Oh, Mandy

There are a lot of beautiful women in Hollywood. Some have coke addicitions, some like to "accidentally" show their kibbles and bits to the paparazzi. Some are happily married, some ruin the greatest love story of all-time and sully the good name of MTV reality by divorcing Nick Lachey. Most are so ridiculously popular and wealthy that they wouldn't allow me to valet their car. But then there are the select few, nay, one who has it all going on yet avoids the limelight, avoids prison, and also appears surprisingly attainable to a dashing young fellow like myself. I am of course, talking about the delightful Miss Mandy Moore.

I fully admit that I have no shot with Nicole Kidman. Her perfect skin will never touch mine. And even if I wanted to, Britney is probably done with all guys named Kevin. I will never get to see Paris at night, and I would never want to get in between Rachel McAdams and Ryan Gosling. But Mandy, Mandy is different. I think she is just the type of girl who might fall for a guy like me. The down-to-Earth style which Mandy appears to lead her life is just the reason she may be looking to go outside of her normal circle to find her next boyfriend.

Now, Mandy has dated Wilmer Valderrama, Andy Roddick, Vincent Chase, and Zach Braff. I once stole and drank Anna Kournikova's Wawa coffee. Mandy is a wildly popular, classicly beautiful triple threat who has achieved great success in the realms of film, television, and music. I am a lanky, neurotic, self-destructive pop culture-phile with no discernable talent whose greatest success is a 10 second stint in the background of an episode of the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air at the tender age of 12.

However, after working with Everyman-appeal actor John Krasinski on her recent film License to Wed, and dealing with Wilmer running his mouth off to Howard Stern, Mandy is ready for a break from the Hollywood guys. She will find in me the same self-inspecting, slightly narcissistic charm that she saw in Zach Braff, without the crazy shooting schedule. And, like Roddick, I too was on my high school tennis team. Mandy was on the cover of the May 06 Cosmo. I had a page in the June 05 Marie Claire. Mandy had a brief cameo on Entourage. I watch Entourage. And, as an added bonus, according to her wikipedia page, Mandy can't cook but is trying to learn. I am an excellent cook, and while living solo I often dine on Hungry Man dinners, I would be happy to spend hours in the kitchen with my love, creating pasta dishes, gourmet pizzas, steaks, Bananas Foster and whipped cream bikinis.

Now, what is my plan you might ask. Good question. Do I plan to win her over when she accidentally stumbles upon this blog? Unfortunately, I doubt this will appear in the top google results of her name, and I have about three confirmed readers and I don't think any of you know her (by the way, does every blogger/tv/radio host on the planet now use the old Conan O'Brien "no one is watching!" joke now? I think so). So how will I meet my future bride?

By letting her come to me. In the most romantic place on Earth. The gaming floor of the Borgata.



By what some may call coincidence, but I call fate, Mandy is playing with Dawson's Creek theme songstress Paula Cole next month at the Borgata on the same weekend of my mini-family reunion in Ocean City. My guess is that the crowd will not be comprised of too many members of my demographic, thus making me stand out in the sea of women. While it is entirely possible that Mandy will pull me out of the crowd onto stage a la Bruce Springsteen-Courtney Cox in Dancing in the Dark, serenading me with her new favorite cover, Rihanna's "Umbrella",



it is far more likely that Mandy and I will cross paths later that evening, at the gaming tables. What many don't know is that I am a very entertaining gambler, making myself known at Blackjack tables all across Atlantic City. Ok, perhaps that's a stretch, but I am entertaining and can command the attention of a solid $10 table if I can just get a few cards to fall my way. Drawn in by the burgeoning crowd and witty banter, Moore, a little lonely after her performance will wander over to see what all the fuss is about. With the seat next to me being occupied by a large African-American woman named Thelma, Mandy will be forced to wait as I help us all win Alexander Hamilton's with reckless abandon. Finally, overcome with feelings of joy and the all you can eat buffett at the Trump Marina, Thelma will depart, opening a seat for Mandy.

Eschewing formal introductions, Mandy and I hit it off immediately, discussing the post-Labor Day shore crowd, the maze like atmosphere that every casino seems to envelope and the supposed extra oxygen being pumped into the room to keep us all alert and awake. I will learn that Mandy also has a secret love for the WB-classic "Felicity", and spends more hours each week on Fantasy Football than anything else. Between these revelations and a few drinks, it leads to a stroll on the boardwalk, a barefoot walk on the beach, interlocking fingers, stopping only to sit in the lifeguard stand and admire the power and beauty of the ocean's tides and eventually, when the moment is right, a moonlight kiss. The rest, my friends, you will have to read about in the tabloids.