So I went home to the RIC for a wedding this weekend. Best friend's sister and all that. Known 'em since the 2nd grade. Real good friends and all. You know the drill.
I get invited, I hear from the grapevine (the best friend) that it's an open bar, there's free food, and plenty of laughs to be had. How can I say no?
The wedding went off without a hitch, and as things were, it was a Catholic wedding, so it was over pretty quickly. No frivolous singing or lengthy sermons, just stand up, sit down, stand up, sit down, eat a wafer, drink some wine, stand up and leave. It's good to be Catholic.
Some highlights of the reception:
The bar opened for cocktail hour at 3:30-ish. Predictably, there was a line, so it became good practice to get back in line when your glass became half empty. My corner of the Catskills isn't known for fancy drink mixes, and I'm not good with drink names, so most of my orders were basically vodka and whatever juice or tonic was in sight. Ladies, I'm classy.
They closed the bar for dinner, but still served wine to certain tables. Our table was not one of these, and thus we decided this injustice onto the proletariat demanded retort. Two brave comrades from the table attempted to pilfer the bourgeoisie of their devil's brew (from the head table, no less), but were unfairly turned away at every turn. We instantly became “that table.”
When the bar reopened after dinner, I was second in line.
My best friend thinks he can dance. He cannot. The two-step wasn't meant for white folk.
No matter how drunk I got, I still refused to dance. On the dancefloor, at least.
At one point, the bar ran out of Skyy, so they switched to Grey Goose. Also at this time, the Jamaican bartender warned me he was going to cut me off if I kept up my current pace. He had to say it three times because I couldn't hear him over the music. He thought it was his accent. This didn't help future negotiations at the bar.
The DJ made everyone do the chicken dance. If you're from Pennsylvania, you know all about the chicken dance. Stupid chicken dance.
My parents were also invited to the wedding. It's fun to see them drink.
Two pimps made a guest appearance for the latter part of the reception. They were classy folk, and real popular with the ladies.
My friend-turned-investment banker was also invited and came down from NYC to celebrate. He kept trying to pretend he was some sort of wedding crasher, but when you're a pasty redhead in a pinstripe suit, it's hard to act suave. I pimp-slapped him later that night. I can't remember why.
The DJ incited a battle royale between my table and the bride's family's table. Drinking, dancing, petty larceny, insults: anything that could be quantified was fair game. We won when their major contenders passed out. Old people–all hot air, no stamina.
One of the bride's uncles wrapped a scarf around his head when we were leaving and declared he was “Mohammed Ahmed.” We were real popular with the other hotel guests. Those poor little children…
I was the only person to get cut off by the bartender. It obviously didn't stop me from drinking, but it was a humbling moment.