weddin’
Jason posted on September 28, 2006
I have stated several times, both on here and to anyone who will listen to me in line at the free clinic, that I am a true joy at weddings. Really, I’m the total package: I dress well (save for my buddy Mike’s wedding two years ago when I wore three types of stripes), look stunningly handsome in a suit, am a good conversationalist, get very drunk but not so drunk that I’m offering handjobs to the groom’s cousins in the bathroom for $6 a pop, impress everyone at the table with my wide range of racist jokes (I can do five minutes each on blacks, Asians, Latins, Jews - even Pacific Islanders), and of course, move pretty well on the dance floor for a big man. Truly, if there is one thing in life that I excel at, it’s making women cry just after sex. If there are two things in life that I excel at, it’s making women cry just after sex and masturbating in the morning before work. But being a great wedding date is probably in the top ten.
(Probably.)I was especially looking forward to the wedding of this past weekend for several reasons. First and foremost because I am good friends with the bride and groom, Lisa and Greg, having gone to high school with Greg and having hung out with both Lisa and Greg many, many times over the years in NYC. So I was happy to be a witness to their love. Second, many of my friends were going - two full tables worth of drunks and rabble rousers, many of whom I’ve know since high school. And third because the wedding was close. The ceremony took place at the church at Fordham University (where the couple met and went to school) and the reception and hotel were nearby in Long Island. No flights, no potential travel delays, no big fuss. I like that.
Because I’m 27 and I think it’s a little strange to go alone to a wedding - even though I’m single and ready to mingle, ladies - I told Greg that I’d be bringing a date (also, everyone else was bringing a date and I didn’t want to be the only lonely one). For this cause, I enlisted my friend Meg, who I convinced to attend the wedding with me through a series of bribes. Fortunately Meg, who I’ve known for many years, took pity on me and agreed. This made me happy, because Meg is also (on paper) a pretty good date: she’s attractive, has her JD from an Ivy League school, and is also a tremendous boozer who is possibly addicted to NyQuil. [A quick story to give you an idea of Meg's boozeliciousness: Years ago, she and I were legal assistants at the same firm, the one at which we both now work (she as a lawyer, me as whatever the hell it is I am). On her last night before leaving the job and going to the law school, she and I decided to have a drinking contest. So in front of about two dozen of our peers, we went pint for pint. When it was all over, I won (of course), beating her by TWO pints, despite the fact that she is a girl and I easily had 100 pounds on her. The final score was something like 19-17. It was the most terrifying drinking experience of my life, when I realized that I, a drinker of the highest order, might actually get beaten by a girl who I am twice the size of and who when I stand next to her I look as though I might eat her. Horrifying. Just horrifying.]
So after waking up hungover after being up until 4am the previous night, I threw some shit in a bag, got showered and dressed, met up with Meg, and soon we were in a car, heading up toward the Bronx.It was the start of a long day.
(In a good way.)Churchy church church, laughy laugh laughCalled me old-fashioned, but I like it when people get married in a church. Aside from being pretty (we Irish Catholics like our churches colorful), it makes things feel a lot more…official. If you’re getting married in a hall it doesn’t feel as big a deal as if there’s a five-foot crucifix staring down on you, you know? This wedding involved a full mass, which, in my hungover state, was not the best news of the day. And there was an ever more religious/rigorous twist that was new to me: at one point when the marriage was being blessed, the priest asked everyone to raise their hands in the air (no, he did not add “and wave ’em like you just don’t care”) while he read from the Bible or something. Fair enough. So I, like everyone else, complied. But then he kept reading and blessing. Reading and blessing. Reading and blessing. On and on. Etc, etc, etc.I was surprised at how difficult it is to hold your arms in the air for an extended period of time. I was really, really hurting. And it wasn’t just me either, which would have been understandable, since I was the only one there that had been out all night the previous night. Soon my buddies Mark and Dan, who were standing next to me, were making snide remarks about how much their arms were hurting. And then the three of us nearly lost it, holding back laughter that started with a small chuckle but soon threatened to erupt and alert the whole church. Tears started coming from my eyes as Meg began hitting me, saying, “Hold it together! Hold it together!” which of course only made it worse. Things only got better when we lowered our arms and applauded, as the couple was officially married. But boy that was a good - and dangerous - laugh. And my arms are still hurting.Directions…overrated
