skot AT izzlepfaff DOT com
Monday, 14 July
Hell Isn't Necessarily Always Other People
Jesus Christ, July. What the fuck?
July replies: Yes, penetrating question, Skot. What the fuck, indeed. July is always a snotty pain in the ass.
It was a busy weekend, particularly for my astoundingly dismal standards. Thursday was a rehearsal dinner, and you know what that means: Yes, on Saturday, there was a wedding. A wedding that I was in, alarmingly. Yes, there roams the earth a man courageous enough to allow me to become part of the most important day of his life. He is, of course, deliriously insane and not worth poking fun at, and so I will not sully their good ceremony with any cheap shots, except for a few. Mostly at me.
1. Not a shot, actually. It really was pretty cool that the procession of groomsmen (me! included!) leading up to the march of the groom was accompanied by a live acoustic version of the Pixies' "Here Comes Your Man."
2. My classiest moment probably had to be during the photo shoot when the bride arrived, and I said, "You look beautiful. I wish I was the one nailing you tonight."
3. Later, when going in for a congratulatory hug, I stomped right on her damn foot. "That's a twofer!" I witlessly cried, and she looked at me like I had opened my mouth and produced the motionless WB frog. She hates me, and I deserve it. Get to know me!
Enough. Let the poor couple rest, and may happiness rain down upon them ceaselessly.
That was Saturday. An entirely different event was planned for Sunday. It was sort of peculiar, even by my exceedingly expansive standards, because it was a housewarming party thrown by my neighborhood bartender. I've never been to any of my bartender's parties over the years, but I was to this one, causing me to wonder if I should check my expenditures at this place.
We showed up and were immediately met by the host's wife. "Oh!" she cried. "You're the special ones!" She shared a meaningful look at E. (the host), and I didn't know how to interpret that. Special as in fond of dipping his balls into his cocktails? Because I do that for effect, and to also clear bar space. Or maybe we just like cocktails a lot. It's hard to say, because then E. was screaming at his father, manning the grill: "JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, THE SALMON IS DONE! LOOK AT IT! WE'RE NOT MAKING CARBON HERE!" And then a good-natured wrestling match ensued.
You see, E.'s family brood is, to borrow a phrase from Morbo, belligerent and numerous! I was introduced to, variously, Aunt Boo ("I'm a situation buster! Like Ghost Busters! Only situations." A child had fallen down and skinned his knee. "Break his legs!" howled Aunt Boo. "Situation busted!") and Carla, who declared her passion for the punch containing "Mexican crazy liquor." (I don't know.) Children ran amok during the afternoon, particularly one horrifying little thug who screamed like a madman at any and all opportunity, and resembled nothing so much as a sloe-eyed little Rutger Hauer; his mother's idea of parenting was to simply be exasperated and make empty threats about "tying [him] to the car bumper." "No!" he screamed back as he attempted to drop another unlucky child down the chimney; his mother shrugged. He was a tiny little speeding argument for eugenics.
But I make it sound like a bad time; it wasn't, really. E. had really laid in the food and drink, and he tended to the makeshift open-pit barbecue like a man who has singed his nuts before. Hilariously, E. also has like eight brothers and a father who all claim to know barbecue better than anyone else; even better, they all look identical: they are all about six-foot-three and all sort of resemble burlier Michael Phelpses, or perhaps several blowsy Chris Martins.
"JESUS FUCKING CHRIST! DO YOU WANT ME TO COOK THAT, YOU FUCKING IDIOT?"
"GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM MY GODDAMN SALMON. GIVE ME THAT SPATULA, DOCTOR MENGELE!"
"CAN YOU EVEN SPELL 'FISH'?"
It was sort of thrilling, at least until that little towheaded shitbag entered the scene again, screaming incomprehensibly and threatening to launch water bombs onto our heads from the raised porch. His mother screamed at him to get down. "No!" he shouted, and she sat down again. I hate rotten little shits, but really, I hate rotten little parents even more. Later, he bit some other kid.
("Knock his teeth out!" yelled Aunt Boo. "Situation busted!" She had located the terrifying Mexican liquor punch.)
Presently, E. gave us a tour of his new home, a charming little edifice constructed entirely out of things designed to bonk your head on--an interesting choice for a tall guy. "Here's the head-smashing room!" he didn't call out, but might as well have. In the living room was a photo of himself with his wife from their marriage shots. It was almost unbelievably charming: there stood E. with his girl, in front of an Airstream trailer, looking for all the world like two Nevada desert mannequins waiting for an A-bomb test to happen. I made some empty comments about the lovely wood flooring and the . . . unique architecture as E. made another near miss with his skull versus some duct work.
"It's all ours!" he said over his shoulder to us, grinning wildly.
Children burst into the room. A little girl held out a handful of silver: "Look what we found! Money!" E. smiled. "Really?" he asked. "I wonder if there's more."
E., of course, had salted the basement of his new house with spare change for the kids to find. They raced back downstairs. E. looked fondly after them, even the hideous one.
"This is all ours."
Note: Comments are closed on old entries.
E. sounds like the ideal bartender: Patient, un-shy, and a member of a batshit crazy family who supply endless stories of intrigue and woe that, when shared, will make his patrons feel better about their own.
What an awesome wedding march. Not having music at my wedding strikes me now, in hindsight, as utterly silly. Though the thing I wish for most is that we'd gotten a real photographer.
The images were released to celebrate the arrival on Monday of Emma Tallulah, the couple's third daughter.
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