September 2004 Archives

My main computer at work is a Mac G4 iMac, aka the iLamp. You've seen them - a white hemisphere containing the computer part of it, a flexible silver arm, and a flat-panel screen. Around the edge of the screen is a clear plastic ridge, which serves absolutely no purpose - just like the points in "Whose Line Is It Anyway?". And for no particular reason, I've assembled my medium-sized binder clips on said clear plastic ridge - seven on the right and six on the left (my boss filched one sometime over the past two weeks, and I'm despondent over the sudden imbalance of my collection - you would think she 'd know better than to upset the feng shui of my computer monitor).

At any rate, hung from the various binder clips are various key rings, all gifts of co-workers who have traveled to various places over the past year or so. The first one, which I have since thrown out, was a fake Cohiba cigar, from Havana, of course. Next up, a brass recreation of a deity's head, from Colombia, a cheesy lucite-encased dolphin shirt from Miami Beach, and a drawing of two flute-playing children in native dress from Nayarit, Mexico. Now, my thing is is, I already HAVE a key-holding mechanism. It's kind the flip side of Wayne's ex-girlfriend (of Wayne's World fame) giving him a gun rack. ("A gun rack? A gun rack. I don't even own A gun, let alone MANY guns, that would necessitate an entire rack.") In fact, I inherently dislike key rings to begin with, especially ones that are bulky - if I don't need a key more than a few times a year, I don't carry it around with me. The keyless entry thing for our Saturn was almost a deal-breaker, and don't even get me started on those asinine key ring cards. If your life needs to be streamlined to the point where you can't take the time to reach into your wallet to get a card, but instead need to pay for your convenience-store chewing gum NOW NOW NOW, you need help.

Or a dolphin-shirt key ring. Want one?

So now that I don't have blog spam, what do I have to complain about? Nothing major, but they add up.

Ok, no, I don't, really, but I did enjoy checking my vividgreen.net account every morning to see that I'd gotten four or eight or seventy-three new comments on my blog (which would nearly double my current count)...only to see that they were comments designed to increase and inflate some unscrupulous half-wit drug merchant's bank account. We use Jay Allen's MT Blacklist, which is a nifty little plugin to MovableType (the engine for our blog) to block these kinds of comments. Or some of them, anyway - they're registering new domain names to hawk their ersatz pharmaceuticals faster than we can block them.

The bad part is that while my blog may be the hip, happening hole-in-the-wall type blog where only a select few hang out, Viv's apparently has considerably more Googlejuice, and as such, is a much more desirable location for the gestating spammer to deposit her little spamlets, her little festering seeds of advertisement among everyone else's well-intentioned commentary. So she was getting dozens of insidious comments on a daily basis, which I'd have to go in and purge manually, or quasi-manually, anyway.

Well.

About a week ago, I somehow figured out that the blacklist we were using had become seriously outdated - I had been under the impression that it updates automatically. Ever since I upgraded the list, I've gotten a total of two comments that have snuck through our new nearly-impenetrable defenses. If my blog were an egg, there'd be no zygotic action in these parts...

Despite the fact that I've lived within 45 minutes of Boston for roughly 20 of my 29 years, there's an alarmingly high number of things the area that I've never done. Now, part of it may be attributable to the fact that for the first 14, I lacked a driver's license - it's kind of a tall task to take a tour of the MFA when you're six years old, unless your parents are bringing you along, in which case, you don't want to be there anyway. But this past year, and the past few weeks in particular, I feel like I've done a lot more than usual, and none of it involved music or going to see concerts. New and exciting ways I've partaken in my Boston environs:

Over the past year:
- Dinner in the North End. Again, if you're six, the only way you're getting to the North End is if your parents take you, and again, you probably don't want to be there. I'll say this to my future six-year-old kid: sorry Buster, but I am NOT wasting a North End dinner on you.
- Visiting some new neighborhoods on our brief flirtation with potentially having the need to live elsewhere in Boston.

