Write me:
skot AT izzlepfaff DOT com

Tuesday, 21 September
They Them Wed

On Friday, the wife and I attended the wedding of friends L. and K. They had rented out the Lake Union Cafe for the night, a swankyish place I hadn't been before. Said swank was somewhat nullified at the end of the evening by our parking place, which being directly below a portion of I-5 some height above, left our already-hideous little Honda befouled with dirty road drippings. Needless to say, we haven't bothered to wash it, but instead are content to continue driving the awful, filthy gnomelike beast on in ignominy.

As for the wedding, this was the SEATTLE RAWKS! entry in our nuptial roster, and so we found ourselves sitting with many musicians, who are easily identifiable by the apparently timeless practice of simply refusing to comb their hair. (The male ones, anyway.) These guys put on some nice respectable suits, shave, shine their shoes; but yet, because the Power of Rock has an inverse relationship with follicular kemptness, their hair always looks as if they had all gotten down on hands and knees and furiously rubbed their skulls into the ground.

(Here I could make a digression about rock stars who started to suck once all their hair came off, like Billy Corgan, but the argument would be diluted by the inescapable fact that Billy Corgan always sucked.)

After the mercifully brief ceremony, which really consisted mostly of the marble-mouthed guy who ran it--everything pointed to an Internet-based priesthood here--assuring the bride and groom that they were groovy, interesting people embarking on their big fucking journey of discovery and wonder and all that . . . you know, the stuff that everyone hears at any wedding, including mine. (It's a good thing I didn't think of this when I wrote my vows. "Darling, I'm so stoked about this big fucking journey of discovery and shit . . .") It's just one of the rules of weddings, just like the little kid who has to totter down the aisle artlessly dropping clumps of flower petals on people's shoes.

But like I say, it was creditably short, and before you knew it, everyone was standing up and clapping while the bride and groom chastely kissed; the musicians batted nervously at their heads with sticks to maintain the frenziedness of their coifs. Then after the wedding party split, the polite DASH TO THE OPEN BAR began. (Great. A wedding with an open bar where a large portion of the guests are theater people and rock musicians. The whole idea was so fraught with insanity that I immediately had two drinks just to put it out of my mind.)

And then of course the food, which everyone looks forward to criticizing. What can you ever say? It's wedding food, and unless you're loaded, it's just banquet food, which is a euphemism for cafeteria food. Hey, crostini! Bread with . . . stuff piled on it! Hey, smoked ahi! It's smoked so it won't rot! Hey, teriyaki chicken! It's teriyaki chicken! Everyone! Teriyaki chicken!

There is honestly nothing meaningful anyone can say about teriyaki chicken except to simply acknowledge its physical existence. It's not bad. It's not good. It just exists, like gravity. "Hey, whatcha eating?" "Teriyaki chicken." "Huh." "Yeah." "Is it . . . good?" (Pause.) "It's teriyaki chicken. You know." "Yeah."

Finally, the real deal of the night, the dancing. Now I'm no dancer; in fact I suspect I resemble a palsied mime, but I also know that nobody thinks they are a good dancer, except for women, who are all dynamite dancers because they don't give a fuck. They just dance, and everyone else can eat shit. It's kind of cool. But anyway, since as I mention, the place was lousy with musicians, the band was, atypically for weddings, fantastic. Not that they had pretensions or anything; they didn't turn it into their own Very Special Wedding Concert, but rather, just enthusiastically played fucking great songs really well. Chris Friel was yelling at people constantly to get out on the dance floor, and how can you resist when the opening chords of "Billie Jean" start honking out and the players are all loving it? Or--call me a sap--who doesn't want to dance with his gal when Kim Virant is up absolutely belting out "Maybe I'm Amazed"?

Suckers, that's who. I mean, fine, ironic distance and all that, and it exists in me to a degree, and it even has its place at times (though twenty years of misuse have taken their toll on good old I.D.), but Jesus Christ, it's just kind of sad when the band kicks in with (my favorite choice, especially for a wedding) "Another One Bites the Dust," and all you can do is sit around smirking. Well, fine, smirk away, weirdo; I'm gonna go out there and jerk my limbs around and grin. Just like that little tiny guy over there, with the frosted hair and the manic spasms that I recognize as a fellow sufferer of Crappy Dancer Syndrome? Dance like an ass, Mike McCready! I sure am.