Titanic Hits Iceberg

Couldn’t see that one coming a mile away.

You know who did surprise me when she came out though was that blonde from “Ally McBeal” and “Arrested Development.” Portia De Rossi. Yes, she’s a lesbian. Let’s all close our eyes and wax wistfully about the possibilities.

You can keep the redhead though. She’s all yours.

By the way, I’ve had about freaking enough of Sarah Jessica Parker. Between TBS shoving her old show down our throats every commercial break, and those god-awful Gap ads, I’m seeing more of her than I’d really care to right now.

She’s one of those women that other women can look at without feeling insecure that their chest isn’t big enough (it isn’t), or their fucked-up sense of fashion isn’t terrible (hint: low rise jeans are for when your hips are wider than your belly). They can admire her for whatever it is she seemingly brings to the table, which I’m not seeing, and use her as some sort of weirdo fashionatrix to follow, $300 shoes and all.

You know, $300 shoes better come with turn signals and insole mounted pedicure tools that gyroscopically keep my nails trimmed and cuticles in retreat as I walk on cushions of imported pixie dust. I expect at least that for $300.

I actually bought a pair of shoes today, my second straight pair of Clarks. I thought they were pretty cool. Of course, you know you’ve hit 30 when brown shoes become “cool.” How about this… “I thought they were very sensible, and will certainly cradle my plantar fascia injuries so I don’t develop the gout.”

Not that there’s any apparent correlation between gout and plantar fasciitis. I’m just saying. Actually, I just like typing “plantar fasciitis.” Anytime I can use a double “i” in a word, I feel that much more Nordic.

I really get a giggle on the misery of others sometimes, particularly today with the case of the Sara Lee executive who was found dead and frozen. If that’s not ironic, I don’t know what is. Here then, are some other possibilities out there that would also end up on my chuckle list of ironic deaths:

>> Founder of FedEx suffers heart attack while at cabin deep in woods at 4PM. Drives all night long to hospital in nearest town, dying just as he’s pulling into parking lot, arriving just a few minutes after 10AM.

>> Bob Vlasic, CEO of Vlasic (OK, I’m making that up), drinks himself to death. (Get it, he pickled himself)

>> Bill Gates dying when a pane of glass falls from a high window onto his head. (Windows crashing)

See, now this is my problem. I typed that last sentence at about 2PM EST on Friday, and it's 6AM Saturday before I'm able to get back to this. You're wondering where 2000 words a day have went? Oy.

So it's off today to Philly for the Bash at the Boathouse. I'll catch y'all on the other side.

Nothin’ you could serve could ever ace me boy…

Just reacquired Digable Planets’ “Blowout Comb,” which I had inexplicably lost over the past couple of years. Severely underrated album. I mentioned to a friend of mine (who asked) that I had just bought this album, and she mentioned that I “have the most eclectic taste in music that she knows of.”

I don’t know about that. I at least think I have pretty good taste in music, all things considered. And I don’t hang my hat on bullshit bands no one’s ever heard of just because I heard they played a show recently at CBGB, and are so inside it makes me look cool. Screw those guys. I remember at the end of 2003 there were some “Best of the Year” lists that I read that had all these albums on it from bands I’ve never heard of (and never will, I’m sure), and didn’t even mention Outkast’s double CD. Screw those guys, there’s no way possible to leave Outkast off your list. The only reason you’re doing it is to seem cool to the rest of America to make us think you know something we don’t. Kiss my ass.

Anyway, let’s take inventory by artist (off the top of my head, I’m at work) and genre:

Jazz
Miles Davis
John Coltrane
Kenny Burrell
Henry Threadgill
Charlie Parker
Charlie Hunter
Paul Chambers
Sonny Rollins
Max Roach
Eric Dolphy
Charles Mingus
Wayne Shorter
Harry Connick Jr
Johnny Hartman
Grant Green
Bill Evans
Oliver Nelson
Herbie Hancock
Hank Mobley

Hip Hop
Wu-Tang Clan (w/ solo albums and affiliates)
Mobb Deep
Nas
Tupac
Notorious BIG
Eminem
Dr. Dre
Snoop Dogg
Xzibit
Big Pun
The Roots
De La Soul
Outkast
Tribe Called Quest
Black Star
Common
Fugees
Lauryn Hill
Ice Cube
NWA
Digable Planets
Various Soundtracks

Rock and Blues
Beatles
Stones
Who
Zeppelin
Steely Dan
Moby Grape
Jimi Hendrix
Beck
Paul Simon
Traffic
Van Morrison
The Band
Bob Dylan
Lil Ed and the Blues Imperials
Alligator Records sampler
Pink Floyd

I’m probably missing a lot here.

