Come Sail Away
The wedding begins with Dr. Love strutting down the grassy aisle to the synthline from "Final Countdown." Behind him, the groomsmen and groomslady dance and whiplash multicolored streamers.
The wedding ends on a white-hot, perspiration-humid dancefloor where DJ Phantom Hillbilly follows hours and hours of defibrillating dance tunes with "Come Sail Away." All the couples immediately cling to each other for nuzzly Styx time: the newly married couple, peoples' parents, the Gay Best Man and the Gay Best Man's boyfriend, truckstopdruid and Licia, Todd and Lara, Hunt Stockwell and (metaphorical) Bride of Stockwell, Quesogirl with whoever she's seeing now-- Brenda is slumped in the doorway looking drained, but I drag her out to the floor; we circle slowly as I hold tight to her reedy Mexican spine. When the drums kick in and Dennis DeYoung begins to freak out, there's a good perimeter of empty space around the bride and groom, so Trip starts bowing majestically before them. He's doing it in time with the music, and it's infectious, so I join in. Soon, the whole circle is rhythmically bowing at the married couple's feet as they dance, and then I throw myself onto them, hugging them both, Dr. Love's brown tux and Erin's bare shoulders-- and yell for everyone to pile on. They do-- 70-odd people ram into the center of the room, laughing and crying, pressing as hard as they can with their whole bodies so the bride and groom in the middle can really feel the multi-guest hug. I can sure feel it myself.
I'd first showed up for the wedding with Cupcakes and Powderette. There was a row of beaming moms and baby carriages parked behind the outdoor seats like they were revving up for a drag race. The couple exchanged humble, silly vows and I almost didn't realize I was crying it until Cupcakes squeezed me. Erin was tremulously keeping it together when she spoke of her affection for Dr. Love's "beard and old-man clothes." Dr. Love sang "I Can't Help Falling In Love With You" to his rabid Elvis-fan woman, while the groomsmen joined in solemnly on kazoos; the Best Man held up cue cards with the lyrics for the rest of us to join in, which we did. Milo was officiating and asked "Do you still wanna marry this guy?" and Erin cry-giggled "Hell yes."
This is a Mason Lodge converted into a hotel getaway, so hot girls wander the halls in bikinis and open robes. 35% of the guests are filmmakers or actors and are debating who they'd like to direct their own wedding video-- Cassavetes? Scorsese? Altman? Peter Jackson? It's a very hot day, made hotter in the upstairs reception hall where hot glazed hams and metallic gold mashed potatoes fill the air with steam. I am dripping sweat on myself; when I reach the newly married couple at the receiving line, I pull the purple, neatly folded handkerchief from the groom's breast pocket and swab my face down with it.
Now I'm in line to pad out the red wine with some actual food when someone grabs my ass from behind; of course, it's Drunken Brenda, already drunk. She says she nearly lynched herself on her streamer when dancing down the aisle-- it wrapped itself right around her throat. We hug for a long time-- Brenda was supposed to get married next month, but her fiancee was in a scooter accident. I haven't seen her since that happened. In fact, I haven't seen her in something like a year and a half, whenever she moved to Chicago. She mentions the time that I assisted Chuck Klosterman in hitting on her in 2004 and she didn't know who she was; now she sees him everywhere, and the guy serving wine and beer sneered "Chuck Klosterman? He sucks." When the two of us are out on the lodge's front porch, Brenda requests that I draw tattoos of fiery robots on her upper arms with colored Sharpies, and I do. Brenda says she saw the Flaming Lips last week for the first time and cried-- she'd never seen them before, but they were one of her fiancee's favorite bands and they'd planned on attending the show together.
Erin's bridesmaid, luxuriantly tatsleeved and chestpieced, gives a speech-- it's so rare, she says, when you recall your friends' lives before this relationship began, and something vital seems to be missing from those memories. For the Best Man's turn, he approves of Erin's "beautiful smile and great tits"; incredulous laughter all around. Dr. Love's mom plays a love song on her ukulele.
