Wednesday, August 27, 2008

Q wanders the town, in search of ways to make him sleepy

In a strange turn of events, my weekend somehow resembled that of an average twenty something New Yorker (i.e. I was downtown drinking a lot).

Friday night I went to see Gymnast in a play at the New York Fringe. The fringe, for people who do not know, is a giant performing arts festival that takes place in Lower Manhattan every August. There are over 200 different shows available at tons of different venues. Some are cool. Most suck. This one was somewhere in between.

Gymnast’s show has the honor of playing at the Cherry Lane Theatre, the oldest continuously running Off Broadway theatre in New York. What is striking about a visit to the Cherry Lane is its history and its geography. It is nestled at the end of a quiet side street in the heart of the west village. It is as prime as New York City real estate can get. I get apartment envy every time I go to this place and see the houses next to it. We even found a great bakery next door that has milk and cookies. Milk and Cookies!

But I digress. After the show, Brownsox, Gymnast, and I hit off Kettle of Fish. We found a table in back and I began attacking the place’s Budweiser keg. My plan was to have a couple of drinks and get home at a reasonable hour, since I had work the next day. So I drank quickly, sprint drinking if you will instead of marathon work that soon would be required. Around midnight, Hubris called and said he would be by soon. Then JamBand called, saying she was at a bar on the Lower East Side with Gymnast’s college roommate. Who wants to go home early on a Friday Night anyway?

A cab ride later, we are in party central. The bar is a standard non-descript trashy lower east side bar. No tap, no credit cards, no space to breath. We start pounding the PBRs and mingling with JamBand and her crew. The PBRs and the noise hit me bad, and I am a mess. Some girl tries to talk to me, but I am so tired, wasted, and deaf that I am no use to her. I use all the concentration I can muster to meet and talk to Gymnast’s college buddy, as anyone who could room with The Gymnast for four years needs to be documented. Not surprisingly, he seemed like a chill fellow. It always fun hanging out with JamBand though, as she acts as a party infusion anytime she is out. That gets me further out in the evening than I otherwise could make it. I eventually talk Brownsox into sharing a cab with me back home, where I eat a third a block of Cracker Barrel cheese with some wheat thins, hoping (and failing) to stave off a hangover.

Next day, work. Ouch. In between shows, I hug out with Teach up by Columbia. Teach and his girl were coming off a successful run of dog sitting at a place on Central Park South with a dog sitting gig for a Columbia professor. So they got to camp out half a block from the Hudson right by the Columbia campus for two weeks. That whole neighborhood is kinda wacky, as Columbia tries to build a college campus, with a college town outskirt, in the middle of Upper Manhattan. It’s a strange place, but the house Teach was staying in was huge. Both the husband and wife had their own studies, with an extra room for a TV den. I could possibly live there when they get back and get away with it for a month. After getting over this case of apartment envy, Teach and I had a pint at a local joint, a non-descript college-town-esque bar. I then went and had a slice of pizza next door (to see how these Columbia kids live). Teach sat with me, attempting to drink his pre-purchased six pack of Sam Adams, but was thwarted by a lack of an opener.

After the final show, I headed to Park Slope. I usually avoid Brooklyn like the plague, but I am trying (not very well, lets be honest) to be open to new things. I met Groucho at a BBQ place on 5th ave (not real Fifth Ave. obviously). They had great pulled pork, wings so spicy I cried, beer named after Barack Obama, and a bourbon list. I took this opportunity to teach Groucho about Bourbon, so we split a flight of small batch, which Groucho had to fight through. Groucho, to his credit, picked Booker’s as the best bourbon. The class reminded me how good Knob Creek is, and how rough it can be going down. All and all, a quality meal.