And then just in the past few weeks:
- The aforementioned venture into the theater district to see Blue Man Group.
- A jaunt down Memorial Drive on my way to the Sox game last week with my father (I usually take Storrow Drive instead).
- Lunch in Chinatown with Josh & Kimberly (at the China Pearl, perhaps the largest Chinese restaurant I've ever SEEN).
- Nearly waiting for the last-minute release of tickets at Fenway Park - we arrived just at the edge of the allowable time to line up (5 hours before game time, in case you're curious; tickets are then sold 2 hours before) but couldn't bring ourselves to wait 5 hours.

And the big one - exploring an old stomping ground, good old Medford. We'd developed a hankering for some cake and Viv remembered a place on Main Street - Arthur's Pastry Shop. Walking in the front door, though, a huge wave of sugary-sweet aroma washed over me, I saw some half-moons behind the counter, and all of a sudden, I felt like I was six years old again, pressing my nose to the glass of the display case at Eagerman's, a bagel and pastry shop that used to be on Route 9 in Natick (it's now an Oriental furniture store, which used to irk me no end, but now I can't be too mad about, since it's my father's people being replaced by my wife's). But my parents used to take me there after we went to Jordan Marsh (which is now Shopper's World...I could care less, comparatively) to do some weekend shopping. Whichever parent was taking me would get a couple of jelly rolls with mocha frosting for the two parents, and three half-moons for me and my brothers.

Now, at first glance, a half-moon looks much like what the rest of the world would call a black-and-white cookie - a circular, light-colored confection with vanilla on one half, chocolate on the other half. But the black and white cookie pales in comparison to the sugary-frosted goodness that is a half-moon. First, the frosting has to be hand-spread, not dipped or dribbled - it's almost like cupcake frosting, where you can still feel the confectioner's sugar grains in it. Anything glazed or hardened (ugh, icing) gets automatic point deductions, and if it's wrapped in cellophane, it's disqualified out of hand. The cookie itself shouldn't be crunchy or crumbly - it needs to hold its integrity for the entire consumption process - but not spongy or fluffy either. It should settle into your stomach like a lead weight afterwards so you can feel properly guilty about eating the entire thing (but only after you've wolfed it down).

I hadn't had a half-moon for years and years until I finally found one at Mike's Pastry in the North End. Despite Mike's Mikes's' Mike's's the stellar reputation of that particular establishment, I was very disappointed by the results. The chocolate was too syrupy and the cake a bit flat and dry. But no sooner had I entered Arthur's than I knew it would be a different experience. Highly recommend the place. Their half-moon wasn't absolutely spot-on perfect - as Viv noticed, the vanilla frosting had just a hint of lemon taste to it, which was a little weird - but the cake was perfect and the frosting extremely generous. But the hunt continues...through more strange and unknown neighborhoods.

Inevitably in any discussion of music, the topic of a desert island disc comes up - you know, if you were stranded on a desert island, what music would you want to listen to if you had to just choose one disc of music.

Well, work is now my desert island, and I don't even get to choose my disc - it's been chosen for me.

Since at LEAST May, a co-worker has been listening to either the same CD or the same iTunes stream on her computer, basically all day, every day. It's on JUST quiet enough that nobody else in the office can hear it, and JUST quiet enough that she doesn't even have to turn it down when she answers her phone. I'm flabbergasted beyond belief that she hasn't gotten bored of this music yet - the same 20 songs of the same whiny Latino pop elevator music in the same order EVERY GOD DAMN DAY. It's gotten truly epic and ridiculous in its proportions. At this point I'd rather drive a railroad spike through my head than put up with another four months of this. As we speak, it's the half-baked afterthought "Hey, I speak Spanish!" version of J-Ho's "Waiting For Tonight", whose title translates as "One More Night". Oh, to be listening to Phil Collins instead. Because I can't wait forever.

