Thursday, September 21, 2006

Wedding Bells Tolling In My Hang-Over

Right. I found out that someone reads this crap. Ok then, take this!

Saturday, September 16th, 2006. Wayland, Mass. A grassy field behind a tree nursery. Gareth Hughes marries Amy Santa-Maria creating the Hughes-a-Maria family. I grew a fuzzy navel.

I had been in session for about 14 hours a day the two weeks leading up to this wedding. I was feeling great, about to go on a trip to back to Boston, which I swore to God I would never do due to the fact that I despised Boston after living there unsuccessfully for 4 year after college. I was going to see all my Skidmore chums, and all my Logos Magazine buddies, drink all day and night at open bars and be an all around party animal for a few days before returning to my 14 hour a day job at Three Pear Studios, in Chicago. The flights had been purchased, the hotel accommodations were made, my bags and suits were packed and I just had 2 more sessions on Wed (Sept 13th) and Thurs (Sept 14th) with the most picky hippy jam band to ever grace the planet. Wednesday night's session was supposed to be noon to 8pm. We tracked, retracked, overdubbed, edited and re-retracked until 3am. At about 2am, my body tossed in the towel and decided that the best course of action to get me into bed would be to reverse the course of my bowels and fill my sinuses with half digested hotdog, lamb kabob, and Dr. Pepper. The room became surprisingly hot and stinky. I, with hotdog, lamb kabob and Dr. Pepper what’s-it jammed into my nostrils and ear canals, could not smell anything, nor could I hear anything so tracking and editing for the next hour became a battle against cow ass and undercooked lamb with cous cous invading the inner workings of my head. The session ended. I knew I was in trouble. In less than a day, I had to be looking, behaving, and dancing my best. On my way home, at 3:30am, I stopped by the 24-hour supermarket and dropped $65 on vitamins, cold pills, fizzy med tablets, cough syrup, decongestants, recongestants, odorless garlic extracts and chicken noodle soup. I was going to crush this funk with ferocity unknown to the likes of the common cold since the invention of "letting blood" or "slip-n-slide".

I got sick. Really sick. Can't breathe sick.

So I took vitamins, cold pills, fizzy med tablets, cough syrup, decongestants, recongestants, odorless garlic extracts and chicken noodle soup. By the bucket-full.

I became "whacked out," "hooped up," crazy on cold meds.

I got on a flight headed for Boston with some friends. They got very irritated with my shenanigans. I, of course, thought that I was acting totally within the boundaries of sanity. My friends, as well as Airport Security and Flight Attendants alike, did not agree. I blame the odorless garlic extract. What kind of process does garlic go through in order to become odorless? Obviously one that makes friends, Airport Security and Flight Attendants annoyed.

One the way to the rehearsal dinner I had to stop the caravan of cars traveling from Boston to Wayland so that I could pee due to all the chicken soup, elixirs and liquid placebos that were making my teeth float. I have never in my life taken such a long or satisfying pee that smelled nothing like garlic. The rehearsal dinner was lively. I was docile. I had mentally handcuffed myself to the radiator of 'being totally quiet as to not piss off the bride, groom, old friends, old people, or furry forest animals.' I never knew that such a radiator existed but that is what analogies are best at... inventing radiators... I guess. I drank beers with acasletzer cold tablets. Airborne in white wine was a chaser.

The next day, the day of the wedding, my symptoms were in full visual bloom and my head, though mucus free, fluttered like an overmedicated bowling ball plummeting from a failed zero-gravity ping-pong tournament for geriatrics with pilot licenses. I was messed up, but happy to be alive. I donned my suit, jumped on the shuttle bus and said something stupid to the well dresses attendees already on aboard. Something to the likes of "OK TEAM! TONIGHT WE ARE GOING TO BEAT THEOSE BASTARDS FROM STATE!" I think what I actually said was "... from high school" but to me it seemed like a perfect joke about being on a bus with a bunch of people that were about to go to a rival school to challenge last years state champion football team on homecoming weekend. No one got it. People looked at me funny. I closed my eyes and mentally re-handcuffed myself while I popped 2 Sudafed liquid-gels.

The wedding was beautiful. Gareth, the groom, hadn't shaved above his Adam's Apple. His suit looked great. So did mine. I bought some $3 cheepy sunglasses to shield my puffy, light sensitive eyes from the public and the sun. Amy, the bride, showed up in an old London cab, the kind with back doors that open backwards.

They were so happy, I was high as a kite. I was asked to cue the DJ when Gareth and Amy kissed so that the recessional music would escort them from the alter. Someone else gave me some streamers to throw at them during the recessional. In had visions of myself failing, that when they kissed, I would shoot myself in the face with the spring loaded streamers and start singing the "Family Ties" theme song while disrobing at the end of the isle. Thankfully, I did not fail. They kissed. I waved to the DJ. The music started and I shot my load of silver streamers at the newlyweds as they passed. I was very proud of myself. I deserved a Margarita, and 2000 more milligrams of Vitamin C with Rosehips. I found my seat. I sat down and stayed quiet through out the dinner.

Later I danced like a monkey.

After the wedding, and after many misplaced "he-zah's!" during speeches, the plan was to continue to get plowed drunk at the hotel bar. I was one of the first to show up. Ian (yes, the same Ian from "Living in the bath tub." He is still my friend surprisingly) and I ordered Makers on the rocks from the bartender, Matt. I warned Matt about the ensuing legions of half-cocked wedding go-ers that were about to converge on his 8 seat bar. He seemed unimpressed and ill prepared. By the end, Matt did surprisingly well considering he was surrounded by 40 or more very thirsty, very drunk, well dressed wedding guests. He was seen cracking jokes and laughing amongst the sounds of his glasses breaking and future brides drunkenly babbling about how beautiful Amy looked. In the mean time, Ian and I had started an unfortunate habit of ordering drinks for each other. Like I said, we started with Makers Mark but had quickly moved to more "girly drunk drinks" for kicks. I ordered him a Fuzzy Navel. The recipe is as follows.

1 part peach schnapps
1 part vodka
1 part orange juice
1 part pink lemonade

Mix equal parts of each ingredient in a highball glass, top with ice, and serve.

Very girly.

Ian then ordered me one. Then I order him another and let the following words slip out of my mouth. "If anyone orders a Fuzzy Navel tonight, put it on my tab." I didn't think anyone heard me besides Matt. I went out for a cigarette. When I returned, all eight people at the bar, all six people at the large table in front of the fireplace, all three people on the couch and assorted mingliers, who I swear were not at the wedding, were sipping pinkish-orange cocktails and smiling at me. Word had gotten out. Forgetting that I was dangerously close to toxicity levels of cold pills, I joined the merriment by ordering 3 more Fuzzy Navels. One for me, one for Gareth, and one for me.

The next morning, the conversations buzzing around the huge brunch set up by Amy parents at the large Wayland home wasn't "Didn't Amy look beautiful?" or "Have you ever seen a happier couple?" The burning question that was on everyone's mind was "What do you think Roger's tab was for last night." When I arrived, there was a pool. Bets had been placed weither I had broken the $200 mark due to abundant Fuzzy-ness. Even Gareth was on the edge of his seat. Which is where I leave you, on the edge of you seat. In closing, I am still taking cold meds liberally and still feel like an overmedicated bowling ball plummeting from a failed zero-gravity ping-pong tournament for geriatrics with pilot licenses. A sensation, my friend, which is all too similar to nothing you have ever felt before. It was the best wedding I've ever attended.

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