At the end of it, Groucho headed home, and I returned to the island. I headed to the East Village for a friend from High School’s birthday party. It was at a club-like place on 9th street. I drank vodka, which is something I only drink at places like those. I hung out with the Banker for a while, and had the added treat of seeing Duke. He arrived with his crew Cleveland and M&M, neither of whom I had not seen since Christmas. We caught up over by the bar (I am always hesitant to give up such real estate at a place like this) and downed Vodka. I had forgotten two things about Vodka. 1: Vodka Tonic taste like nothing, which can be dangerous, 2: Vodka Sodas are very popular because of their low sugar, and conversely taste like ass. I have also found I no longer like dancing at all, a realization I am not happy with. I believe the problem is that I am having a harder and harder time reaching that level of drunk where an uptight white boy will get down. It’s like every time I try to hit that target, I overshoot and become a mess. It’s the drunkard’s equivalent to curling (if I understand the game properly, which no one this side of the border does anyway). This means that drinking in a club is never going to be as fun as it should. Despite that limitation, it turns out to be a fun evening, where I get to drink with a bunch of people I do not see enough. Eventually Banker and I grabbed a cab uptown. The plan was to grab a final brew at Banker’s pad, but I was tired and just took the cab back to Queens.

Lots of drinking at cool places in cool neighborhoods. This activity will be a lot more fun when I don’t have to work every weekend (and thus, can wander around my apartment hung over in bathrobe after each night).

Looking into the future, I have finished my summer assignment at work, and Bourbon Samurai has returned from his New Hampshire exile. This 30% decrease in work hours multiplied by a 100% increase in drunken roommate should lead to some blog worthy stuff. Will let ya know.

Thursday, August 21, 2008

The Top 10 Cops in the History of TV

In preparation for the beginning of the new TV season, here is my list of the ten greatest characters to wear the badge in TV land. As is the way with most top 10 lists, it’s more about raising discussion than definitive ranking, so feel free to comment or add your own list.

10: Sergeant Kay Howard (Melissa Leo) on Homicide, Life on the Streets.
It’s rare for ‘real’ women to appear on TV, and Howard was a rare example of that. She looked and sounded like what a female Baltimore homicide detective probably looked and sounded like. Homicide began to decline when they replaced Kay with good looking women detectives, wiping some of the grit and realism off the show. Howard was one of a kind.

9: Officer Carl Winslow (Reginald VelJohnson) on Family Matters.
One of the few beat cops on the list, Carl was less about the war on crime, and more about the family life. A great example that not all cops are tormented justice-seekers, but normal working class joes with a loving family, occasionally having to deal with disappearing daughters and having to act as father figures to the freaky mad scientist who lives next door. And he helped both Balky and John McClane on separate occasions.

8: Sergeant Joe Friday (Jack Webb) on Dragnet
He was the first, and he got the job done with style. And a catchy beat.

7: Det. Andy Sipowicz (Dennis Franz) on NYPD Blue
As many high school kids who have had their weed ‘confiscated’ know, lots of cops are dicks. Good old Andy was a prick with the best of them. Drunk, racist, and generally angry, Sipowicz was only really good at one thing, being a cop. He would be higher on this list, but near the end of the run the show got ridiculous with putting Sipowicz through hell (by the end, I think anyone remotely related to him had been horribly murdered). But Dennis Franz’s ballsy portrayal of shitty dude trying to be a good cop deserves note.

6: Detective Lennie Brisco (Jerry Orbach) on Law and Order
On a show designed around a revolving door cast, Brisco is one of the benchmarks. He nailed a sense of world-weary optimism that endeared him to the audience year after year. Always charming, but never overwhelming. It’s hard to believe the show worked before him, and it lost something when he left.

5: Detective John Munch (Richard Belzer) on Any Show That Will Have Him.
No single character has been on more different TV shows (9 in total, check out IMDB) then Munch. That’s not an accident. Munch is Gallows Humor personified, a wisecracking imp making witty observations about the worst of mankind. He is the new icon for TV detective.

4: Det. James McNulty (Dominic West) on The Wire
I am not a huge Wire guy, but you can’t talk about cops shows without admitting that The Wire changes everything about what the genre could do. As the face of the show (if it has a face, but he is the most recognizable character) McNulty is both a symptom and a victim of the decay of Baltimore. Whether he is peeing on a railtrack as the train approaches, or inventing fake serial killers in order to get funding, McNulty is a dark side of the American legal system.