To borrow a phrase from an old ad campaign... "I can't believe I saw the whole thing." In the car on the way home we were listening to talk radio and one of the callers called it the most exciting game of the whole year. It didn't HAVE to be that exciting (Keith Foulke blew his second save in two nights in the ninth) and he must have been in a coma on July 24th (the Varitek/A-Rod leather sandwich episode followed by Bill Mueller sending Mariano Rivera back into the bullpen), but a very satisfying game all around after O-Cab sent us home happy in the 12th. Immediately after which he untucked his shirt. I don't know what it is, but apparently his sartorial tastes run toward the sloppy variety - watch him next time as soon as the last out in a game is made...the first thing he does is yank up on his shirt, as if he can't celebrate properly with these tight clothes restraining him.

Sometime in the 9th or 10th, Viv called me, but I chose not to answer as the Sox were in the middle of a rally that ended up going nowhere. I called her after the half-inning, with the intention of telling her that we'd be staying one more inning. She answered the phone and immediately asked if the Sox had won. "What, you're not watching the game?" "No, I'm watching the 'Emmys Fashion Police'." I'm sure she could hear my eyes rolling on the other end of the phone, but she hid it well. And then, like the dutiful wife she was, she actually TiVoed the last few innings so I could watch them later (no need, since as I mentioned, we ended up staying to the end). But while she had her own Fashion Police, so did I at Fenway.

One fiftyish fellow came strolling up the aisle with a pink Red Sox cap. This has nothing to do with men wearing pink, and everything to do with wearing apparel that is the ACTUAL COLORS OF YOUR TEAM. I have no problem with the blue hats with red and white lettering, the white hats with the blue and red lettering, or the red hats with the blue and white lettering (or selling anything bought, sold or processed, a la Lloyd Dobler). I don't even have a problem with the green hats (my favorite color aside, the Sox actually wear these hats once a year, making them authentic gear). No, I'm talking about the bastardization of apparel to fit one's wardrobe - the pink, the light blue, the black, the orange Red Sox hats. Have you no pride, sir? No discretion? No taste for tradition? Shame on you, sir.

Another guy was wearing rumpled pants, a red polo shirt, and a sport coat or a suit jacket. Dude. Just...dude.

Then there's the largish gentleman wearing a wifebeater underneath a very see-through T-shirt. What's the point there, exactly? I never understood the wifebeater thing to begin with, since to me, the primary point of an undershirt, other than keeping one warm in colder weather, is to absorb any perspiration that might occur and otherwise leach into a dress shirt. So taking into account the fact that it was a toasty 77 at gametime, this clearly not only obviates the need for keeping oneself warm with an undergarment, but it also fails the secondary purpose of said undergarment, being as how the large nature of the arm holes prevents any perspiration from being absorbed by anything other than the aforementioned see-through T-shirt.

Lastly, even though she was attempting to strategically hold a beer in front of the logo on the front of her shirt, the "A-ROD 13" on the back revealed more than I needed to know about this person's intelligence. Not only is it a capital offense in Boston to wear Yankees gear into Fenway Park (or anywhere in the surrounding environs, as a matter of fact), but to wear it to a game NOT EVEN INVOLVING THE YANKEES is purely asinine. That's like starting the Yankees suck chant at a game...not...er...moving on.

(A quick aside though, regarding her carrying one beer - until she came up the aisle, I don't think I had seen anyone carrying a single beer in our entire area. It's like you're bullied into getting two beers regardless of your body weight, the time of night, your level of inebriation, etc. C'mon, be a man, buy as many beers as you're allowed! I don't get it. Especially not at $5.50 per or however much it costs for a plastic cup of Crap-On-Tap at Fenway.)