Now, when I look at that list, I don’t generally think, “Gee, what a diverse collection of music!” Frankly, if you take three of the jazz artists out (Threadgill, Connick, Hunter), it’s all 50s/60s Blue Note type stuff (basically). My rap collection falls into the 92-99 range pretty exclusively, even though I don’t stick to one geographic region. And although Black Star and Common might technically be “underground” compared to some of the others, those were albums that still sold pretty well. And then if you’re excluding the blues artists, Paul Simon, and Beck, that’s all straight-forward classic rock.

I’m sure I missed more than a handful of artists doing this off the top of my head, but there you go. It’s absolutely true to say I have a unique appreciation for some types of music most don’t, but to say I’m really diverse is probably a fallacy.

Irony

Mighty Wingman

The nickname America’s Wingman has caught fire. Well, not exactly, but another blogger has used it in reference to Al.

Speaking of Grubby, he’s making the AC portion of the weekend, but not the Philly party. I’ve got to say I’m a lot disappointed in Grubs. Not to mention Mean Gene and Sean.

I told Al I’d look for the “stumbling hippie with the hotter-than-he-should-be-able-to-get wife” at the terminal when they’re picking me up. I have the advantage of having seen pictures, they don’t. Therefore, I can be discreet like a ninja, because, as we all know, ninjas are super sweet.

Aside from actually playing poker live with these guys (I’ve played with Pauly, Pauly with Al, none of us with Iggy or Carter), there’s a few things I’m anxious to see…

>> Who drinks more, Al or Iggy? I’m putting the line at Al minus 2.5. I’ve got the Pauly + BG line for total drinks on Saturday night at an O/U 7.5.
>> How many “bathroom breaks” will Pauly take to stay well ahead of his buzz?
>> How does a youngster like Carter take to hanging with a bunch of middle-aged men for two days straight?
>> Knowing Al and Iggy are married, and Pauly’s a goofy looking bastard (kidding, kidding), does Carter get in the way of any of Al’s machinations to get me laid?
>> Do Sean, Grubs, or Mean Gene sack up and make the Saturday night portion of the trip?
>> Does Al see 7AM on a Sunday morning for the first time in his adult life by having to bring me back to the airport?
>> How many times do I get called “BG,” rather than having them use my real name?

That’s always weird to me, being called by my online pseudonym, rather than by my real name. Granted, I don’t think Iggy necessarily knows my real name, and it’s only because of online chatting that Al knows for sure, but it’s certainly strange to me to respond to “BG,” or worse, “Boy Genius.” It’s actually a little unnerving to be called BG out in public. God forbid I have to explain that to someone.

”You see, I have this website where I whine about my ex-wife and girls I should have dated but didn’t, and I use this pseudonym ‘Boy Genius,’ which comes from ‘BoyGZA,’ which is what I used to type into the NBA Live video games to track my stats because I was a big Wu-Tang fan at the time.”

Yeah, that’ll get me laid.

Speaking of, a chat snippet for you:

Pauly: BG, we’ll try to pick up some loose girls
Pauly: well, at least drunk ones
BG: I’m confident that’s all Al knows are drunk ones.

Straight, No Chaser

There are plenty of reasons the volume you’ve come to know and love here at RTATS has tracked down over the past few months. More than any other though, one reason stands out.

I’m happier now than I’ve been in awhile.

I don’t know where this is coming from, and certainly can’t put my finger on any specific “turned the corner” moment, but I’m smiling more than I was a few months ago. And, of course, this is a good thing.

Now, I’m certainly not saying that I can’t write without feeling miserable, but there are quite a number of days I can identify as particularly depressing or lonely where my outlet was 2500 words to the blog, and you guys all bore the brunt of those posts of lamentation.

The new trick is, what the hell do I talk about if I’m not living with wistful regret?

I don’t think it’s fair to say “I’m happy now,” or “I’m not lonely at this point,” or even “I’m not depressed anymore.” As a matter of fact, I think that depression strikes me as somewhat like alcoholism, in that it never really fully goes away and disappears, it’s something that’s managed and evened out over time. But what’s nice is that after a couple of years of being part of the “walking dead,” awake to my day but asleep to the world, I am starting to really notice the difference between the good days and the bad ones. I’m still getting in funks, and I knew that would be the case, but I’m definitely seeing and feeling happiness where I blocked it out previously.