3: Detective Bobby Simone (Jimmy Smits) on NYPD Blue.
Now this was a cop. Bobby was the neighborhood guy who done good, doing the Job when the kids he grew up with were playing the other side. Jimmy Smits played him as the calm ying to Sipowicz’s batshit crazy yang, but Bobby always felt like the cop you wanted to be out there. His years on Blue were hands down the show’s strongest.

2: Detective Vic Mackey (Michael Chiklis) from The Shield
Good Cop and Bad Cop have gone home for the day; he is a different type of cop. One of the first antiheros of modern cable, Vic is one half righteous vigilante, one half criminal mastermind. The most unique cop on our list, Vic puts self preservation first, justice second, and the law somewhere in the back. Just never ask what’s in the bag.

1: Detective Frank Pembleton (Andre Braugher) on Homicide, Life on the Streets
Arrogant, uncompromising, brilliant. Frank was a speaker of the dead, avenging any loss of life with the power of the Truth. Andre Braugher’s career making performance was a powerhouse portrayal of a man who believed his job was a calling. Highlights include his crisis of faith throughout season 3 (from the White Glove Murders to his own brush with mortality) to his incredible stroke scene. And there might not be a better hour of television than “Three Men and Adena.” Frank Pembleton is in a class all his own.

There ya go. You will note that three cops come from the same show. That is not an accident.

Here real quick is the top ten Movie Cops

1: John McClane

2-9: Eight cops not as cool as John McClane.

10: Robocop.

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

Dubsgiving 2, Dubs harder

Last week saw the return of Dubsgiving, one of our floating holidays, where Dubs comes into town and we use it as an excuse to drink like we are back in college.

We are not in college anymore.

This Dubsgiving was a much quieter affair than the previous one, with a 70% increase in video games and food quality, and 100% decrease in cab vomiting, cockblocking, and ear-directed assault. Fun was still had in spite of statistics.

Dubs arrived early afternoon on Sunday. I was unprepared to entertain (i.e. put on pants) so Dubs went off with Snorlax and Brownsox to get lunch. I bummed around the house (my apartment still needs a name) for a couple of hours, until Hubris talked me into Sushi Kin.

A word on Sushi Kin. As many of you (if there are still multiple readers) know, Hubris works at one of the best sushi restaurants in NYC. One of their chefs, a bloke by the name Tanaka, decided to start his own place. So he takes up shop in a small restaurant on Ditmar’s Blvd. not far from where we live. The place is BYOB, and rarely busy. The food, however, is amazing, some of the best sushi I ever had. I go there often with Hubris, and Hubris just asks Tanaka to put some stuff together, we eat like kings, and the bill is usually pretty decent. The BYOB helps keep the price down, as we just grab a sixer or two from the supermarket across the street. I worry that the place will close soon for lack of business, but damn is it good.

After some sushi lunch, we meet up with the guys over at the Irish Rover, half to show Dubs the local watering hole, half because I did not want to hang out in my filthy home. After a pint or two, it is decided we should go back to Brownsox’s place and play some Xbox. This would prove to be the turning point for the week.

Dubs is really good at video games. Naturally good. So when we get back to Brownsox’s place and decide the game of the day (soon to be week) is Fifa Euro ’08, he picks it up very quickly. By the end of the day, he is just as good as me (although by the end of the week, I am much better than I was in the beginning of the summer). We play the first on many games, and then head out to go see a play.

As fate would have it, GuruTeve is in town directing a show in the fringe. The show is in the Lower East Side, at CSV, which is a cool venue. We shlep down, grab a beer at the venue, and check out the show. After the show, we take GuruTeve out for a drink at The Magician, which is a cool spot around the corner. It was cool catching up with GuruTeve, meeting his girlfriend, and listening to the random horn players who were jamming in the bar. Also on site was Moth, who I had not seen in a while, and it was cool getting to talk to her as well. A bit of a surreal grouping of old college friend in a LES bar on a Sunday night.