My father and I did have some good chat time, although much of it was just baseball observing time, sitting next to each other, not saying much of anything. It was good to just be there, I think. I did learn that his first time at Fenway Park was a doubleheader in 1950 - looking up the date on the amazingly detailed Retrosheet, it was April 30th, 1950 - my father was all of 8 years old. His father took him to see the Sox - including #9, Ted Williams, in left field - play two against the then-Philadelphia Athletics, who would later move to Kansas City and finally Oakland. The first game was one I could only dream about seeing - a 19-0 drubbing. Game 2 was much closer, as the Red Sox eked out a 6-5 win in 11 innings (strangely parallel to our game - 7-6 in 12). The two games took so long that his mother called the police because they weren't home by 8pm. He also got to see Rookie of the Year Walt Dropo (who drove in a league-leading 144 runs as a rookie), Dom DiMaggio (brother of Joe; he led the league in runs with 131, triples with 11 and stolen bases with 15), first baseman Billy Goodman (who led the league in hitting with a .354 average) and Hall of Fame second baseman Bobby Doerr. Not a bad lineup.

I may want to make this a yearly thing...a father-son outing.

No, really. The author of the book I'm reading should be arraigned and prosecuted harshly before the International Punctuation Tribunal, for the crime of cruelty against overcommization of the Spanish language. A sample sentence - SENTENCE - translated from the original manuscript, with names obfuscated to protect the innocent but with all tenses, typos and punctuation left intact:

So, the first political campaign of XXXX begins, joined by people unknown to many, but of great bravery and importance to what would be our acceptance by the people; among them are, colonel A as Chief of Communications and among his collaborators are: the brothers B and C, D, the well-remembered E and F, G, H, the I's, J, K, L, the work of activism was very risky, but, just like them hundreds more joined this risky work from the four corners of the Country, to support our candidates to the constitutional assembly, who not only had attempts on their life like colonel M who lost a leg in an attack with dynamite, but also several were killed, like deputy N, O and P.

Argh, argh, ARGH. That's sixteen lines of print on the page (probably fewer here, but still, one long motherfucking sentence). I've made it into three sentences, deleted four commas and inserted two, deleted one semicolon and one colon, fixed two typos, fixed one tense and one capitalization error, and put one phrase in parentheses. And that's one sentence out of 180 pages. Not that it's not an interesting story, mind you - it's a history of the current ruling party in El Salvador, as written by one of the founders - but this is supposed to be final, polished manuscript, and he's punctuating like he found a trunkful of commas under his bed that were about to expire.

My brain hurts.

Through a sequence of felicitous events, my father ended up with two tickets to the Red Sox game tomorrow night, and since neither of my brothers are able to make it, the invitation fell to me. I can't even remember the last time the two of us did anything together longer than taking a load of yard waste to the dump. Sure, we've stood around grunting at the grill, or sitting in front of the TV at home, but those are always Important Family Gatherings where one or the other of us has our nose in a newspaper (me) or gets up every five minutes to run some water in the kitchen (him) or smirks at my wife dozing on the love seat (both of us).

The last time I can think of is when he took me on college tour - and that was over ten years ago. I remember us talking about the first jobs he had as a teenager, the music he used to listen to when he was my age...really the first time we'd been alone long enough to talk about stuff like that. And of course, the whole time was tempered by the fact that I really had to concentrate on which campus I liked the best, and worry about what it would be like to go off to college the next year. Not that I have any illusions of it being a time for us to solve all of the world's great problems, but I'm looking forward to some fatherly wisdom on a totally different stage of life that I'm in compared to last time. Even if we don't say a word not related to the game tomorrow, I'll be glad we got in some good father-son time, especially after last year's sad reminders that parents don't last forever.

On Friday I found out that a co-worker I greatly respect is leaving at the end of the month, but not from her - from my boss. Very sad to hear that she's going and I haven't heard her side of the story yet, but it sounds like it's a done deal. A big shock to everyone, I think. The Sox game that night was probably the highlight of the weekend - it took almost until midnight to finally develop, but since most of the girls in our dorm were watching with us, we could make all the noise we wanted when Boston finally pulled it out, against Mariano Rivera, no less.

