Since Derrek is in Egypt celebrating his honeymoon with his lovely bride, I’m going to take a wild guess that he won’t be available to write a new post. So, you’re stuck with me today.

If Derrek were writing today, I’m certain he’d be gushing about our friendship and what a wonderful guy I am. So I’ll pre-return the favor.

I met Derrek back in 1998 when he was the editor of City Style magazine based out of Tampa. The first time we met was at a restaurant in Ybor City where he had gathered the writers of the magazine for an informal meeting. I remember coming from North Tampa and because I was late, I made the mistake of running a red light in front of a police car. For you new drivers out there, this is something you should never do.

I met Derrek in a whirlwind of introductions. I was nervous because this was the closest I’ve been to a real publication that didn’t involve an internship and also annoyed at the ticket I earned on the way. On top of that, all the writers were exuding confidence and familiarity to what was being said – though later I’d learn that they were as green as I was.

Derrek was throwing out ideas and people were grabbing what they could. There was a lot of “I can do that!” and “Let me try that one!” going on, and when Derrek mentioned about a new swing club that had opened up in the city, I raised my hand at writing a review. I was probably drunk at this point, which would explain why I’d agree to write a review about something I had little interest in. But, you know, I was sitting at the table and I could practically smell the ink.

The part people remember about the evening is our waitress, a lovely Irish woman who worked her ass off to keep the beer and food coming to the table. At one point, a small bowl of dipping sauce fell on the ground next to me, splashing small amounts all over. It had come from a table on the floor above us, and it was just one of those things; not a big deal.

But I was a different person then, and there was a lot of beer inside of my belly. The waitress came over and apologized, and I responded by standing up and explaining that I was an attorney. The people at the table were my clients and dipping sauce falling from the sky was unacceptable. I don’t remember the details, but I do remember there being a list of demands. And I remember the look of horror on her face the more I talked and the way Derrek was practically choking with laughter. By the time it was over, our bill was cheaper and they agreed to pay our dry cleaning bill.

When we were throwing money on the table to pay the bill later, Derrek sat down next to me and went over the details of the review. By this time, I sobered up enough to confess that I’m not really a review person, but I’ll certainly write something. He asked me to give it a shot and we’ll see*.

If this story were about you, this would be the end of the story.

But this story is about me and my life of awful coincidences and bizarre luck.

Two nights later, at the request of my roommate, I went on the first and last blind date of my life. Imagine my surprise when I arrived at the bar to meet my date and it was the Irish waitress. Needless to say she wasn’t exactly pleased to meet me, especially when I introduced myself, “Hello, I’m Christian. I’m not really an attorney.”

*The story was “The Illusion of Swing”, not so much a club review but rather a scathing critique of my generation, and it was published in the next issue of City Style, after which Derrek offered me a monthly column. Listen to the story here.