Meeting her parents was a major step, one I had rarely taken with any girlfriend before. I knew how close Lana was with her mom and her stepfather, and how important it was for me to win their approval. She downplayed the upcoming meeting, but it was a big deal. The key to making a good impression was to find common ground. How was I, a middle-class Italian guy from Illinois, going to connect with Lana’s golf-loving wealthy parents from Florida? They might be stuck-up snobs and look down on me and my background. Or they might be warm and accepting. I had no idea. All I knew was that if they didn’t like me, it could be a deal breaker.
The plan was to have dinner at Chinois on Main, Wolfgang Puck’s restaurant in Santa Monica. Nowadays, Chinois is one of our favorite restaurants, but at that time, it was new to me. Everything was new. New relationship, new restaurant, new potential in-laws. They offered to pick me up, but as a man, I could not accept the offer. I had to meet them there. I don’t like talking to people from the backseat. You can’t see their faces, or gauge how they’re reacting. It’s just not ideal. I wanted to engage them in conversation while seated across a table. It was the way I preferred to do it. I also wore my glasses because I thought they would make me look more intelligent. Scott, her stepdad, went to Stanford, for God’s sake.
First impression (mine): Simone was funny, sweet, and easy to get along with. Scott came off as impatient, gruff, the type of guy who with one glance in your direction telegraphs, “Get to the point already.” My family style is to tell stories the long way, to be loud and expressive with lots of commentary and banter. We just sit around and go, “So what else is going on?” Casual. Scott can’t take more than twenty-two words at a time. Lana was really good with him, though, loosening up his straightlaced intensity with her sarcasm.
Scott asked for the wine list. He intended to buy a bottle.
At the time, I was a “by the glass” guy. My friends and I never ordered bottles or even specified winemakers. You wanted a glass of wine, you ordered a glass.
As I’ve come to learn, Scott is referred to as the “Grape Ape” because he’s like an encyclopedia of good wines. Wine lists themselves intimidated the hell out of me. The menu is leather-bound, the paper is heavy stock. At some restaurants, the wine list is so enormous, they bring it out on a pedestal, with a reverent hush. The sommelier is a priest and the wine list is the Holy Book with a tassel as a bookmark.
As Scott perused the Chinois list, I said a little prayer that I could afford whatever the Grape Ape picked out. I went into this dinner thinking that I’d pay for the meal. I wanted to do my part as the host in L.A., and as the man who was trying to impress his girlfriend’s parents. So Scott ordered a bottle of French wine with a long name, and then started rattling off menu items to the waiter so quickly, I couldn’t add up the prices fast enough in my head.
“To start,” he said, “we’ll have the spring rolls, the Chinese chicken salad, the Szechuan pancakes, the ribs, and, for entrées, the duck, the sea bass, the pork shoulder, sizzling catfish . . .”
And I’m thinking, Oh my God. Did I bring enough money for that?
He ordered so much food, it was staggering. The knot of cash in my pocket wouldn’t even cover the appetizers. I thought, I’ll pay for the wine at least. But could I? Scott held the wine list, so I couldn’t see the prices. I devised a plan of going to the bathroom, snagging a wine list on the way, finding the bottle he ordered, and checking if I had enough cash to cover it.
Despite my anxiety, we had a nice dinner. Lana’s parents didn’t carry themselves like snobs. They were just good people who loved food and wine. Lana was constantly smiling and touching my leg under the table, letting me know she was happy about how things were going.
When the bill came—the equivalent of a month’s rent for me—I swallowed hard and said, “Can I contribute?”
Scott said, “Absolutely not. It’s done,” and then he changed the subject. I saw his credit card come back to the table with the bill already paid. He must have slipped it to the waiter beforehand (I found this to be the ultimate gentleman’s trick and have since implemented it in my repertoire). And his card wasn’t plastic. It was titanium or something. The material of the credit card itself was worth more than my savings account.