Saturday kind of sucked all around...I sort of got to sleep in but not really, and then breakfast at the local nook took over an HOUR to get - we sat down...and sat...and sat...and sat. Yeah, they were busy, but really, while the bacon and egg on a bagel was worth waiting for, I shouldn't be able to finish every single page of the paper while waiting for said bacon and said egg on said bagel. Viv had to do some work in the office in the morning, so I went to run some errands in the POURING RAIN, which consisted of the ever-exciting purchase of pet food, and the replacement of a watch battery. Made it home just in time to watch two hours of Derek Lowe imploding and the Sox losing 14-4, after which we went to see the Blue Man Group in Boston - or rather, we saw an hour of it. I gave Viv tickets for our anniversary and we'd been looking forward to the show for a while - neither of us was quite sure what we were in for, never having seen it, but our friend Josh had highly recommended it to me, especially with Viv being so percussively inclined. I won't ruin it for people who haven't seen it yet (though if you're in Boston, New York, Chicago, Las Vegas or Berlin, I'd highly recommend it), but unfortunately Viv may have caught a stomach bug from a co-worker, and one act in particular sparked something inside her that made us have to leave early...and sit in overflow theater traffic in the parking garage for another 45 minutes while Viv's stomach continues to threaten a revolt. We finally made it home without incident, and to cheer us up, we watched the SportsCenter I'd TiVo'ed for Viv a couple weeks back, highlighting the Yankees losing 22-0. Whee. That night I had the pleasure of driving to Burlington so I could have Kinko's some stuff for Viv's work while she stayed at home and recuperated. There isn't much more indicative of a bad weekend than hanging out with the local Xerox jockey at 10, and then realizing there's a better social scene going on down the road at the local Barnes & Noble.

Today I did get to sleep in, then devoured a bagel, the paper, a couple of Entertainment Weekly magazines, a Newsweek, watched the Sox get spanked by the Evil Empire again, and then saw a fairly boring Pats game as they played down to the level of the Cardinals (well, maybe not that low) and beat them. And now I'm finishing up tracking the Drive By Truckers show from Tuesday while Viv watches the Emmys. Bleah. At least the CD stacks that looked like they were hit by Frances/Ivan are getting neatened a bit...

With Guster and Blues Traveler off the road this fall, I thought it was a good time to expand my musical horizons a bit (and justify the money invested in my taping rig). Drive By Truckers came highly recommended by many of my taper friends (I hang out a lot on taperssection.com, a board where tapers talk shop, swap recordings, discuss gear and all sorts of weird everyday shit too) and I tend to trust their judgment. My friend Heather, who I crash with when Blues Traveler plays New York and we can't stay in Princeton, is also a big Truckers fan, and I usually trust her musical tastes too - since she's also a huge Gov't Mule and Black Crowes fan, I thought I had a pretty good idea of what I'd be hearing: some Southern boogie rock.

The Paradise is a bit of an odd venue to tape in. The main room is wider than it is deep, and while it's usually good to be somewhere near the soundboard while taping, the Paradise's board is up in the balcony with just a narrow walkway behind it. It's possible to clamp onto the edge of the sound booth, out over the crowd, which is what most people do. The sound isn't bad up there - or anywhere in the venue, really - but when I posted on TS.com that I'd be going to the show, a fellow taper named Jason invited me to help him tape up front, down on the floor, which I'd never tried before. And with good reason - the only place to tape on the floor and have ANY semblance of protection is literally five feet from the stage. There's a pillar, dead center, about 6 feet around (which of course obstructs the view of anyone standing in the middle behind it...hey, I didn't design the place), in front of which you can fit *maybe* four people. Ok, six if they knew each other well, and eight if they got really kinky. But damn close, which means that blockers were needed. And with the two of us, we were determined to get ourselves an up close and personal tape.

