Normally, I'd wait a certain
period of time and then write about all the shit that down during said time
period. It's rare that I focus on specific days, but since the wedding has been
on everyone's line of sight for an entire month, and how the day (and the
aftermath of that day) reeked of some level of significance, I decided to write
about it.
To those who just joined in,
Lloyd, one of my oldest friends, decided to get married (a seemingly good idea)
and decided to get me and a bunch of people from the class of '98 to provide
him with a memorable day (perhaps not as good an idea). For a month or so, I
have been bending over backwards, acquiring the right assistance, meeting up
with people I didn't think I'd be speaking to again and other random tasks while
still maintaining the other dimensions of my life with a level of sanity. As
the day came, well, as far as I'm concerned it was a worthy beginning for Lloyd
and his wife, and it was a worthy ending for me and the rest of them. It was a
weekend that started with a few broken promises, and ended with, if I recall
correctly, at least one broken vehicle.
The Day Before.
The day before the wedding,
weirdly enough, me and the Big Man were tasked to find the Best Man. (Yeah, the
day before the wedding and the Best Man still had no idea what to do, thanks to
the amazing coordinating powers of whoever the fuck was in charge of that.) So
we found him, and amazingly enough, he was surprised to see us. I was apparent
to me at that point that I was actually a part of the most relaxed wedding in
the history of weddings. So, the Big Man, the Best Man and I, thinking that
there was adequate time, decided to plan a little bachelor's party, since, and
I admit I'm an expert, the Best Man and the Groom haven't had the chance to
spend time with each other before the wedding, or for the past 7 or 8 years.
So, everything was locked
down, the boys were called, and the Big Man and I parted ways with the promise
of reconvening that night for some unforgettable and possibly quite regrettable
silliness. He went off to get some sleep (we didn't get much cause of the
wedding thing) and I went off to see the Anti-Thesis, who was dealing with boy
problems and I was there to, you know what, I don't really know why I was
there.
With everyone pumped at the
thought of a night out, we went about our respective days. Evening fell, and
the Groom, disappointingly but not surprisingly, backed out. No bachelor's
party. No drinking and singing and reminiscing and talking about the future.
That... that just blew.
That was our precious “night
before” story. The Big Man, from what I was told, spent the night looking for
porn (he was unsuccessful I think), the Best Man spent the night wishing he
could learn to make spaghetti (long, sadly boring story), the Artist Formerly
Known as The Spirit had acquired the guitar he was going to use for the
reception dinner, and me... I was kinda falling in love. So, my night wasn't so
bad.
The Big Day – Pre-Wedding.
I woke up, suited up, had
coffee and hoped that the day wasn't as big a shitstorm as I was
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| I actually thought they were gonna French. |
expecting it
to be. The Big Man picked me up, and the first omen came: his shoes were
mysteriously fucked up. He swears that they were okay just the day before. We
downed energy drinks and we were on our way.
The first stop was The Artist
Formerly Known As The Spirit, who was surprisingly already prepared for the
day’s festivities. Now, this guy, the Artist Who Conveniently Forgot His Court
Date, is notoriously unprofessional and inefficient. The fact that when we got
there, he was ready, gear all packed up, lyrics all ready to be printed, songs
ready to be sung, I thought the world was going to fucking end. Don’t get me
wrong, I don’t like underestimating people for I believe in the human
potential. But I’ve known the Artist Who Once Shat His Pants In A Jeep since
kindergarten, so I’d like to think my assessment was fair.
We got to the place where the
reception was going to be held, and of course, the trend of nothing going our
way continued. No one has set up, nor informed the people there that we’ll be
coming in early for soundcheck, our self-important coordinator forgot to secure
the equipment we needed, it was hotter than Satan’s asshole, etc, etc. All that
changed when the Best Man arrived, and I left the Big Man and The Artist Who
Used A Scouring Pad on His Anus to worry about the tent so we could look for
the Groom. The Groom and the Best Man have not seen each other in years, and
seeing them finally meet for the first time on that very important day gave me
heterosexual chills. For me, that moment made all the hard, unpaid work worth
it.
After all of that was set, the
boys rode to the church in the school where we not only met, but I’d like to
think grew up in. St. Michael’s Institute’s least favorite boys return to the
alma mater as men, more or less. As the Groom got ready for the big moment,
with the Best Man at his side, me, The Big Man and the Artist Who Once Fell in
The School Lagoon went off to have lunch at the former Little Carlo’s, once a
rinky dink tapsi place where we had lunch every day, now a less than rinky dink
tapsi place where we have lunch once a year. I walked around telling people I
was the one getting wed, but despite the suit and in ill chosen pink tie, no
one believed me. Sad, really.
The moment was at hand, I was
full, the Big Man and The Artist Who Would Sleep With Probably Anything That
Says Yes went home to shower (don’t ask) and I was witness to one of the most
important moments in the life of a guy I knew since the most important thing in
our lives was the SNES.
The Big Day – The Actual Wedding.
I’d like to say the wedding
went off without a hitch, and it mostly didn’t. The only mistake made was
getting a 6’ 3” guy who injured himself playing a children’s game on the beach
as one of the ushers. I was out of place, I missed cues and other shit like
that. It’s a good thing the attention wasn’t on me.