The wedding was at 2. The reception started at 7. We had time to kill after the mass. So a bunch of us went to the Bronx’s Little Italy and got pastries and sandwiches. Which was lovely. After a little over an hour, Meg and I got a ride to the hotel with my friends Bob and Nydia. They had flown in from Milwaukee and stayed at the hotel the previous night, telling us it was about 40 minutes from the Bronx. Off we went.Over two hours later, after seeing more of Long Island than I ever wished to see and saying, “Bob, I swear to God if you don’t find this hotel soon I’m going to throw up/piss myself/shit myself” at least ten times, we finally rolled up to the hotel. Though we used the directions that were provided us, either they didn’t work or Bob is an idiot (the jury is still out, but I thought Bob followed the directions pretty well). My only comfort, all afternoon long, was that there was a nice long break between the wedding and the reception, time that I could use to rest up at the hotel and get over my hangover. Instead, by the time we got back to the hotel, we had less than an hour before the shuttle buses started leaving for the reception. Uncle Jason was in much pain at this time. But…Sweet suite upgrade
My buddy Mark had booked a room at the hotel weeks prior only to get a call a few days before the wedding saying that they actually didn’t have a room for him. So when I gave my name at the hotel reception desk and there was a long, drawn-out silence from the employee behind the counter, I was physically preparing myself for a heart attack (”Well, I’ve heard they start slowly, so when I first get that shooting pain down my left arm when she tells me there’s no room I’ll head for that couch over there…”). Just as I was on the brink of tears, the hotel employee left out a hefty sigh and said one of the finest sentences in the English language: “We’re going to have to upgrade you.” I immediately got an erection but let out my calmest, “Oh, ok.” The hotel room was, simply put, one of the pimpest things I’ve ever seen. And keep in mind that I’m a bit of a hotel connoisseur - I’ve stayed at some swanky hotels in NYC (the Waldorf Astoria, Soho Grand, and Dream Hotel, to name a few) and always travel in style, because that’s just how Larry Awesome rolls. But this lovely lil’ hotel in Garden City, Long Island gave me a room with a separate bedroom and living room and a bar area (!), not to mention a bathroom the size of my whole apartment. Totally fucking awesome. Sadly though, I was unable to capitalize on the room, since Meg has about as much romantic interest in me as she does in a glass of tomato juice (can’t say I blame her here). Now the two smoothest things that have ever befallen me have been while I was with Meg, who has repeatedly stated - three times on the night of the wedding alone - that nothing will ever happen between us, no matter how many hits my blog gets this month. Such is life.[The other was a time many years ago when Meg and I went to dinner. After the meal, I tipped the waiter so well that he came back to our table and said, "Sir, because you have been so generous, I would like to buy you and your lady a drink." Wow - I felt like Tom Fucking Selleck. I mean, ladies, can you imagine if that happened when you were on a date with a guy? Would you not immediately began fellating him or at least maybe start rubbing up on him under the table? But the bad thing is that since that dinner about four years ago I have been egregiously over-tipping waiters on dates in the hope of recreating that moment. I've even done so at the same restaurant but never have I and my date been bought back a drink. So I've been basically throwing hundreds of dollars away in tips since that dinner. The lesson? I lose. Back to the wedding...] JFK…
I spent all night - in the hotel lobby, in the shuttle bus, at the cocktail hour, in the reception hall, at the hotel bar - telling everyone within earshot that I looked like a young JFK. At first, people laughed me off. But it got old very quickly to them. This only made it funnier to me, so I continued to ask everyone who they thought was better-looking: me or JFK. When they said JFK, I’d say - “Wrong - we look exactly the same!” This delighted me all evening. All evening long. And yes, ladies, again, I am single. …GOULET!
