The kid party. Those of you who are parents know the (unnecessary) amount of time, effort, stress, and money that goes into throwing the perfect party for your children these days. Growing up, I only had one birthday where I was allowed to invite friends for a party. It was my seventh birthday, and I invited over five buddies. There was no bounce house, no magician, no DJ, no wanna-be-actor dressed like Twerking Elmo. Nope, just cake, ice cream, and my friends, and it was awesome. The biggest splurge we had was that the ice cream was Neapolitan, so I guess we weren't entirely guilt-free.

Not sure when all of this changed so drastically, but my first introduction to it was when my son Roman was three and got invited to his friend's birthday party in Pacific Palisades. The boy's father and I were also friends, so I had reasonably high hopes that the party would be a good time for me as well.

The backyard was decked out with all the necessary birthday accoutrements, including a Disney-themed bounce house. The open-air detached garage had an amazing sushi display, plus pizza and chicken nuggets for the kids, as well as the prerequisite vegan spread. Because it was L.A. after all, and God forbid your kid was the one labeled as “the boy who had no crudité at his party.” In the corner of the garage was where all of the moms were huddled, not because of the crudité, but because of the rosé. Yep, wine and a keg of beer, because nothing screams perfect three-year-old birthday shindig louder than ice cream and Natty Ice.

The party was in full swing when “the entertainment” arrived. He was half an hour late, but none of the kids cared once the much-anticipated Winnie the Pooh stepped foot into the backyard. The kids cheered and I punctuated those cheers with a sashimi spit take worthy of an Academy Award. The reason being, Winnie the Pooh looked more like Vinnie the Pooh who had just rolled in from a hard night of honey dippin'.

Seriously, the fur on his suit was more matted and dirty than a carpeted jetway at LaGuardia. There was also a good four inches of separation from the end of his Pooh arm to his paw. The amount of visible hair in that area alone led me to believe Vinnie was either in witness protection or could possibly be the missing link. Then there were his eyes. The only way to describe them is to say they looked like the result of a one-night stand between Cookie Monster and Steve Buschimi.

All of that being said, the kids genuinely seemed to enjoy his plethora of Poohness during the party, but it's what took place after that struck me as a bit odd. Pooh was officially off the clock and he motioned to my friend to meet him on the side of the garage. There he collected his check for a job…done and apparently also requested to stay a bit longer to grab some food. So my friend happily obliged. Vinnie promised that even though he was off the clock, his Pooh head would remain on for the sake of the children. Look at that Johnny Depp–like commitment to character, you go Pooh.

At this point, my son had fallen asleep in my arms, so I was standing alone about 20 feet away from everyone and it was the perfect vantage point for what I was about to witness. From there, I saw Pooh enter the garage and exchange greetings with the giddy wine moms. Not sure what he said, but they were all entranced as they looked at him. It was truly bizarre; they were gazing at him like he was Brad Pitt in Meet Joe Black. Actually for all I know, it's L.A., maybe it was Brad, it would've made more sense. He then grabbed a Solo cup and filled it from the keg, strategically tilting back his Pooh head just enough to simultaneously hide his face and fill his gullet with the suds. He then leaned forward and said something that made the wine moms giggle like teenage girls would after hearing Justin Bieber say a word like “poot.”

This continued on for a good 10 minutes and after sliding a slice or two of pizza, plus another brew, under his dome, I couldn't help but wonder…just what the hell is he saying to these women? I mean, at one point they were pulling out phones and I assume, exchanging numbers for potential party gigs. But maybe not, maybe Tigger was always coming home late from work and they were fed up and wanted Pooh to tap that honey? Who knows? It was genuinely baffling.

I wanted to go and get a beer just to eavesdrop, but chose not to because I couldn't live with myself if I potentially cockblocked Winnie the Pooh. Plus, it may have led to a ban from other kid parties, so I kept my distance. When he finally left, a few of the women huddled up to apparently dish about their honey bear and I just stood there alone, holding my sleeping son and wondering what the hell I had just witnessed.

A year or so later and after telling this story a hundred times, I was inspired to write a television comedy script based on the character that I encountered that day. Needless to say, Kid Party Clown was not picked up by any network. The most common notes I received on the script were “too dark,” “this wouldn't happen,” and “make it more realistic.” Maybe the problem was, it was too realistic? Maybe all of the network executives who make these decisions know what occurred on that day of the Pooh and they wanted to keep it quiet, because they have parties to throw as well. Illuminati? No, more like Poohminati…confirmed. Makes me long for the days of slurping up some semi-melted Neapolitan.