I’ve been to a lot of
weddings, been best man or host or usher to almost all of them, but this was
different. This was our church, in our hometown. This was where our roots were
planted, and seeing one of our own tie the knot here, it was just symbolic of
many things. We’ve been grown ups for a while now, but the really hit home once
the Bride and Groom said their “I do’s”.
It felt very solemn for me.
Even though I was texting and tweeting the entire time.
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| Lucky guy. Gets married AND graduates from Starfleet Academy. |
The Reception Dinner.
Up to that point, everyone
else have done their part, some in a shitty fashion, but it was put up or shut
up time for me and my two man crew. Right after the wedding, The Big Man and
the Artist Who Once Let the Neighbor Kid Get Bitten by a Snake raced to the
tent in the resort to work our magic. When we got there, miraculously,
everything was set up perfectly. I felt that it was going to work out well. I
shouldn’t have underestimated the Artist Who Denies Having Fathered a Child’s
capacity to fuck things up.
At the last minute, he
mentioned he lost his capo or whatever and the Big Man had to drive him to the
mall, on Saturday afternoon in one of the most notoriously heavily trafficked
areas in the South. So, the guests were piling in, I had no musician and no
coordinator and had to start. Help came in the form of the Bride’s younger
sister, who was either bored and looking for something to do other than sit
there and look pretty, or she realized who epically fucked I was and lent a
helping hand. (Or both.) We made do until the Big Man and The Artist Who May or
May not Be a Retard showed up.
The rest of the program, while
not perfect, was fun. I made jokes, people laughed. The Artist Who Actually Had
Talent sang and people gasped. The Big Man did his thing, giving the
photographers and the caterers and everyone else all the necessary instructions
and basically not making me look like a complete jackass in front of a hundred
complete strangers. Even the Best Man stole the show with his toast. (One note
though, “stealing the show” isn’t always a good thing.)
And of course, the singing. There
were instances wherein me and the Artist Who Knew Perfectly Well I Couldn’t
Sing For Shit had to perform duets and stuff. Above and beyond, that’s what it
was. We closed the program with the Groom singing a Backstreet Boys song to the
Bride, with assistance from us, his very own backstreet boys, and I thought
that got over pretty well.
The program ended, and in
retrospect, while it was far from going down in history as the greatest
reception dinner in all of wedded history, it was pretty good for three guys
who had minimal experience and even less time to prepare. All the important
people had a great time, and me and my friends created a moment that was ours.
The After-party.
After the whole thing, me and
boys hung out with the Bride and Groom in the hotel lobby for a bit, and it was
nostalgia all over. It wasn’t the kind wherein we’d sit down and talk about the
past. It was more like we reverted back to our “ideal selves”. We weren’t the
irresponsible single dad, or the cheating husband or the former suicidal drug
addict. We were just the guys who were happy for our friend, while kinda
hinting that the Artist Who is Actually Straight is super gay.
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| We're proud of our almost mediocre results. |
Once the newlyweds decided to
turn in, we had time to drink quietly in a nearby bar; all that fatigue just
really settling in at that point. I was mostly lost in thought, watching the
three of them, or the four of us, and who we were, who we are and who we could
potentially be. The reality sank, as well, that (with probably the exception of
me and the Big Man as our fates seem to be tied together) that this may well be
the last time we, all of us, got to hang out in such a manner. (Especially
since I don’t see any weddings on the horizon.) So, I formulated a plan to make
the night somewhat ore fitting to the kinds of nights we were used to.
While drinking, the Bride’s
sister was bugging us about joining her to drink in her place and oddly enough
she was persistent on bringing the Best Man along. I smelled a potential hook
up, and I’m pretty sure at that point the Big Man could already read my mind,
so off we went, brandy in hand, to get the Best Man laid.
Yeah, that didn’t happen.
We got there, and there she
was, and so were three really muscle-y topless guys who, despite being short, I
was willing to bet can beat each and everyone of our geeky asses without
breaking half a sweat. It was like drinking on the set Prison Break. But, they
were nice guys, we drank and got drunk (we were more tired than expected) and
as far as my recollection of the night went, we drank at lot of tea, fucked up
a motorcycle, sang some Andrew E. (?), and I passed out and woke up at my
place.
If that was the sendoff, I’m
pretty happy about it.
Aftermath.
The next day, I woke up, most
of the suit still on, headache raging and the memories of the previous day and
night (even the blurry ones) made me smile. The following week I took a break
from work and concentrated on my personal life (I will focus on that on my next
post.) and explored new connections with new people. I heard some negative
feedback about my “inappropriate” hosting, but fuck it. The person who made the
comments did next to nothing to help us out, and the Bride, the Groom, the
Bride’s sister and a lot of others liked it. Besides, I wouldn’t have been able
to do half of the things I’ve done in my life if I worried about being
appropriate. So, to the one critic that couldn’t even talk shit to me face to
face, you know which part of my anatomy you can kiss.
That was a milestone event for
me personally. It made me realize a few important things. It helped me quit
smoking. It made me contemplate specific aspects of my past and future, and how
I can use my present.
Basically, I think it’s time I
“retired”, don’t you think?
“But we are two worlds apart
Can't reach to your heart
When you say
That I want it that way” –
Backstreet Boys, “I Want It That Way”
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| Roll credits. |