[It's a real shame that the only Will Ferrell as Robert Goulet clip they have on YouTube is this one, but I'm hoping that most of you people are familiar with the skit. If not, you might not get this next part of the post. Sorry.] [And for those tech-savvy people out there, let's get more Goulet clips up. Specifically, "Red Ships of Spain" is one of the funniest skits I've ever seen on SNL. Please help.]The bride’s sister is a tremendously gifted singer who sang throughout the mass and blew the fucking doors off the church. She really has a great set of pipes on her and I thought it was a nice touch to the wedding. At the cocktail hour, the sister and her, um, boyfriend, also a tremendous singer, sang a little song to the bride and groom. It was an original piece, written about Greg and Lisa (how they met, welcome to the family, etc) and was even accompanied by the piano. The sister and her (cough!) boyfriend sang it to Greg and Lisa in the reception room in front of all the guests.And maybe because my friends and I think it’s uncomfortable to watch another man sing show tune-style to anyone, let alone another man, well, maybe my friends and I made jokes all night long that perhaps, maybe, called into question the sexual orientation of the gentleman. And perhaps we did this by acting like Will Ferrell’s impression of Robert Goulet, singing lines like, “I kissed a maaaaaan in the parking lot two days ago/I believe he was from Afffffffrica!” and “I can never help myselfffff/When a penis is arooooound/I enjoy it like a donkeeeey enjoys the summer breeeeeeze!” and “After the wedddding/I’m meeting a man from the internnnnnet/I hope he has a beard/Nothing like the feeeel of hair on face - haaaaair on faaaaace!” You get the idea. [I actually have no idea if it was her boyfriend or just a friend. And I realize that both Greg and Lisa may never talk to me again because of this. But I'm not saying it happened. It might have, it might not have. I was very drunk and preoccupied with looking like JFK.]Dancing not so much like a machine
I like to dance at weddings - I really do. The only wedding I did not dance at recently was my buddy Steve’s in June, and that’s because as best man I was dressed like Don Johnson and wearing sandals that I had trouble walking in, let alone dancing in (and yes, I realize how much that statement makes me sound like a woman - screw you for judging me). But in order to dance, I, like most everyone else, need to get drunk first. A few beers makes you better just about anything - sex, darts, being able to shit in bar bathrooms, etc. Dancing is no exception. There’s no way I can get up and dance sober, when I can still hear people whispering, “Wow - that guy is really sweaty” and “Honey, he’s the guy I told you about - the one who made the bet on the shuttle about sticking his whole hand in his ass.”From the moment that Meg and I sat down at the table, she started pestering me about dancing (”When are we going to start dancing?”, “Are you ready to start dancing?”, “Stop hiding in the bathroom and let’s dance”, “Please stop telling everyone that we’re dating”, etc). This constant barrage of questions did not make me want to dance. In fact, quite the opposite. Being asked when you’re going to start dancing is much like being asked when you’re going to have an orgasm during sex - it tenses you up, takes you out of the game, and quite possibly ruins the whole experience. [Seriously ladies - I know that guys should never ask a woman about when she's about to have an orgasm, and not just because the whole "women having orgasms" thing is more than likely a myth anyway, but it works both ways. While I respect any lady's effort to porn it up a bit and ask about my forthcoming ejaculation, sometimes Uncle Jason has had a little too much to drink and is just trying to bring it on home so that you and him can both finally go to bed. So ask, but do so in moderation and don't keep bringing it up (no pun intended). Or else it'll all go away and then there's me, angrily eating a sandwich half-drunk at 5:30am, watching "Sportscenter" and throwing empty beer cans at my useless, flaccid penis. Not a good look for me.] [...] [Not really sure how I can segue back into the post after that non-sequiter, but let's just try.]So the night became a battle of wills between Meg and I: her pestering me about dancing, me not dancing. However, weak as I am, I finally gave in in the last hour (maybe even the last half hour) and headed out to the dance floor, where I looked like 200 pounds of sex in a suit (read: a 200 pound bag of cement being shot by a bb gun). And yes, Meg and I were the only people drinking on the dancefloor, further raising our class level. But no matter. The lesson here: when filled with alcohol and badgered by the pleas of a woman, I am useless. If Meg had bothered me enough, I probably would have started a fire in the hotel’s business center after drinking that much. [By the way, I'm listening to Mel Torme right now. Are there any 27 year-olds out there who enjoy The Velvet Fog's rendition of "The Midnight Sun" as much as I do or should I just retire to The Catskills already?]Drinking hogs
The night ended like so many of my nights have ended recently: at a hotel bar in Long Island buying all the Miller Lites I could afford before the bartender closed down shop. At the end of the evening if one looked around our table, he or she would have seen ten people forcing down the last sips of their beers, while Meg and I hoarded four full beers each in front of us, gloriously dripping with perspiration. Eventually, we were guilted into giving some away. And then I fell asleep at the table. Actually, I’m not sure which happened first. Whatever. ************ And so that was the wedding. A lovely time with good food (by the way, the food was delicious), lots of booze, and great friends - a perfect evening. It’s getting to the point where I love weddings so much that I might have to have one for myself just to fill the void in my heart when I don’t attend any for some time. So you ladies keep working out, looking good, and sending those pictures in, and I’ll keep not going to the gym and eating lots of baked ziti. Because we’ll have to learn early on that marriage is not 50/50. I mean, c’mon. Only suckers actually believe that.