We both got there right around when doors opened at 7, and the place was empty. He was just finishing his setup when I rolled in, and we had soon consolidated our gear and were ready for anything. The opening act, Allison Moorer, is actually Shelby Lynne's sister, not that she ever referred to that fact at all, just a bit of trivia I found while poking around this morning. A little something different than I'm used to seeing/hearing - the Nashville country sound. She had her own fan contingent in the house as well; one middle-aged guy standing to my left, standing right up against the stage, was wearing a T-shirt with her face on it, voicing his approval of every song and snapping pictures during most of her set. She was decent, nothing I'd run out and buy or see again, but a good warmup. Jason actually recognized her guitarist as Dan Baird, formerly of the Georgia Satellites ("Keep Your Hands To Yourself") and chatted with him after the show.

After a short break, the Truckers took the stage. A drummer, a bassist, and a whole mess of guitars - three, to be precise. I started half-expecting a guitar-rock extravaganza a la Lynyrd Skynyrd (a band the Truckers idolize, as evidenced by their quasi-tribute album, Southern Rock Opera) but the set actually started off a bit slow. The three guitarists took turns singing lead on the songs - Patterson Hood, the "lead singer", didn't even sing until the third or fourth tune, deferring to Mike Cooley, the band's co-founder, or Jason Isbell, who joined the band just last year. Things picked up about 45 minutes into the set, but other than some head bobbing and a little toe-tapping, I was never moved to really boogie down (not that I'm capable, really, but it would have been nice to be forced to make the decision to dance around foolishly). I think the problem is that I'd been listening to the Screamin' Cheetah Wheelies show I converted for a friend, and went in with really high expectations of a kickass good time. Then again, for $13, it's not like I didn't get my money's worth - three hours of music, some good taper talk, and an interesting experience taping WAY up front. The people around us were all very cool and respectful of our taping, and everyone who asked for a copy was thrilled that it would be available. I guess that comes with the territory of a band that's not taped as regularly as some other bands are - refreshing, actually, instead of people coming up to you and asking you where you'll be putting the show up.

My last show for a couple of weeks, I think - next up is John Butler Trio at Harper's Ferry on October 2nd. This time around I know what to expect - should be an awesome show...

Why is it that we fold underwear, exactly? I mean, who are we trying to impress, the dust mites that live in our dresser? If you're wearing your clothes properly, nobody's ever going to see your underwear anyway, and by the time it's been on you long enough for people to see it, it's likely going to be differently wrinkled than it was by just stashing it in your underwear drawer.

I just ran across "Ace Ventura 2: When Nature Calls" on WUTF, the local Spanish language channel. Sadly, it's translated literally as "Ace Ventura: Cuando la Naturaleza Llama". Kinda disappointing that they couldn't come up with anything better than doesn't reflect the double entendre in the title. Though if it's in Spanish, wouldn't it be a double entender? Or a double comprender?

Also...the Shawshank Redemption is on TNT. In an equally surprising development, the sun rose this morning, and it's in the process of going down this evening.

Now that I'm all psyched up about the whole Greasecar thing, why is it that nobody in the Boston area appears to be selling a late-model diesel Passat? If I wanted an '84 Jetta, I'd be all set. Or an '81 VW Rabbit pickup (no, that's not a typo). Or an '83 Mercedes TD...but considering my last car was seven years old when I bought it and died within five more, I'd rather get something closer to my cats' age than to my own. If you happen to know of anyone looking to unload a '98 Passat TDI or newer, I'm your man.

I finally seem to have struck the perfect balance between the crowd we invite to parties and the kind and quantity of beer we purchase for said parties. In our end-of-summer gathering, we ended up with a crowd of eight, for whom we purchased two six-packs. This time around we had a tidy three bottles left over, which I'm perfectly capable of handling in a week's time. Usually when we do these things, people show up with a six-pack each, which they of course have no intention of drinking themselves, and we end up with enough beer in our fridge to last us until the next Ice Age. So either I've got the ratio down now, or our friends have become less teetotaling/more of a lush...