I was so relieved by how he’d handled the bill, I decided that Scott was a good guy. He was brisk but generous and he was excited to teach me about wine. He’s lived up to that promise, and spoiled me rotten. Up to this point, I’d go to the grocery store and pick the $9.99 Pinot Noir. Wine didn’t have a story, it just had a color, red or white. My father-in-law introduced me to a world of wine that I’d never really known existed. He educated me about the characteristics of wine, and how much to pour in a glass (not all the way to the top). I didn’t know that wine had to breathe. Who the hell knew that wine breathes; does it have a nose? I also didn’t know that it’s a cardinal sin not to make eye contact while toasting. People say that sound is the only sense that isn’t used when drinking wine. You smell, taste, see, feel, but the reason you clink your glasses is so the damn thing goes full circle. There is sound! You must make eye contact to complete the sensory experience, and you better believe that I do the eye thing because urban legend says if you don’t do this, you will have bad sex for seven years. Through Scott, wine became a conduit for me to learn about weather, cultures, families, and heritage. Ask me what year Napoleon fought the battle of Waterloo, I have absolutely no idea. But ask me the best year for a California Cabernet—1996, baby!
Anyway, later that night, Lana and I summed up our Chinois dinner in bed. “They liked you,” she said. “And what’s with the glasses?”
THAT FALL, LANA and I went to her parents’ in Naples for Thanksgiving. I was under a tremendous amount of work stress—touring, management changes—and worried about yet another milestone in our relationship. I’d met the parents already. But now I was going to meet everyone else—the siblings, their spouses and kids, aunts, uncles, family friends. They’d all be checking me out. Even though Simone and Scott had been great in L.A., I was concerned that the difference in our backgrounds would be even more obvious on their turf. Going to their home on the Gulf Coast, right on the water, to be scrutinized by dozens of strangers—and sit for an hours-long formal family dinner—triggered my anxiety. In my family, dinner seating is general admission. In Lana’s you’re assigned seats like at a wedding. If I hadn’t been crazy in love with her, I wouldn’t have gone. We hadn’t said the words yet, though I was bursting to do it.
A few weeks before the holiday, I was doing a gig in Branson, Missouri. I got up in the morning, went to the bathroom to brush my teeth, opened my mouth, and saw a horror.
My tongue had some type of topography map on it written in white fungus. It was covered with white shapes on the top and sides.
I thought I was dying and my tongue was the first thing to pass away. I don’t know what was worse, that I was going to be passing away, or that my final hours would be in Branson, Missouri. I didn’t want to die there, so I canceled my show (one of two times I’ve ever done that; the other was for my daughter’s birth). I landed in L.A., and my sister, a longtime Californian by then, met me at the emergency room. Once I got in to see a doctor, he informed me it was a condition called “geographic tongue,” probably brought on by stress. Hearing that it was harmless and would go away on its own didn’t fill me with comfort. I was constantly looking in the mirror, and every time, I would get all worked up again.
My tongue was still white as paste when we boarded our flight for Florida. I was blown away by Lana’s parents’ house in Naples. The place was huge, as expected, and beautiful. It was not like anything I’d been exposed to before. It had a comfortable feel, but high-styled, decorated and artful. I could see where Lana got her taste.
I smiled with tightly closed lips when I was introduced to the rest of her family, making sure no one saw my tongue. I was worried people would think, The comedian doesn’t smile much, does he?
; Lana and I were put in a separate little guest home, also comfortable-yet-elegant. Simone had left an article from the newspaper about standup comedy on the bed. I came to learn that she was always thoughtful like that, clipping articles and sending small gifts. One part of my brain was going, People take the time to do this shit? The other part really appreciated the kindness. Simone made me feel welcomed and accepted. So accepted, she wasn’t even disgusted by my fuzzy tongue. She knew I was sick and made some Cornish hens stuffed with wild rice, a home-cooked meal that was the perfect remedy to make me feel better.
The next day, I woke up, went to the bathroom to brush my teeth, opened my mouth, and saw a healthy, pink tongue.
Jewish penicillin worked! A Cornish hen saved my life. I smiled normally at dinner. Everyone talked over one another, and though I was used to a captive audience, with one person speaking at a time and others listening, I proceeded to get the seal of approval from all of Lana’s relatives, blood, half-blood, and no-blood.
YOU MIGHT BE thinking, What about your family?
The tables were turned at Christmas, when I brought Lana to my mom’s house in Chicago. My parents were recently separated, and the family was adjusting to that. No more holiday celebrations in my childhood home on the corner lot.
