The Iron Catastrophe (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} glamateur) wrote,@ 2002-08-06 12:10:00 |
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Prosciutto Pinwheels, Pig Heads, & the Horrifying "T" Word
I think I have processed the weekend enough to write about it. 7:30 in the morning on Saturday I left the comfort of the CyberDen for Denton and the first phase of the Big Wedding Day. It's normally a 90 minute drive. Seemed OK coming out of DC through MD....then... TRAFFIK.
It took over an hour JUST to get to the Bay Bridge tolls from the I-97 interchange. That's right, a 10 Mile Back Up. I thought the 10MBU was only a legend, a thing of the distant past. Like griffins and elves. But apparently every inbred mullet-head in Baltimore decided to go to the beach that morning too, instead of staying home to drink endless Pabst Blue Ribbons on the porches of their dilapidated, AC free row houses. Which is really where they all belong. I was able to index an entire 80 minute minidisc worth of music while doing the old stop'n'go tango (at one point, a beautifully decomposed deer laying shriveled and incongruous by the steel lane divider mesmerized me with its eyes - for a minute), but just by luck I know the side road escape route through Cape St Claire, or it would've been more like 2 hours in bumper2bumper. Suckers.
Ah, the wedding. They pinned a white rose to the lapel of my new CHEAP ASS jacket, and it was lovely. Til I got a snotter full of POLLEN and started having an allergy attack right in the Church of God. Thanks again, GOD. By the way, GOD, your CHURCH is LAME. They didn't even have a practice session for the wedding, not even for Dad and Loretta, so nobody knew what the hell they were doing. During the lovely and inspiring candle ceremony, ("The two flames becoming one signifies the union of the husband and wife..." THANKS, I never would've figured out that sledgehammer symbolism on my own, Mr. Minister with the UGLIEST window-pane striped suit I have ever seen) my Dad picked his candle up by the stick, not the base, and the base slid off and crashed on the floor. Then in a sitcom moment, he forgot where he put the ring and had to fumble in all his pockets to find it. The "re-enactments" we had to do for the loopy camera woman after the ceremony finished redefined the term "tiresome mindfuck."
The reception line was fun. I could tell which of the bumpkins could accept me and which ones thought I was a freak. My Aunt Adelaide was there. Ninety-one next week and sharp as a tack. Had to scream into her gigantic hearing aids to get through to her, but hey, it's a Shortall thing, the deafness, I'll be there one day.
The reception at the house had alot more people, like 200 or so (most of the invitees wouldn't've been caught DEAD in the Church of God, but free food is free food, so they managed the reception) although some of the older guests practically expired in the heat. I stayed in the pool the whole time. One of my friends from high school was there, he's a state trooper in Salisbury now, although he's fat as a pig, so he's workin' that Police Chief Wiggum thang. He has three kids. Great dad, too. He's of the "Mock Your Children Every Chance You Get" school of fathering. Sigh.
Speaking of pigs, the classy catering crew for the shin-dig (the lady who runs the show has the following sticker on her pick-up: "Bad Ass Chicks Have Bad Ass Trucks") cooked an ENTIRE PIG for the party. Whole. They cut its head off right there on the grill and it just sat there, the head, looking out into the party like it envied the fun were having.
Matthew told me I had to be at the house in Rehoboth by 6:30 and I was more than happy to oblige. We went to a couple of parties, one lame and one good. The lame one was an ABBA party. Imagine! An ABBA party in 2002 that seems.... less than inspired!? I guess nowadays it takes more than writing the word ABBA on a piece of construction paper and slapping it on a wall in your backyard. Open bar, though, sponsored by Absolut. (Jeez, they'll sponsor anything. Whores).
I had a Costanza moment when I ordered our two drinks. There was a tip jar. Two drinks = $2, right? But I didn't have any ones. Only a five. Three options came to mind:
1) Leave nothing and look CHEAP;
2) Put in the $5 and take out $3 - and look CHEAP;
3) Put in the $5, walk away, and let the bartender think that ONCE AGAIN he made out like a bandit simply because he was lucky enough to win the powerball drawing in the genetic lottery.
Damn, it was sweltering, too. Shirts were taking themselves off! We ran into Matthew's new boyfriend on the way out. It's amazing how almost at the same moment everybody simply LEFT. No discussion. It was instinctive. Gays have the most amazing migratory patterns. His name is Ed and he's an options / futures trader in Philly. He's in his 40's, very nice looking and has a great sense of humor. We walked to the next party. This one was done RIGHT.