I need to squash some of my escaping emotion. Five or six of us smoke some weed out in the seats where we'd watched the wedding an hour earlier, hiding the pipe when we see the grounds' security guy ambling around. Earlier, he'd stopped in and watched the dance party and seemed to be enjoying himself. I find the discarded Elvis-lyric cue cards in the grass and, with stoned immediacy, know that the groom needs them. I run them into the crowded dance party, where Hillbilly is playing "Hey Ya," and I hand them to Dr. Love, and he holds them out for me while I trace my finger along the lyrics and pretend to recite "What's cooler than bein' cool" off them. Tony is breakdancing; Jordi is dancing her ass off with her baby strapped to her front; she is singing into the baby bottle as if it's her microphone and periodically shouting "MY PROM WILL NOT BE RUINED, YOU GUYS!"
The electricity goes out in the middle of the dancing and the uproar is tremendous. Pitch black, shrieks and laughter. Awesome. Then it comes back on after about fifteen seconds, and Hillbilly doesn't alter the LP needle in any way, so the record starts up again with a slow "WWWWWWWWWWWRRRRRRRRRWRWRWRWRWRWRWR" and launches back into Lionel Richie's "All Night Long," and everyone puts in as much adrenaline as they can to jump around and make up for those lost fifteen seconds.
The thing is, a lot of us have lives that are pure shit right now. Many of us are direly unemployed; my phone's just been turned off and I don't even know how I'm gonna pay my rent in a few days. Some of these friends have dated each other, hurt each other; I've dated or psuedo-dated a couple of them myself and then had things go down the drain. But my semi-ex, moving to the east coast in less than a week, is here-- we're chastely kissing goodbye and she's telling me she's so sorry she said she'd come see my Grand Guignol show and then flaked. Here's someone who is in severe debt and who had to break up with his last girlfriend because she bashed his guitar against their bedroom wall until both were demolished, but he's jamming out on a new guitar and bounding around the floor doing a ridiculous Russian kick-dance, and joining the groom in enacting the knife-fight from the "Beat It" video on the dance floor. Here's a girl whose fiancee suddenly passed away less than two months ago, but she's hugging everyone in sight and grabbing asses and pretending to put her mouth on the bride's boob in group photos. Here's a friend whose divorce was just finalized the other day and whose ex-husband is now publicly dating a prominent local lesbian, but she's screeching with joy and taking photos and rubbing cupcake frosting into peoples' facial hair.
I've never seen this many people I love looking this happy, all in the same place. I want to hug all of them at the same time, and within twenty minutes or so, during "Come Sail Away," I will. But right now my exhaustion has eclipsed my adrenaline, and I'm good to just stand here at a table with Tony's video camera, and film them going nuts on each other. They have wonderful hearts and would do anything for us-- and have-- and now it's time to do it back.
It's just the most important time and place where I've found myself in a very, very long time. I would have brought a very nice gift if only I could afford one.
Processional, with special guest Wilford Brimley.
We made a quick stopover for ice cream cones, before the wedding.
Cupcakes, with cupcakes:
The preg'nit ladies! osbick_bird! Aww! (By the way, osbick_bird, you look fucking great.)
Requisite photo of Nina being creepy:
Dr. Love would actually be doing this whether it was his wedding day or not.
This person once got upset with me because I assigned her the LJ pseudonym "Psychozilla." I don't get it.
With the love of my life. Actually at one point, Tony and I got into an argument over whether she's the love of my life or his. Sure, he can speak Spanish with her, but I've known her for more than a decade. Also, Tony has a kid and an extremely pregnant wife.
Nina being somewhat less creepy:
Bethany chased down this random old guy because he was carrying liquor. It was that kind of party.