Monday night was much tamer. The lot of us had dinner at Bistro 33, which is an amazing Japanese/French fusion restaurant around the corner from my old apartment near Astoria Park. Again, a diamond in the rough along Ditmars Blvd. After a crazy good meal, we grabbed a couple of sixers and camped out at Brownsox’s place for some more Euro ’08. Often when I am at Brownsox’s place, I will pour 2 Coors Lite tall boys into the glass boot I bought Brownsox in Munich, and get myself nice and tight. I continued this trend, arriving back at my place good and lit before going to bed.

Tuesday Dubs went out with a high school friend, so I rested both my thumbs and liver. Wednesday night was the last night of Dubsgiving, and I had plans of showing the boy the town. However, when I got off work I found the team too entranced in heated games of Euro to fathom going out. I came over to Brownsox’s and had some beers while the boys played (I was too stressed from work to jump into the game. Euro ’08 is a fun game but can drive a man to violence). Eventually, we headed over to McCann’s for some shots and beers. I got to that lovely point of drunk where I stop caring about the little things (i.e. sleep) but still remember the big things (i.e. violence is not condoned in public eateries) and Dubs, Hubris, Brownsox and I drank into the night and had a good laugh.

Not quite the bender we expected, but we are getting older, and there is always next year.

Thursday, August 14, 2008

Saturday Night's alright for fightin'

I spent my Saturday evening at Brownsox’s place watching the UFC PPV. It is as good an excuse as any to talk about the MMA phenom going on right now.

I got into mixed martial arts in college, through Pride Championship Fighting, a Japanese MMA group. The appeal is fairly obvious (dudes try to mess up other dudes), but I found more to like besides the bloodlust. One of the first fights I ever watched was the Royce Gracie/Kazushi Sakuraba 90 minute super match, which was a huge event in the fighting world. The Gracie family is a dynasty in Brazilian Jiu Jitsu with Royce being one of the best fighters in the world. Sakuraba was a professional wrestler in Japan who when he went into MMA, beat every Gracie he could fight. This match was highly anticipated, and was set to go until a victor was crowned (usually, a fight will only go three or five rounds). After 90 minutes, Gracie had to throw in the towel. What was interesting about this fight was it was not about knocking the other guy out (‘striking’ in the MMA terms) but more about wrestling and trying to get a submission. That’s what is really great about MMA, not just the striking, but the ground game, a competition of wills where the goal is to put someone is a position where if they do not ‘tap out’ they will get a limb broken or be choked unconscious. The combination of a good ground game with the ability to throw a hail maker punch is what makes someone a MMA star.

The obvious comparison MMA gets in the world of sports in boxing. I prefer MMA for a variety of reasons. MMA matches are shorter; they have more elements then just footwork and punching prowess, and are less likely to go to a decision. Also, there is a huge amount of sportsmanship in MMA, something that has been generally lacking in Boxing for some time. The level of respect that most fighters show their opponents helps elevate MMA from sanctioned violence into respectable sports.

In college, we would often get a couple guys over to my place, order up some pizzas or a platter from Buffalo Joe’s (god I miss that place), grab some booze, and watch some MMA goodness. We have recently re-instated this policy in New York, with hanging out at someone’s house and watching the fight is a healthy alternative to hitting the bars until the mind had been washed clean with Jack Daniels. I have recently discovered that the Irish Rouge shows PPVs in their upstairs lounge, but they charge a cover, which makes is a rare treat.

A couple of years ago, Pride folded due to troubles with the Yakuza (no joke) but was bought out by the UFC. That purchase, along with their foray into reality TV has made UFC the dominant brand in MMA, bar none. Kimbo Slice be damned, UFC has the best collection of fighters and have been putting out a consistently good program for several years under the leadership of President Dana White. While I miss the likes of great fighters Feder and Crocop, UFC is the destination for great Mixed Martial Arts.