The disposable income of older gay men. Truthfully, maybe horrifyingly, this is how I see myself spending my declining years. If I manage to actually save any money. Survive through the cold months, and between Memorial and Labor Days, rent a house at the beach and once a month throw a party like the one Saturday night at Silverlake. Live DJ. Good one, too, a woman from NY. Free booze. Honestly sexy bartenders. Ambient lantern light. A crowd. Hopefully a HOT New Zealand house boy to run it for me. (I promise to remember electronic mosquito repellers - I got bit on the hand so bad my knuckle swelled up to half the size of a golf ball. Might've been a spider).
Hot crowd, but lemme tell ya. Gay men are gettin' GAYER. I've never seen anything like it. Crazy. It was like a massive "Impersonate Auntie Mame!" revue. There was a cute doggie that I got water for because it kept licking the side of the keg. Some Ralph Lauren look-a-like from Cleveland tried to get all in my business. DAMN, I wish I went for older guys. I'd be set. Matthew and I gorged ourselves on a plate of rolled mozzarella/prosciutto pinwheel things until we were SICK. We met Ed's housemate, this HOT Boston Irish-y boy with a body like Marky Mark and the face of an angel. I was inflamed to action. I began my sounding-out with Ed.
"He's so hot... what is he, like 24?"
"24!? He's 39."
Imagine how stunned I was.
"Wha?" I managed.
"It's the Botox," Ed volunteered.
JACKPOT!
"Ex-alcoholic, too."
But of course...
I saw an ex there who used to be an annoying Body Shoppe clerk when we "dated", who is now an annoying ex-Body Shoppe clerk with a rich boyfriend who owns houses in both DC and Rehoboth. Ah, Life.
We knew when to leave, so we went swimming in the ocean. The water was surprisingly cold, and totally black, so we couldn't see the waves almost until they hit us. It was so exhilarating. Ed got a ticket for parking on a residential street after midnight. Karma.
Next morning I hightailed it back to NoVa to beat the "T" and it was a straight shot home. On 404, which is two lanes and people get killed on all the time on it, a minivan sped past me and the driver was a woman who looked like a young Linda Fishman and she was giving herself a facial massage. Um, get your hands back on the wheel, please. YOU'RE the reason we have to turn our headlights on in the broad daylight like it's Iceland or something.
P.S. I chose option 3.
I think I have processed the weekend enough to write about it. 7:30 in the morning on Saturday I left the comfort of the CyberDen for Denton and the first phase of the Big Wedding Day. It's normally a 90 minute drive. Seemed OK coming out of DC through MD....then... TRAFFIK.
It took over an hour JUST to get to the Bay Bridge tolls from the I-97 interchange. That's right, a 10 Mile Back Up. I thought the 10MBU was only a legend, a thing of the distant past. Like griffins and elves. But apparently every inbred mullet-head in Baltimore decided to go to the beach that morning too, instead of staying home to drink endless Pabst Blue Ribbons on the porches of their dilapidated, AC free row houses. Which is really where they all belong. I was able to index an entire 80 minute minidisc worth of music while doing the old stop'n'go tango (at one point, a beautifully decomposed deer laying shriveled and incongruous by the steel lane divider mesmerized me with its eyes - for a minute), but just by luck I know the side road escape route through Cape St Claire, or it would've been more like 2 hours in bumper2bumper. Suckers.
Ah, the wedding. They pinned a white rose to the lapel of my new CHEAP ASS jacket, and it was lovely. Til I got a snotter full of POLLEN and started having an allergy attack right in the Church of God. Thanks again, GOD. By the way, GOD, your CHURCH is LAME. They didn't even have a practice session for the wedding, not even for Dad and Loretta, so nobody knew what the hell they were doing. During the lovely and inspiring candle ceremony, ("The two flames becoming one signifies the union of the husband and wife..." THANKS, I never would've figured out that sledgehammer symbolism on my own, Mr. Minister with the UGLIEST window-pane striped suit I have ever seen) my Dad picked his candle up by the stick, not the base, and the base slid off and crashed on the floor. Then in a sitcom moment, he forgot where he put the ring and had to fumble in all his pockets to find it. The "re-enactments" we had to do for the loopy camera woman after the ceremony finished redefined the term "tiresome mindfuck."
The reception line was fun. I could tell which of the bumpkins could accept me and which ones thought I was a freak. My Aunt Adelaide was there. Ninety-one next week and sharp as a tack. Had to scream into her gigantic hearing aids to get through to her, but hey, it's a Shortall thing, the deafness, I'll be there one day.
