams, bright lights and movie screens…”

It’s the opening to “Golden State of Mind” – a cover of Jay-Z’s Empire State of Mind with the words remixed for Los Angeles. It’s maybe my best hope for getting out of this with a shred of dignity intact.

“Now you’re in LA…. These streets will make you feel fa-mous, these hills are where fame lives…”

Some heads start bobbing. The words are coming out louder, more confidently.

“Let’s hear it for L-A…L-A… L-A…”

Brody smiles.

By the time I hit the second chorus, people are slapping the bar in time. Brody Jenner is banging on the wall like a drum kit. Avril is on top of the bar stomping her feet and cheering. Fists are pumping. The room is on fire.

When I hit the last chord, there’s a cacophony of hollering and applause. I’m swallowed by a sea of back-slaps, fist bumps and high fives.

I am Jack’s still-beating heart.

One of the most vocal sing-along-ers in group, a floppy-haired blonde dude in a fitted black suit, comes bouncing up to me with a mile-wide grin, throwing an arm around my neck in a half-headlock.

“That was SICK man! Did you WRITE THAT?”

I tell him I did. He looks vaguely familiar…

“Dude nice to meet you!” he says, “My name’s Jesse.”

No way.

Way.

Who else could it be. Jesse McCartney, teen idol, at your service.

“Hey,” says Avril, descending from her bartop perch, “Great song – mind if I play one too?”

For those keeping score at home, Avril Lavigne just ASKED ME if she could play a song.

I trip over myself handing the guitar to Avril, and she situates herself on top of a nearby booth. Everyone gathers around as she launches into Knocking on Heavens Door. Jesse and I join on harmonies. This subdued after-party has suddenly transformed into the most surreal Hollywood campfire session I’ve ever witnessed.

Avril plays two more of her own, then hands the guitar to Jesse, who turns to me.

“Why don’t you play another one man,” says Jesse. “You know any Usher?”

Oh. I do.

We burn through a dirty cover of Confessions. Jesse hits every note pitch perfect, which is impressive considering its 5am and we’re each no fewer than a dozen vodka sodas deep.

I feel like I’m back at the frat house. Except the Budweiser-soaked couches have been replaced by red velvet divans.  And the pledge master has a show on MTV.

It’s 7:30am by the time things start winding down. McCartney’s the first to call it a night.

“Gotta bounce,” he says, rising for the exit. “But dude,” he turns to me, “What’s your NAME?!”

I tell him. He nods, “Let’s do this again.”

“Hey,” Avril comes up and puts a hand on my shoulder. “I’m getting a few people together for an after-party at my place. You wanna come?”

I could have sworn she just said “after party.” But it’s 8 in the morning. What are we gonna do, make omelets and watch cartoons?

I’m in.

Our crew of 5 stumbles out the door. Natural light greets me with an open-handed slap to the dome.

We struggle through the blinding white rays of morning to Avril’s waiting SUV – it’s me, Brody, Avril, her assistant, and a couple dudes I’ve never met.

How I am in this car, I have no clue. And apparently neither does anyone else.

“Hey,” whispers one of the guys to Avril, “is that the dude from American Idol?”

I’m too delirious to laugh.

20 minutes of Sunset Boulevard blur before my eyes, and I suddenly find myself in a stranger’s backyard, struggling to focus across a faded green ping pong table at two figures shaped suspiciously like Avril Lavigne and Brody Jenner.

“Re-rack. Triangle.”

It’s hot, I’m drunk.

And my pants are soaked in warm Coors Light.