There’s still a lot of work to do from this point to get back to even, but for now, it’s nice to be able to tell people honestly, “I’m doing well, how about you?”

Speaking of…

Nobody I knew got killed in South Central L.A.

Yes, that’s right, today’s been a good day.

I’m 2-0 in the fantasy football league I give a crap about (sorry bloggers, no offense), and won last week’s game by .1, which is 11 yards rushing or 22 yards passing. Slimmest margin of victory ever in our league, and I barely squeaked it out.

My Lions are also 2-0, which isn’t going to last, but all the talk about Roy Williams and it just being a matter of time before he joins the NFL’s WR elite is pretty damn cool.

I’ve got this weekend to look forward to, which should be fun even if I’m not an incorrigible drunk like some people.

I broke open a package of my imported pasta, which I pay way too much for, but is awesome, and had a kick ass dinner of spaghetti and meatballs last night. With homemade sauce, of course. I ate my Cole’s garlic bread on the side, thinking nothing of how old man Cole found some hot young thing for his last few years of life, and cut her out of his will at the last minute, screwing that gold digger out of what she thought she was due. Couldn’t be bothered, not my problem.

I got to the office this morning hungry though, and was telling Pauly how I wanted to jet out for breakfast, when at that very moment the guy in the cube next to mine brought in two huge boxes of sausage pigs-in-blankets for the entire office. They were awesome.

It’s 10:45AM, and I’ve already written 1,150 words without whining about some girl in tenth grade not returning my phone calls.

And I didn’t even get no static from the cowards, because just yesterday them fools tried to blast me. Saw the police and they rolled right past me. Didn’t even look in a nilla’s direction as I ran the intersection.

Today’s been a good day.

Untold Stories From Bachelor Party/Wedding Weekends

It’s always a little strange to see your mom being wooed by some dude that’s not your father. I mean, they’ve been divorced for awhile now, and no one is asking her to join a convent or anything, but still. At least he’s a good guy, not that I’d figure my mom would be dating an asshole.

Anyway, the dynamic between the parents is still a little strange. It’s not strange because it’s forced with gritted teeth facetiousness. It’s strange because it’s not.

Case in point. My mom and my dad’s wife threw my brother’s wife a shower together. They co-planned the thing, and even met for dinner a couple of times to do so. Very friendly about the whole thing.

I find that strange.

My dad was introduced for the very first time to my mom’s boyfriend at the golf course last Friday. My mom and her guy acted normal, and my dad was the one that got a little distracted along the way. Then, of course, my mom was the one who insisted on having her boyfriend not only sit at the head table at the reception, but in the family pew up front in the church.

Look, I’m all for her moving on, but don’t tell me this doesn’t feel strange. It absolutely does.

Then, later at the reception, I caught them kissing.

Oy freaking vey.

I three-quarters-jokingly yelled at them to knock it off from about 100 yards away. I was baked, man. I didn't need to see that. That's my mom goddammit, keep your paws to yourself old man.

OK, I promised another "Untold Bachelor Party Story" to go along with some of this wedding crap. How about a strip club thing? We were at the Bazouki Club in Greektown, watching all the strippers get down on the side of the stage they work out on before they reach the pole across the way where they actually take their tops off. Whatever. Anyway, we saw a rag tag bunch of stripper-hot women coming and going for the whole time we were there.

Except one.

Now, I think this is endemic only in strip clubs, and maybe on cheerleader squads, but there was one girl that was the only one of the bunch that looked like a real girl. Certainly not one that would have caused a jaw dropping, neck twisting moment passing her in the mall, but one that was pleasantly attractive, and looked like she should have been teaching second graders (sans applique cat sweater) instead of grinding on a pole, but there you go. I think there were three or four of the girls on stage that would have been AAAHOOOOOOGAAAAHHH (think that wacky wolf in the old cartoons with eyes eight feet out in front of their sockets, whistling his appreciation) types in the supermarket, but in the strip club?

In the strip club, it's the "real" girl that gets me drooling. Put a 28 year old skank in a school girl shirt and skirt, and she's... well, she's a 28 year old skank in a school girl shirt and skirt. But a girl that looks like one that would have talked to you in high school (well, talked to me at least) in a strip club? C'mere and take my money honey, you're my favorite.