I immersed Lana in the Chicago experience. She hung out around the kitchen table with my family. I had all my friends over. It was a total onslaught for her, but she handled it well. When you take somebody to your hometown, you want to show them where you go to eat, what you like. I grew up on Portillo’s hot dogs and hamburgers, so that was one of our first stops. She sampled a classic Chicago dog (onion, mustard, relish, and a pickle) and an enormous charbroiled burger, and she loved it all. I loved the fact that Lana enjoyed eating food from my hometown, and we had a blast laughing while I shared stories of my childhood with my people.
I gave her a day to rest her stomach, and then we went to Johnnie’s Beef. In Chicago, Italian beef sandwiches with peppers and juice are the thing. She’d never had one before, and Johnnie’s, an all-cash joint on Arlington Heights Road, makes the best. I ordered a sandwich with beef and giardiniera peppers as well as fries, hoping she’d like it as much as I do. She absolutely loved every bite. Watching her enjoy the nostalgic places from my childhood made them new for me again.
She said to me, “I like it here. Good stuff, good people.” My heart sang.
Back home, we went out to shovel snow off the driveway. I was bursting to tell her that I loved her, and I intended to do it that night. While I was shoveling, I saw her making letters in the snow. I looked over to read her message. She’d written in huge letters, “LANA ♥ SEBASTIAN.”
It was kind of high school, kind of goofy, but that was what I loved about Lana. She’s got an innocent quality that I find cute and endearing. I think all artists have to retain the wonder of a child in order to create. I tend to be cynical and anxious, but then she does something like professing her love in the snow, and all my stress just drains out of me.
So she said it first. Or, she wrote it first.
I said it back, and that was it. From that moment on, we were inseparable. When I wasn’t touring, I was with her. She started to come to my local gigs, and whenever possible, she went out on tour with me. I went from being the lone ranger to a guy who was smitten. We could do anything together— work out, eat, explore, cry (well, I’m the crier, she’s not), or go to CVS—and we were always laughing and having a good time.
I CONTINUED TO move up in comedy, doing specials and standup gigs for larger crowds. Lana’s career was flourishing as well. Kelly Wearstler published a design book called Hue that featured a picture of a huge ten-by-twelve-foot painting of Lana’s. Since Kelly is very well respected, her giving Lana that validation inspired even more people to call Lana to commission paintings. She was tapped to create public artworks in the city of L.A. Eventually, Lana turned 100 percent of her focus on pursuing her own projects. We’re still friends with Kelly. She just did the interiors at our home and converted our garage into an incredible art studio.
After two years, I moved in with Lana. Another year went by, and I gave up the lease on my one-bedroom. We both love to travel and wanted to see the world together. We just kind of bounced around for a while, going to Italy, Australia, Mexico, and Napa. We talked about next steps and always knew we’d get married and have kids, but there didn’t seem to be any rush. We finally got married on August 24, 2013, four and a half years after our first date.
We decided to have the wedding in Napa. We had a connection to the region, having taken our first vacation in wine country with Lana’s parents. We did a hot air balloon ride and really kind of fell in love with the quaint little restaurants up there, the vineyards, the food, the wine, the environment. We knew early on we wanted to do a destination wedding—not Chicago, not Naples. It didn’t seem right to have it on one person’s home turf. We lived in California, so we would get married here. And if our guests wanted to come, we’d make it worth their while.
We were adults when we married—I was forty and Lana was thirty—so we didn’t really need things. I was against a registry anyway. I used to do a bit about Italian weddings:
Italians don’t register at Bed, Bath & Beyond. You don’t bring a toaster to a wedding. Italians bring cash. We put it in an envelope. Sometimes, there’s not even a card. We put it in the envelope with a Post-it note: “Congrats!” The bride and groom know they’re getting cash. They’re sitting here with a satin bag that says “CASH” bedazzled in rhinestones. And people walk in and they start making a deposit. Some people wait. They have the dinner, eating the chicken. “Chicken’s kind of dry. The food stinks. Take a hundred out of the envelope.”