The PPV on Saturday was not the best, but not bad. To do a great PPV, you want to see a strong mix of knockouts and tapouts, with one fight going to decision, just for the drama. This bill had too many knockouts and decisions, with very few submission victories. The two main events saw a successful title defense for George St. Pierre (one of the best fighters fighting right now), and a victory for former WWE star Brock Lesnar, who punched the shit out of Heath Herring, but could not get the victory before going to decision. Lesnar, who was pretty good in the WWE, could be a great MMA star but he needs time to work on his submission skills.

I am really sad to hear the Quinton ‘Rampage’ Jackson went insane. He was a great champion, and the best success story of making the jump from Pride to UFC. His hard hitting, chain wearing, dog barking, scary as hell self will be missed in the Octagon.

Much as the beloved blog “Gooners in Exile” is more about being an American Arsenal fan than about analysis of the game, this blog too shall occasionally examine MMA as a spectator sport, not so much about fight analysis (since if I ever tried MMA, I would die).

In closing, why is Randy Couture making movies? He should go back to going what he does best, hitting dudes so hard you see their skulls.

Friday, August 8, 2008

You can sleep when you are dead

I had such glorious plans for this weekend. Plans involving rest, relaxation, a rejuvenation of spirit after a weekend in the South and a busy week at work. Well, the best laid plans of mice….

Friday was Teach’s birthday, so that was strike one against sober judgment. The plan was to meet at a Mexican restaurant on St. Marks around 10. I got off work around 8:30, and headed to the village to kill time. After some typical Village adventures (screwing around Virgin Megastore, pizza at 2 Boots, pint at Grassroots) I headed over to the restaurant. Teach was their with his girlfriend (blog name forthcoming) Smither’s, a friend of Smithers I had met before but did not remember, and Pesto. I said my hellos and ordered up a margarita. I have this problem with Mexican restaurants, where I do not particularly care for Mexican food, but love Margaritias (the math is easy to finish). We eat, I catch up with Pesto, Teach discusses his impending kayak trip, and birth was celebrated in the style of our times (shots!). Eventually Kodez, Arsenal, and Gymnast arrive. As dinner finishes, we head over to Nevada’s for a nightcap. My memory at this point is vague at best, as lots of sugar tequila and not a lot of food has left me a functional wreck. After a drink at Nevada’s (where I could not find the bathroom, despite spending every weekend there for about 18 months) I declared I should go home (work the next day and all that). Gymnast came back with me, concerned about my well being (that fact that I can neither confirm nor disconfirm the need for said chaperone leans towards needing said chaperone). He makes sure I get to bed without breaking anything, and fills up a plastic mug with water and leaves it in the kitchen for me. Sweet guy.

Waking up the next day, I feel both exhausted, and a bit of the drunkard’s remorse. I also realize I am missing my credit card. I call Nevada’s to see if I left it there, and sure enough, I did. Crap, back to the village at some point. I decide that I need a calming influence for the evening. Family dinner sounds same. Maybe a nightcap with the Banker, as he is an adult with adult stuff. Good plan right?

Dinner in the family turns out to be fun, but does involve large tumblers of Grey Goose and Brandy, partly out of desire for booze, partly because my siblings are bat shit insane. After some tumblers and some really good chicken, I headed over to Banker’s place. My hope was to have a couple of cold ones and a sane, civil discussion. I arrive, his apartment is a furnace, and he wants to meet Spring Roll in Alphabet City. Screw it, it’s on, we’re doing it.

We head down to a place on 13th and A. I realize my License is missing, and have to talk my way into the bar using my work ID. Smooth criminal. We hang out with Spring Roll and her new man for a bit. As the energy begins to fade, I mention that I need to go to Nevada’s and pick up my card. Spring Roll and her man head home, and Banker, ever the loyal friend, heads out with me.