But the best part came after midnight, when the groom spontaneously gained 180 pounds and took off his shirt, and the bride became a shirtless black man. Rob & Erin truly know how to Keep Portland Weird.
The wedding ends on a white-hot, perspiration-humid dancefloor where DJ Phantom Hillbilly follows hours and hours of defibrillating dance tunes with "Come Sail Away." All the couples immediately cling to each other for nuzzly Styx time: the newly married couple, peoples' parents, the Gay Best Man and the Gay Best Man's boyfriend, truckstopdruid and Licia, Todd and Lara, Hunt Stockwell and (metaphorical) Bride of Stockwell, Quesogirl with whoever she's seeing now-- Brenda is slumped in the doorway looking drained, but I drag her out to the floor; we circle slowly as I hold tight to her reedy Mexican spine. When the drums kick in and Dennis DeYoung begins to freak out, there's a good perimeter of empty space around the bride and groom, so Trip starts bowing majestically before them. He's doing it in time with the music, and it's infectious, so I join in. Soon, the whole circle is rhythmically bowing at the married couple's feet as they dance, and then I throw myself onto them, hugging them both, Dr. Love's brown tux and Erin's bare shoulders-- and yell for everyone to pile on. They do-- 70-odd people ram into the center of the room, laughing and crying, pressing as hard as they can with their whole bodies so the bride and groom in the middle can really feel the multi-guest hug. I can sure feel it myself.
I'd first showed up for the wedding with Cupcakes and Powderette. There was a row of beaming moms and baby carriages parked behind the outdoor seats like they were revving up for a drag race. The couple exchanged humble, silly vows and I almost didn't realize I was crying it until Cupcakes squeezed me. Erin was tremulously keeping it together when she spoke of her affection for Dr. Love's "beard and old-man clothes." Dr. Love sang "I Can't Help Falling In Love With You" to his rabid Elvis-fan woman, while the groomsmen joined in solemnly on kazoos; the Best Man held up cue cards with the lyrics for the rest of us to join in, which we did. Milo was officiating and asked "Do you still wanna marry this guy?" and Erin cry-giggled "Hell yes."
This is a Mason Lodge converted into a hotel getaway, so hot girls wander the halls in bikinis and open robes. 35% of the guests are filmmakers or actors and are debating who they'd like to direct their own wedding video-- Cassavetes? Scorsese? Altman? Peter Jackson? It's a very hot day, made hotter in the upstairs reception hall where hot glazed hams and metallic gold mashed potatoes fill the air with steam. I am dripping sweat on myself; when I reach the newly married couple at the receiving line, I pull the purple, neatly folded handkerchief from the groom's breast pocket and swab my face down with it.
Now I'm in line to pad out the red wine with some actual food when someone grabs my ass from behind; of course, it's Drunken Brenda, already drunk. She says she nearly lynched herself on her streamer when dancing down the aisle-- it wrapped itself right around her throat. We hug for a long time-- Brenda was supposed to get married next month, but her fiancee was in a scooter accident. I haven't seen her since that happened. In fact, I haven't seen her in something like a year and a half, whenever she moved to Chicago. She mentions the time that I assisted Chuck Klosterman in hitting on her in 2004 and she didn't know who she was; now she sees him everywhere, and the guy serving wine and beer sneered "Chuck Klosterman? He sucks." When the two of us are out on the lodge's front porch, Brenda requests that I draw tattoos of fiery robots on her upper arms with colored Sharpies, and I do. Brenda says she saw the Flaming Lips last week for the first time and cried-- she'd never seen them before, but they were one of her fiancee's favorite bands and they'd planned on attending the show together.
Erin's bridesmaid, luxuriantly tatsleeved and chestpieced, gives a speech-- it's so rare, she says, when you recall your friends' lives before this relationship began, and something vital seems to be missing from those memories. For the Best Man's turn, he approves of Erin's "beautiful smile and great tits"; incredulous laughter all around. Dr. Love's mom plays a love song on her ukulele.