The reception at the house had alot more people, like 200 or so (most of the invitees wouldn't've been caught DEAD in the Church of God, but free food is free food, so they managed the reception) although some of the older guests practically expired in the heat. I stayed in the pool the whole time. One of my friends from high school was there, he's a state trooper in Salisbury now, although he's fat as a pig, so he's workin' that Police Chief Wiggum thang. He has three kids. Great dad, too. He's of the "Mock Your Children Every Chance You Get" school of fathering. Sigh.
Speaking of pigs, the classy catering crew for the shin-dig (the lady who runs the show has the following sticker on her pick-up: "Bad Ass Chicks Have Bad Ass Trucks") cooked an ENTIRE PIG for the party. Whole. They cut its head off right there on the grill and it just sat there, the head, looking out into the party like it envied the fun were having.
Matthew told me I had to be at the house in Rehoboth by 6:30 and I was more than happy to oblige. We went to a couple of parties, one lame and one good. The lame one was an ABBA party. Imagine! An ABBA party in 2002 that seems.... less than inspired!? I guess nowadays it takes more than writing the word ABBA on a piece of construction paper and slapping it on a wall in your backyard. Open bar, though, sponsored by Absolut. (Jeez, they'll sponsor anything. Whores).
I had a Costanza moment when I ordered our two drinks. There was a tip jar. Two drinks = $2, right? But I didn't have any ones. Only a five. Three options came to mind:
1) Leave nothing and look CHEAP;
2) Put in the $5 and take out $3 - and look CHEAP;
3) Put in the $5, walk away, and let the bartender think that ONCE AGAIN he made out like a bandit simply because he was lucky enough to win the powerball drawing in the genetic lottery.
Damn, it was sweltering, too. Shirts were taking themselves off! We ran into Matthew's new boyfriend on the way out. It's amazing how almost at the same moment everybody simply LEFT. No discussion. It was instinctive. Gays have the most amazing migratory patterns. His name is Ed and he's an options / futures trader in Philly. He's in his 40's, very nice looking and has a great sense of humor. We walked to the next party. This one was done RIGHT.
The disposable income of older gay men. Truthfully, maybe horrifyingly, this is how I see myself spending my declining years. If I manage to actually save any money. Survive through the cold months, and between Memorial and Labor Days, rent a house at the beach and once a month throw a party like the one Saturday night at Silverlake. Live DJ. Good one, too, a woman from NY. Free booze. Honestly sexy bartenders. Ambient lantern light. A crowd. Hopefully a HOT New Zealand house boy to run it for me. (I promise to remember electronic mosquito repellers - I got bit on the hand so bad my knuckle swelled up to half the size of a golf ball. Might've been a spider).
Hot crowd, but lemme tell ya. Gay men are gettin' GAYER. I've never seen anything like it. Crazy. It was like a massive "Impersonate Auntie Mame!" revue. There was a cute doggie that I got water for because it kept licking the side of the keg. Some Ralph Lauren look-a-like from Cleveland tried to get all in my business. DAMN, I wish I went for older guys. I'd be set. Matthew and I gorged ourselves on a plate of rolled mozzarella/prosciutto pinwheel things until we were SICK. We met Ed's housemate, this HOT Boston Irish-y boy with a body like Marky Mark and the face of an angel. I was inflamed to action. I began my sounding-out with Ed.
"He's so hot... what is he, like 24?"
"24!? He's 39."
Imagine how stunned I was.
"Wha?" I managed.
"It's the Botox," Ed volunteered.
JACKPOT!
"Ex-alcoholic, too."
But of course...
I saw an ex there who used to be an annoying Body Shoppe clerk when we "dated", who is now an annoying ex-Body Shoppe clerk with a rich boyfriend who owns houses in both DC and Rehoboth. Ah, Life.
We knew when to leave, so we went swimming in the ocean. The water was surprisingly cold, and totally black, so we couldn't see the waves almost until they hit us. It was so exhilarating. Ed got a ticket for parking on a residential street after midnight. Karma.
Next morning I hightailed it back to NoVa to beat the "T" and it was a straight shot home. On 404, which is two lanes and people get killed on all the time on it, a minivan sped past me and the driver was a woman who looked like a young Linda Fishman and she was giving herself a facial massage. Um, get your hands back on the wheel, please. YOU'RE the reason we have to turn our headlights on in the broad daylight like it's Iceland or something.
P.S. I chose option 3.