By the way, JH (who I nicknamed "Jonny Spermpants," only because it rhymed with his real name) agreed wholeheartedly. You just wanted to take her home and cuddle with her on the couch while watching a movie.

Except those "Lord of the Rings" movies. I'm not an elf, and this isn't middle earth dorks.

What else can I tell you about the wedding? Did I mention the 17 year old photographer's assistant? I probably shouldn't. I mean, she had everything working. For example, not only was she hot with a tremendous body, but she vaguely resembled a girl I know who I know I had no shot with due to her fervent religious beliefs, but it didn't prevent me from thinking of corruption and all the bad parts of the Bible that I'm assuming are there but I haven't read.

And lo, did Jeremiah take the concubine behind the stables and yea verily did he bend her over and make her exclaim unto the heavens the name that is our Lord

Yeah, I'm going to hell. I looked down her shirt every time I had a chance.

Jesuschrist, I could be her father. Well, had I gotten laid before turning 20.

What else, what else... Oh shit, I almost forgot this one, but I think this was only funny to me, so bear with me. Predictably, somewhere around 1030PM, my drunk-ass old man grabbed the mic from the DJ for a drunken note of thanks to the staff. Now, this is a funny part, but not the funny part. The staff of the golf course all know my dad well, he's there six days a week. Anyway, the coordinator/manager is a guy who's very much obviously gay. Or at least effette and confused. Either way. Anyway, my dad is loaded and starts trying to get P, the manager, out of the kitchen to take a bow. He's not coming out. My dad remarks, "Well, I guess he must be in the closet now, we'll get him later."

Anyway, I saw this travesty as it unfurled, and knew it was up to me to get the mic back before my dad started in with some sort of "I never liked you" speech to an aunt, or "I want another $20 a head from everyone right now" joke that wouldn't have been taken that way (trust me, something was coming). So I go up there and am yanking the mic out of his hands, and he's not letting go. Finally I tear it away, turn towards the crowd, and yell "SEXUAL CHOCOLATE!" stamping my foot on the ground, I put my arms out, and take off.

I can cross that off my "before I die" list now. I don't think anyone got it.

Shit, here's another I forgot to mention. Maybe I was on my buzz longer than I realized. So there's this kid at the wedding who's best described as a 10 year old "fancy boy." He's got this enormous head, and is extremely nattily dressed in shirt and tie, looking very much more like a "little big person" than an average 10 year old. Anyway, this song comes on (that I don't recognize) where my brother (M) and his best man are on the dance floor doing the RiverDance competition dance-off thing. All of a sudden, out of nowhere, this kid comes flying into the middle and, well, he challenges them by furiously RiverDancing his little big-headed ass off.

And he's killing them. Absolute murder. The kid is RiverDancing so hard, I half expected Michael Flatley with a contract at the end of the song.

He's rocking the house, and absolutely eating it up with this serious dance-off look on his face. Eventually, he's all alone in the circle under the strobe lights, and he's breaking it down with every goddamn dance style you've ever seen. He breaks out the lasso down on his knees, he does the splits, back to the RiverDance.

And this kid's 10 years old. With an enormous noggin.

I swear to fucking god, if the videographer got any of that, I'm passing that clip along. It was unbelievable. He'd trump that fucking Star Wars kid, but only because he was good. His three year old brother is next to him, and that was cute and all, but I'll be goddamned if this kid didn't damn near steal the whole night from the happy couple.

I'm tired just thinking about that little dude. More madness later, I'm absolutely certain...

So What Happened?

I had a great night on Thursday. I picked up my friend from the airport, and we roll over to a nearby sushi joint for dinner. I take my digital voice recorder, test it, and turn it on at the table, with the intent of transcribing parts of our conversation.

I tested it fine, I just didn’t turn it on properly again. The whole idea of interviewing my friend spontaneously just went right down the drain.

But I did have some pretty damn good sushi out of the deal. $75 worth between the two of us, to be exact.

Friday started out with a round of golf, which my dad was able to finagle at the club for all of $15/person. That was terrific, as it’s normally in the $45 range to play there. Considering we had a 225 person event coming back the next night, they could afford it. Anyway, I hung an amazing 51 on the front nine, absolutely blistering more than a couple of shots with my jerry-rigged swing. Of course, I chased it with a 61, and wasn’t too thrilled with 112.