When we arrive, the bartender Guzo is very amused to see me (clearly I was in quite the state last night) and returns my card. I quickly hand it back to him, and get a round of beers (I am debating just leaving a card at Nevada’s from now on and just starting a permanent tab). The original plan was to have a pint then head home, but as we get out drinks, both Banker and I get texts from buddies. At this point, it is after Midnight, and a relaxing restful night at home is dead and buried, so what the hell, come on over to Nevada’s. So Hubris and Banker’s buddy come down, and we spend the night discussion religion over beers and Vodka tonics (nothing that new or interesting was discusses, mostly old roads revisited).

I had planned to wake up early and watch the soccer game with Arsenal, but I also planned to go home after work Saturday night, so it is what it is. Now Arsenal tries calling my cell, and I do not pick up (I think I unconsciously turned the phone off, in an attempt to avoid his call), so he calls Hubris, and instructs him to wake me up. In Hubris’s mind, this is an excuse to throw something at me while I sleep, so he grabs the first thing he sees and lobs it at my sleeping form. That item he grabs, non other than the plastic mug full of water Gymnast left me Friday Night. I am awoken not by blunt trauma to the head, as Hubris planned, by lukewarm water soaking my back and sheets. Hubris was extremely apologetic (so hitting me with a mug while I sleep is cool, but pouring water on me is the height of ‘not cool’), and I took it as a sign that I needed to get up.

So any attempt at rest and quiet reflection was thwarted this weekend. Lets see how the next one goes.

Tuesday, August 5, 2008

Sergio gets married, I get hammered, everyone wins

My big trip of the summer was to attend Sergio’s wedding at Chattanooga TN. It was a great vacation, an emotional moment, and a mid-level bender all rolled into one.

Brownsox and I departed from Queens on Friday morning to do the airplane dance. Brownsox is running late of course, but at least this time he has a good excuse (NSFW, if you catch me). With minimal drama (we had about 5 minutes to make our connecting flight, but Regan is tiny) and only a drink or two in our bellies, we arrived in Chattanooga. We met up with Dubs and Irish McJew at the airport, then headed into town. The four of us were staying together at a Day’s Inn with Uber260, and of course Uber260 was the last one showing up. We check into the hotel, and instead of waiting for Uber260 to show up, we head out into town. Brownsox, who has to shower and blog (a state in which he spends his life, forever cursed to having to shower and blog, but never seeming to get it done. He is like Sisyphus with a crappy laptop instead of a boulder) will wait at the hotel for Uber260 while we find a place to eat and drink.

We head into downtown Chattanooga and get a lay of the land. There seems to be 2 central roads that most everything is on and we just walk down one of them. Eventually, we find a joint called Sticky Fingers, which our cabbie had recommended to us as great BBQ. We check it out. The décor is that of an Applebee’s if they took all the crap off of the wall, family dining and whatnot. We settled up to the ¾ island bar in the back, and checked out the tap. One of the great aspects of heading west of New York is the beers get better, and American Microbrews are in play. This bar has three different Microbrews from Atlanta on tap, and we go a’tasting. The bartender cards the three of us. This is important for two of reasons; one, because every single place in town would card us, no matter the situation; two, it quickly revealed us as ‘not from around here’. The bartender, luckily enough, was more amused what a guy from New York, Wisconsin, and Michigan were all doing drinking at a bar in Chattanooga. We all replied with a phrase we would break out repeatedly over the trip “friend’s wedding”. After a beer or two, we ordered up some grub. The place had potato skins that replaced bacon with pulled pork. I nearly cried. They did not disappoint. Eventually, Uber260 and Brownsox showed up. We all got some food (great ribs and pulled pork sandwiches) and more beers (Brownsox opted for Sam Adams, reveling his ‘ugly Yankee’ heritage). After gorging ourselves on the local goodies, we headed out to meet with Sergio.