For me, coming from where I come from, there’s no wedding planner. You plan the wedding. You hire the caterer. You pick the flowers. You find a place to rent tables and whatnot. And by “you,” I do not mean “me.” I’d never planned a birthday party, much less a whole wedding for two hundred people. I listened to Lana talk about what was going to happen, but as far as my contribution, I went to the tailor to get my tux fitted and I showed up. I also voted yes on having a wedding registry at Wally’s Wine instead of a department store.
Lana loves to collaborate, and the wedding really took off when she met Marc Freidland, the guy who did our wedding invitations. Each invitation was a set of three boxes, each one designed and lined, one with gingham and fake grass, one with stripes, one with clouds. Inside each one was an invite to one of the separate wedding events: the rehearsal dinner, the wedding, and the wedding breakfast the day after. The overall wedding theme was “The Art of Love,” and each event had a theme—“Our Love Is Surreal,” “Isn’t It Romantic?” “Take Love to the Streets”—and a symbol that was relevant to Lana. For example, the butterfly in the wedding invite box was about her father. At his funeral, they had released butterflies, and she associates them with him.
The location was a private home abutting a vineyard. The woman who owned it was a glamorous Italian socialite in her sixties, a big personality, a Sophia Loren type. She rarely (as in, almost never) rented out her grounds for events unless she liked you. So my wife went to meet this woman, and of course, she liked Lana. Everyone likes Lana. My wife admired photos of her and gushed about the French Provincial home, the cypress trees, and the pool. She and her husband were serious art collectors, and the yard was strewn with large sculptures, modern, very much to Lana’s taste, too. Long story short, she agreed to let us have our wedding at her beautiful villa.
I knew a lot of our guests had to make the wedding their fall vacation because they had to pay for flights and hotels. It was a lot to ask, and we were sensitive to that. I wanted my groomsmen—my five best friends from growing up and college—to stay in the same hotel as me, the Solage in Calistoga, so we could hang out all day by the pool.
The first night was an intimate dinner for just family at the Napa Valley Reserve, a private winery my father-in-law belongs to.
The rehearsal dinner was on the second night, a Friday, at the Solage. Lana and Marc figured out a way to project images on the walls of the space, like clouds and cartoon versions of our friends and family. After the meal, Lana and I sat on a lip-shaped couch and were the targets of a roast, MCed by my comedian friend Russell Peters. Four or five months before the wedding, I saw him at the Comedy Store and he said, “My gift to you is, I will DJ the wedding!” He does that on the side, but it could be his main gig he is so good.
“We’re having a band,” I said, “but if you want to DJ the rehearsal dinner and be the MC, that would be great.” So he flew in on a private plane that day, and flew out after the party that night to make his gig in Vegas. He did it all on his own dime. That’s a good friend.
Russell is like the Indian Don Rickles. His comedy is making fun of people, so he was the perfect guy for this event. There were drinks and amazing hors d’oeuvres, dancing, and then our closest friends roasted us and toasted us. My mom was hysterical. My sister killed. My dad’s speech went over like a fart in church. For whatever reason, when he gets in front of people, he becomes a shell of himself. Lana’s sisters went up. My friends raked me over the coals. John Petrelli told the story about our first date, and how Lana didn’t talk (that got a lot of laughs). When the roast was over, unbeknownst to Lana and me, a wave of Vegas showgirl types had been hired to come out with those cigarette trays tied around their necks, but inside were copies of a mock People magazine, with Lana and me on the glossy cover. Inside were all the regular People columns and features and design, but all of it was about us and our lives. Every photo and article. The ads were about us, with our pictures. Even the crossword puzzle was about us.
The magazine was a labor of love by Lana’s sister Heather. If the editors of People saw this, they’d hire her on the spot. Months before, she’d sent out a questionnaire to our guests asking for photos and ideas for this project, questions like “What’s your favorite Sebastian moment?” When Heather is on any project, she is a woman possessed, but this was mind-blowing. She wrote it all, did the layouts, and had it printed so everyone could have a copy. This effort was above and beyond the call. There was so much love and so much enthusiasm for us from everyone there. It wasn’t one of these superficial events where you invite people because they are so-and-so. Everyone there was a close friend or family, and they were being treated to this wonderful weekend.
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