Right after golf, my dad, brother, and friend (N) started in with the big beers. In Utah, the beer is what they call "3/2," which means it's basically half strength. You can't even buy "microbrews" in the grocery store (or wine, or alcohol), and have to belong to a "private club" or be eating at a restaurant (eating, not just drinking) in order to have something stronger than the watered down stuff.

Anyway, five big beers later, and N is wasted. He excused himself from the rehearsal dinner and passed out on my couch for the night. Sucker.

The rehearsal dinner was mercifully short. Not that it wasn't an OK time or anything, just that with Saturday promising to be a long damn day, and my friend I hadn't seen for two years back at my place, well, I wanted out.

And I was right about Saturday.

First off, I got in a fight that morning with my brother the groom. You see, this was another one of those cases where I'm told one thing, they make other plans and don't tell me, I make a suggestion that can accommodate both ways, and he gets argumentative. Basically, he had originally told me we were going to meet at the reception site prior to our call at the church, that way his car would be there for him later. Since we had no limo/bus transportation from ceremony to reception, I was elected to drive.

No problem, but I was going to start getting stoned at the first available moment, and I was counting on being able to drive a car I was comfortable driving - mine. All of a sudden, plans change and that's unacceptable. I now have to drive his car with people in it between church and reception. I try to tell him I can get his car down there no problem (N = other driver), but he starts yelling, and I hang up on him. Bob offers to drive, solving that problem and letting me get my buzz on early.

Thank god too, as pictures took for-fucking-ever. We were on call at the photographer's whim from 1230PM - 3PM, then the ceremony (short) from 3PM - 345PM, and then pictures straight from there to 630PM. That's when issue number two came up.

I pulled into the reception site right behind the photographer (who had an unbelievably hot 17 year old assistant none of us could quit drooling over) and asked her if the wedding party was needed any further. She said no, we were free to go, and that meant I could finally have a freaking beer. I grabbed Bob and a couple other guys from the party and headed into the pro shop bar, as to not make our big entrance into the party yet.

We weren't halfway through our beers when the manager of the grill there said we were wanted, and ushered us out front. That's where my brother started berating us for ditching him when there were pictures left to take. He wouldn't let anyone get the full sentence, "But the photographer said we were excused" out of our mouths. He even dropped the "f bomb" in front of a few arriving guests. Oy. He got the best man so irritated that he was musing over the idea of just up and leaving. Not that he would, but it was one of those "woulda served him right" moments.

Yes, you're stressed, we get it.

Anyway, the party was fun. There were about 225 people there, including a number of people from my family I hadn't seen in a decade plus. I spent most of my time outside smoking cigarettes and missed quite a bit of the festivities, including most of the planned dances, the bouquet toss, cutting of the cake, etc.

At about 1130PM, my dad and his wife ambled drunkenly out to their car for their mile long trip back to the house. I saw them leave, and shortly thereafter saw JS, one of the ushers, come running up to me asking if the blue Buick was mine. It was, why? Well, apparently my dad hit my front end pretty squarely when pulling out of his parking spot. Even though JS saw it (and heard it), my dad remembers nothing. Nice drunken hit and run old man... at least there wasn't any damage I could see.

After the wedding? How about some midnight poker? We decided on two games of five players each, considering we were ten strong and all pretty toasted. I learned one valuable lesson that night. Don't bluff against someone who just wants to go home. I was holding nothing, saw Queens pair on the board and pushed all-in, as I knew my opponent didn't have a Queen. He didn't, but his 85o paired on the flop, and he was trying to bleed all his chips away. Damn. At least it was only a $5 game.

Actually, I tend to play at my worst when I know it's me and four calling stations. In theory, I should just wait for the rockets and move only then. But no, I had to play cute. Well, it was late, I was baked, and I kinda wanted to just go home too.

Overall, it was a fun weekend, and I got to see some old friends and family from way way back. Of course, it'll be no Bash at the Boathouse, but it was pretty OK anyway.

Ten Years Gone

It’s been ten years, and he’s still thinking about her. I can’t say that I blame him.

For eight months my best friend came out to Michigan from Utah to live with me during my Junior year of college. The idea was that he was going to enroll in the local community college, and hopefully decide what he wanted to do with his life from there. Problem was, about six months prior to his move out date, he landed a girlfriend. And that girlfriend wasn’t about to let him go without a fight. She bled his bank account dry in the weeks leading up to his arrival out here, and called him crying on a daily basis, begging and pleading for him to return to her.