Sergio was at the rehearsal dinner, which was happening at a nearby restaurant/brewery. When we arrived, the dinner was still going (they had been delayed, the reasons therein Sergio’s soon to be wife, TinRoof, would explain later). As Sergio was still hip deep in family, we sauntered over to the bar room, and played some pool. We did have a small problem with the bar where they would only give us the number of drinks as related to the number of IDs we showed at the bar, putting a cramp in sending one or two men to get drinks for the table. More importantly, it put a cramp in my ‘drink both a microbrew and a glass of bourbon at the same time’ plan, but I am crafty and would not be denied. We shot a couple games of pool (Dubs is very good, and I am not so good, so this led to me focusing more on drinking than playing), we caught up, and ended up into a oddly heated argument about The Dark Knight (I originally banned the topic from discussion, as what is there to say besides its great and we are pissed Heath died, but with big movie buffs Dubs and Uber260 around, I was lost). After a while, the dinner broke up and we hung out with Sergio, his best man Apostle (an old friend from Chicago, also recently married) and Tinroof. Tinroof tried to introduce us to her maids of honor, but there was a bit of a culture clash (Brownsox to girl: What do you do? Girl to B.S.: I work for the Bush administration. You? B.S. to girl: I write for the biggest liberal blog in the country. We ani’t getting any at this wedding). After a while Sergio went off with his family, but TinRoof hung out, and we all swapped stories about the groom to be (apparently the rehearsal was delayed as Sergio needed to get the right brand of hair gel, a fact I may never let him forget). Needless to say, I stand by my claim made in D.C., Sergio found a keeper. We had a couple of shots then wandered back to the hotel.

The next day, we met up with another college buddy, my old roommate, Columns O. Numbers. We all had lunch and wandered around town (drinking less than expected, hey, we had to go to wedding), forr a while until we needed to get ready. The wedding was in the next door town called Signal Mountain, which was on top of a mountain (this fact confused Dubs, who as a native Midwesterner, was confused about the idea of elevation). After a terrifying drive up a mountain country road to the church, (I debated its status of a mountain versus a hill, until I saw clouds below me and shut my mouth) we arrived at the location. We were hailed at the church as a kind of mini-celebrities, known as “Sergio’s college friends who came from all over.” It was a tad surprising having so many people I have never met both so happy to see me and so quick to figure out who I am without me saying so (I suspect that Brownsox’s appearance had a factor in IDing us, or just my yankee strut, whose to say) but everyone was very nice. The service was lovely, and featured two ministers, one guy who did most of everything, and one ‘ringer’ minister who gave the personal prayer part of the wedding (which was both sweet and funny). My booya at the end of the service was not backed, but not as frowned upon as it could have been. Now with the formalities done, time to party.

The reception is literally stumbling distance from our hotel, so as soon as we parked we set up shop. The reception consisted of an appetizer and dinner buffet, as well as wine and a keg of Leinenkugel's Sunset Wheat. I would drink the latter like a man in the dessert finding a mountain stream. Highlights of the reception includes
1: Getting drinks for the wedding party as they waited in the lobby for the bride and groom to show up (they more than most, deserve some Leines).
2: Watching some old boomshaka buddies perform as the wedding party arrived at the reception, then getting to catch up with them later.
3: Getting to hang out with two of Segio’s grad school friends, who were really cool people and seemed to find our crazy asses hilarious.
4: Accidentally walking down the aisle to the just married car before Segio and TinRoof came out (morale of that story, any act goes from disrespectful to funny if you raise the drink in your hand, and I was just trying to find my friends at the end of the row).
Once the happy couple was off, we all headed out to a nearby bar, which a really cool band playing. I stayed for a couple of drinks, but the overall weight of the evening got the best of me, and I packed it in early (also as number 4 suggests, I was drunk).

While getting home was a hassle (We were re-routed to Boston for Sunday night, and I had a bitch of a time getting to New York the next morning) it was a great experience. The town was very cool and friendly (although I have never been carded as often before in my life), I got a chance to catch up with a lot of people, some of which I have not seen in years, and the wedding itself was wonderful. Although when Mr. and Mrs. Sergio think back on their special day I will no doubt take the roll as inappropriately drunk guy, at least I handled my office with style and class.