I need to squash some of my escaping emotion. Five or six of us smoke some weed out in the seats where we'd watched the wedding an hour earlier, hiding the pipe when we see the grounds' security guy ambling around. Earlier, he'd stopped in and watched the dance party and seemed to be enjoying himself. I find the discarded Elvis-lyric cue cards in the grass and, with stoned immediacy, know that the groom needs them. I run them into the crowded dance party, where Hillbilly is playing "Hey Ya," and I hand them to Dr. Love, and he holds them out for me while I trace my finger along the lyrics and pretend to recite "What's cooler than bein' cool" off them. Tony is breakdancing; Jordi is dancing her ass off with her baby strapped to her front; she is singing into the baby bottle as if it's her microphone and periodically shouting "MY PROM WILL NOT BE RUINED, YOU GUYS!"
The electricity goes out in the middle of the dancing and the uproar is tremendous. Pitch black, shrieks and laughter. Awesome. Then it comes back on after about fifteen seconds, and Hillbilly doesn't alter the LP needle in any way, so the record starts up again with a slow "WWWWWWWWWWWRRRRRRRRRWRWRWRWRWRWRWR" and launches back into Lionel Richie's "All Night Long," and everyone puts in as much adrenaline as they can to jump around and make up for those lost fifteen seconds.
The thing is, a lot of us have lives that are pure shit right now. Many of us are direly unemployed; my phone's just been turned off and I don't even know how I'm gonna pay my rent in a few days. Some of these friends have dated each other, hurt each other; I've dated or psuedo-dated a couple of them myself and then had things go down the drain. But my semi-ex, moving to the east coast in less than a week, is here-- we're chastely kissing goodbye and she's telling me she's so sorry she said she'd come see my Grand Guignol show and then flaked. Here's someone who is in severe debt and who had to break up with his last girlfriend because she bashed his guitar against their bedroom wall until both were demolished, but he's jamming out on a new guitar and bounding around the floor doing a ridiculous Russian kick-dance, and joining the groom in enacting the knife-fight from the "Beat It" video on the dance floor. Here's a girl whose fiancee suddenly passed away less than two months ago, but she's hugging everyone in sight and grabbing asses and pretending to put her mouth on the bride's boob in group photos. Here's a friend whose divorce was just finalized the other day and whose ex-husband is now publicly dating a prominent local lesbian, but she's screeching with joy and taking photos and rubbing cupcake frosting into peoples' facial hair.
I've never seen this many people I love looking this happy, all in the same place. I want to hug all of them at the same time, and within twenty minutes or so, during "Come Sail Away," I will. But right now my exhaustion has eclipsed my adrenaline, and I'm good to just stand here at a table with Tony's video camera, and film them going nuts on each other. They have wonderful hearts and would do anything for us-- and have-- and now it's time to do it back.
It's just the most important time and place where I've found myself in a very, very long time. I would have brought a very nice gift if only I could afford one.
Processional, with special guest Wilford Brimley.
We made a quick stopover for ice cream cones, before the wedding.
Cupcakes, with cupcakes:
The preg'nit ladies! osbick_bird! Aww! (By the way, osbick_bird, you look fucking great.)
Requisite photo of Nina being creepy:
Dr. Love would actually be doing this whether it was his wedding day or not.
This person once got upset with me because I assigned her the LJ pseudonym "Psychozilla." I don't get it.
With the love of my life. Actually at one point, Tony and I got into an argument over whether she's the love of my life or his. Sure, he can speak Spanish with her, but I've known her for more than a decade. Also, Tony has a kid and an extremely pregnant wife.
Nina being somewhat less creepy:
Bethany chased down this random old guy because he was carrying liquor. It was that kind of party.
But the best part came after midnight, when the groom spontaneously gained 180 pounds and took off his shirt, and the bride became a shirtless black man. Rob & Erin truly know how to Keep Portland Weird.