Belated congratulations and well-wishes to two of my best friends who have recently undergone major life changes in the past month...

Chris has neglected to update his blog in such a long time that he's running the risk of having his link named "What Chris used to be thinking", but he does have a few good excuses. He became the first of my friends to purchase a house, buying what he terms a "semi-detached colonial" (which is basically real estate-ese for: you share a wall with the house next door, but the place is too old to be called a town house). The place is in Alexandria, in a neighborhood that is a bit rough around the edges but reportedly on the up-and-up. Now that Chris is in there, that might change things...kidding, of course. The best quote about the whole process of him buying a house was after he had his loan approved, when he had to keep himself from reacting to the approval with this gem: "Let me get this straight...you just approved loaning all this money, to a guy who didn't pay his CABLE BILL last month because he was too lazy to go to the post office?!?!" I made the trip down there shortly after he bought the place, but Viv made her first trek with me in late August. Chris and I did a variety of activities - home improvement, Sox on TV, a barbecue, a round of golf...good times. The home improvement consisted of working on his second bedroom - I learned how to use a miter saw and jigsaw, we put up some baseboard and door framing, and stood around grunting for a while. Except for the power tools, that's pretty much how we spent the round of golf, too. But the big news for the weekend was that Chris' girlfriend of two years was moving in with him, so Viv got to do some female stuff with her - some Sex and the City, some shopping, and also shared the baseball/barbecue with us. Always good to have that kind of overlap in activities. So happy 30th and happy moving in to a good, good friend.

But as busy as Chris has been Josh has had even more to think about - once we returned from our Vegas adventure, he had the little matter of his own wedding to think about, and all of the lunacy that surrounds it. Viv already mentioned a few details from the weekend already, including some pictures we took, but whereas she goes for timeliness, I opt for a more complete recollection of the events. Friday night was the rehearsal dinner, held at the Colonial Inn in Concord. I'd driven past it many times on my way through town but never been inside; it's a historical building, which means it's hell to find your way around once you enter. The dinner was downstairs...except there are TWO downstairs...downstairses?...downstairs areas. Fortunately, we had gotten there absurdly early, so there was plenty of time to find our way. UNfortunately, Josh's car had died in Cambridge, so he wasn't even able to get there in time for the actual rehearsal, nor was the best man, who got the task of picking him up and driving him all over creation. The bride's future brother-in-law (got that?) stood in for the groom, Viv stood in for the best man, and I played me (a big stretch, I know) for the rehearsal itself, which went quickly, and then it was time for hors d'oeuvres.

Once the groom arrived to great applause, he told the story about eight different times, and we were seated for dinner. Over the course of the evening, we got several updates on the Red Sox score from those who had ventured upstairs to the bar, which had the game on. After dinner, the two fathers - who would be the solemnizers at the ceremony - hauled out large containers filled with memories of their children's childhood. Each was, of course, accompanied by an anecdote of when they were younger - Josh's first-grade pencil box, an old Hartford Whalers pennant, an inflatable parrot (we were all laughing so hard while Josh's father blew it up that we didn't even hear his counterpart explaining his particular piece of memorabilia). Kimberly's father dragged out her old "Sac de Noël", old stuffed animals, and other extremely cute, memory-inducing items. And the two of them played off each other so well - it was great seeing how well the two families got along and boded well for the following day's festivities. As the evening wrapped up and the final score was announced (to much applause from the room - except Josh's cousins from New York), Josh brought out our coordinated ties and our groomsman's gifts - some very fancy wooden pens in monogrammed cases. Classy.