That died down just a little bit after a few months, but she still had her hooks firmly in his sides.

Community college never happened. He didn’t have the money, and wasn’t close to prepared to make the effort necessary to enroll and succeed anyway. But he did get a job in a video store, and that’s where he met Mandy.

Some people look for their opposites, a complimentary person to their personality. My friend didn’t find that in Mandy. He found an instant soul mate, someone who was essentially just him with (bigger) breasts. She was a whirling dervish, Tasmanian devil of a girl. Beautiful, vibrant, as much an admitted underachiever as my friend, and absolutely positively one hundred percent in tune with him. They met, and were instantly all about each other.

Until he left to go back to Utah about a month later.

In the first couple of years he was back, they had visits both ways a couple of times, and it was always intense and emotional, and always spectacular. They knew they were right for each other, but his inaction was getting in the way. Now, it’s been over two years since they’ve spoken, but he thinks about her constantly. In fact, on Sunday I noticed he had written her phone number on his hand, just in case he got the courage to call her up out of the blue.

He didn’t.

I guess the question is, should I? No, not for myself (assholes). For him. He’s in a relationship now that might not be right, but will end up at the altar if nothing significant were to happen between now and then, and I guarantee you nothing significant will, unless we’re talking about Mandy. It’s obvious he needs one of two things from her. Either closure, or her heart. There’s no in-between on this one.

So, do I call her? He had all weekend to try with her, and he didn’t. If there’s anyone that knows the feeling of living with regret, it’s me. Little regrets, big regrets, whatever. So do I let Nate play this one out, which I promise will result in nothing, or do I get my hands dirty here and lend a helping – but obtrusive – hand?

I got home, called the number, and it had been disconnected. Poor guy...

Ten Years Gone

It’s been ten years, and he’s still thinking about her. I can’t say that I blame him.

For eight months my best friend came out to Michigan from Utah to live with me during my Junior year of college. The idea was that he was going to enroll in the local community college, and hopefully decide what he wanted to do with his life from there. Problem was, about six months prior to his move out date, he landed a girlfriend. And that girlfriend wasn’t about to let him go without a fight. She bled his bank account dry in the weeks leading up to his arrival out here, and called him crying on a daily basis, begging and pleading for him to return to her.

That died down just a little bit after a few months, but she still had her hooks firmly in his sides.

Community college never happened. He didn’t have the money, and wasn’t close to prepared to make the effort necessary to enroll and succeed anyway. But he did get a job in a video store, and that’s where he met Mandy.

Some people look for their opposites, a complimentary person to their personality. My friend didn’t find that in Mandy. He found an instant soul mate, someone who was essentially just him with (bigger) breasts. She was a whirling dervish, Tasmanian devil of a girl. Beautiful, vibrant, as much an admitted underachiever as my friend, and absolutely positively one hundred percent in tune with him. They met, and were instantly all about each other.

Until he left to go back to Utah about a month later.

In the first couple of years he was back, they had visits both ways a couple of times, and it was always intense and emotional, and always spectacular. They knew they were right for each other, but his inaction was getting in the way. Now, it’s been over two years since they’ve spoken, but he thinks about her constantly. In fact, on Sunday I noticed he had written her phone number on his hand, just in case he got the courage to call her up out of the blue.

He didn’t.

I guess the question is, should I? No, not for myself (assholes). For him. He’s in a relationship now that might not be right, but will end up at the altar if nothing significant were to happen between now and then, and I guarantee you nothing significant will, unless we’re talking about Mandy. It’s obvious he needs one of two things from her. Either closure, or her heart. There’s no in-between on this one.

So, do I call her? He had all weekend to try with her, and he didn’t. If there’s anyone that knows the feeling of living with regret, it’s me. Little regrets, big regrets, whatever. So do I let Nate play this one out, which I promise will result in nothing, or do I get my hands dirty here and lend a helping – but obtrusive – hand?

I got home, called the number, and it had been disconnected. Poor guy...

So What Happened?

I had a great night on Thursday. I picked up my friend from the airport, and we roll over to a nearby sushi joint for dinner. I take my digital voice recorder, test it, and turn it on at the table, with the intent of transcribing parts of our conversation.

I tested it fine, I just didn’t turn it on properly again. The whole idea of interviewing my friend spontaneously just went right down the drain.

