In 1997, I lived in a basement flat in Bayswater, West London, England. Broke as a joke, I spent what little walking-around-money I had on blooms ‘n baubles for this young lady I’d met who’d eventually become my bride. Sticking to a diet of (mostly) baguettes and canned pasta sauce, I’d lose 15 pounds. My friends Steve, Jason, Kevin, and Hans came to visit, and between my atrophy and my Dutch Boy haircut, they agreed I looked like the illegitimate son of David Spade.