As the groomsman - the next-in-line to the best man doesn't really have a title, I guess - my duties basically consisted of keeping Josh calm, handing out programs, standing stage left, and looking good (but not too good, being as how I'm married and all). Happily, I was successful - Josh was actually even-keeled the whole time beforehand, and Chris and I kept him loose and distracted enough beforehand. The ceremony was heartfelt, honest, intimate and just about everything you would expect from them, if you know them. The fathers did a wonderful job of solemnizing, and though there may have been dry eyes in the house, it was getting a bit dusty in there at times. The ceremony was the perfect length - long enough to include all of the important things, but not so long as to drag on with all of the questionable necessities that many ceremonies see fit to include. In talking with Josh and Kimberly during the reception afterwards, they said that they had decided to just go with what they wanted to include, and did away with a few of the traditions that they found a bit silly - the bouquet/garter toss, the introduction of the couple and parents into the room, the dramatic cutting of the cake, etc., etc. So of course, the reception was equally entertaining - people were up, moving around, having fun, mixing, mingling and enjoying themselves. It was obvious to everyone that both families and their respective friends truly enjoyed being around each other - there was none of the typical, sit at your table, only speak to the people to your immediate left and right, dance one song and sit down atmosphere that characterizes your average wedding. And the energy was contagious. Hell, once a conga line started for the last song of the evening, even Viv and I were moved toward the dance floor. And for that to happen usually requires a catapult or a 9.5 on the Richter scale (the aftershocks of which explain our lack of dancing acumen).

After the party wound down, 14 of us did what any normal, red-blooded, wedding-going Americans would do - we went mini-golfing. Yes, six hours of pre-ceremony, ceremony, reception, dinner, drinks, dancing and the like weren't nearly enough - we needed a couple more hours of togetherness, raising hell with putters in nearby Westford. Oh, and of course, we didn't change out of our attire. Kimberly had been debating whether or not she'd hit the mini-links in her wedding dress, but her bridesmaids basically made the decision for her by refusing to pack a change of clothing. So two fivesomes and a foursome dapperly wound their way around the "Waterfall Run" course. We definitely drew our share of stares, but we didn't care. The bride and groom were basking in the glow of their recent betrothal, and the rest of us were flying high from just having so much fun. And even after the golf was over, we hadn't had enough - we waited in line for Kimball's famous ice cream for over 30 minutes before deciding we were getting absolutely nowhere and finally called it a night.

The next morning was the last hurrah for the wedding party as we were invited to the bride's parents' place in Sudbury for a post-wedding brunch - we both woke up a bit later than anticipated and arrived towards the end of the festivities, but still had a very pleasant time at the Hamill household, chowing down bagels, quiche, fresh fruit and mingling once more with the close family. Nice to be part of that group, definitely. Kimberly's uncle had taken a number of pictures, which he had transferred to a laptop overnight. The laptop was hooked up to the living room TV so that everyone could watch the slideshow. We schmoozed with the families for an hour or so before the party adjourned so we could head to Fenway Park for the weekend capper - a satisfying (though nailbiting) win over the Texas Rangers. Unfortunately, we weren't sitting anywhere near the bride and groom - it just so happened that we all had tickets - but a good end to a great wedding weekend. The happy couple is somewhere in Mexico as I write this and I hope they're having a wonderful honeymoon. So from us to Josh and Kimberly, thanks for including us in your wedding - and as I said in my toast, may the years to come be as sweet to you as you are to each other!

wiggwes.
wiggwes!
Wiggwes.
Wiggwes!
WIGGWES.
WIGGWES!
Wiggweswiggweswiggweswiggweswiggwes.
WIGGWESWIGGWESWIGGWESWIGGWESWIGGWES.

Stoobydoo. I want Stoobydoo. Stooooobydooooo. Stoobydoobystoobydooby...
I want Stoopy-doopy-doo. Stoobydoo! Stoobydoo! Stoobydoo! Stoobydoo! Stoobydoo! Stoobydoo! Stoobydoo! Stoobydoo! Stoobydoo! Stoobydoo! Stoobydoo! I WANT STOOBY DOO! Stooby. Doo. Stoobydoo? STOOBYDOO! STUP A DUP. stoob. y. doo. st...st...st...stoobydoo!

For the LAST. HALF. HOUR.