But I did have some pretty damn good sushi out of the deal. $75 worth between the two of us, to be exact.

Friday started out with a round of golf, which my dad was able to finagle at the club for all of $15/person. That was terrific, as it’s normally in the $45 range to play there. Considering we had a 225 person event coming back the next night, they could afford it. Anyway, I hung an amazing 51 on the front nine, absolutely blistering more than a couple of shots with my jerry-rigged swing. Of course, I chased it with a 61, and wasn’t too thrilled with 112.

Right after golf, my dad, brother, and friend (N) started in with the big beers. In Utah, the beer is what they call "3/2," which means it's basically half strength. You can't even buy "microbrews" in the grocery store (or wine, or alcohol), and have to belong to a "private club" or be eating at a restaurant (eating, not just drinking) in order to have something stronger than the watered down stuff.

Anyway, five big beers later, and N is wasted. He excused himself from the rehearsal dinner and passed out on my couch for the night. Sucker.

The rehearsal dinner was mercifully short. Not that it wasn't an OK time or anything, just that with Saturday promising to be a long damn day, and my friend I hadn't seen for two years back at my place, well, I wanted out.

And I was right about Saturday.

First off, I got in a fight that morning with my brother the groom. You see, this was another one of those cases where I'm told one thing, they make other plans and don't tell me, I make a suggestion that can accommodate both ways, and he gets argumentative. Basically, he had originally told me we were going to meet at the reception site prior to our call at the church, that way his car would be there for him later. Since we had no limo/bus transportation from ceremony to reception, I was elected to drive.

No problem, but I was going to start getting stoned at the first available moment, and I was counting on being able to drive a car I was comfortable driving - mine. All of a sudden, plans change and that's unacceptable. I now have to drive his car with people in it between church and reception. I try to tell him I can get his car down there no problem (N = other driver), but he starts yelling, and I hang up on him. Bob offers to drive, solving that problem and letting me get my buzz on early.

Thank god too, as pictures took for-fucking-ever. We were on call at the photographer's whim from 1230PM - 3PM, then the ceremony (short) from 3PM - 345PM, and then pictures straight from there to 630PM. That's when issue number two came up.

I pulled into the reception site right behind the photographer (who had an unbelievably hot 17 year old assistant none of us could quit drooling over) and asked her if the wedding party was needed any further. She said no, we were free to go, and that meant I could finally have a freaking beer. I grabbed Bob and a couple other guys from the party and headed into the pro shop bar, as to not make our big entrance into the party yet.

We weren't halfway through our beers when the manager of the grill there said we were wanted, and ushered us out front. That's where my brother started berating us for ditching him when there were pictures left to take. He wouldn't let anyone get the full sentence, "But the photographer said we were excused" out of our mouths. He even dropped the "f bomb" in front of a few arriving guests. Oy. He got the best man so irritated that he was musing over the idea of just up and leaving. Not that he would, but it was one of those "woulda served him right" moments.

Yes, you're stressed, we get it.

Anyway, the party was fun. There were about 225 people there, including a number of people from my family I hadn't seen in a decade plus. I spent most of my time outside smoking cigarettes and missed quite a bit of the festivities, including most of the planned dances, the bouquet toss, cutting of the cake, etc.

At about 1130PM, my dad and his wife ambled drunkenly out to their car for their mile long trip back to the house. I saw them leave, and shortly thereafter saw JS, one of the ushers, come running up to me asking if the blue Buick was mine. It was, why? Well, apparently my dad hit my front end pretty squarely when pulling out of his parking spot. Even though JS saw it (and heard it), my dad remembers nothing. Nice drunken hit and run old man... at least there wasn't any damage I could see.

After the wedding? How about some midnight poker? We decided on two games of five players each, considering we were ten strong and all pretty toasted. I learned one valuable lesson that night. Don't bluff against someone who just wants to go home. I was holding nothing, saw Queens pair on the board and pushed all-in, as I knew my opponent didn't have a Queen. He didn't, but his 85o paired on the flop, and he was trying to bleed all his chips away. Damn. At least it was only a $5 game.

Actually, I tend to play at my worst when I know it's me and four calling stations. In theory, I should just wait for the rockets and move only then. But no, I had to play cute. Well, it was late, I was baked, and I kinda wanted to just go home too.

Overall, it was a fun weekend, and I got to see some old friends and family from way way back. Of course, it'll be no Bash at the Boathouse, but it was pretty OK anyway.