Your suit looks even more 'spensive than you described and Addie's dress looks even more incredible on her than it did on the model in the high fashion runway show (she sent me preview pics before the wedding, but I couldn't tell you). It's all about her shoes, though!
Wish we could've been there. Can't wait to see you both in August.
By the way... did Brent wear white linen like he promised? I see something white and flowy behind Kristy. Also, who is sitting next to Mena in that rowboat?! Does Eric know about this?
By the way... did Brent wear white linen like he promised? I see something white and flowy behind Kristy. Also, who is sitting next to Mena in that rowboat?! Does Eric know about this?
that's me... eric was in the adjacent boat, what came to be known as "the hash boat," icegrilling me.
yes, linen.
congrats E&A on a great wedding. Step one to a great marriage.
Married by a wandering vagabond while JRoot hid in a tree!
It was May 30 and the wedding was scheduled for June 2. I hadn't RSVPed. At all. I just couldn't bear the thought that I wasn't going to be able to make it. But time, distance, funds, and responsibilities were all conspiring against the trip. My ass was looking to be stuck in the show-me state, and I was heartsick.
I didn't know anyone who would be at the wedding besides the bride and groom, so this wasn't going to be one of those weddings where you go as much to see your friends who are also invited as to see the bride and groom. This is one of those weddings where you go because the folks who are getting married are those rare sorts of folks that you wish you had as next door neighbors. The type of folks that, if you could, you would talk to and see every damn day. In my case, time and distance haven't yet allowed that particular dream to come true, and it just seemed like time, distance and other pesky forces were going to keep me from their blessed nuptials as well.
At what seemed the last possible minute, fate knocked the first domino and suddenly all the obstacles were gone. A belated and affirmative RSVP was off to the bride and groom, and I was off to the city, my former home, for the wedding.
Shuffling into my suit Saturday afternoon, everything seemed to be lining up perfectly. Down to the Borough Hall 4 station that would take me up to 77th street, the nearest subway stop to the boathouse. I should get there at about ten to three.
Only to find that there were no 4 trains running between Atlantic Avenue and Brooklyn Bridge. At all. Until Monday. Knowing that trying to get a taxi to the middle edge of Central Park on a Saturday was just as risky as the rally from the J-shuttle train time-wise (and much more disempowering if it went wrong - just fucking sitting there, sweating my balls off in the back of a cab, stuck in traffic, miles from the wedding site), I took the shuttle.
Here's a glimpse into my private mind garden: Fuck. This is taking too long. I'm on the 4 train at Canal Street, but it's already 3 p.m. I should be rowing by now. The wedding is supposed to start at 3:30. What? The 4 is running local. Fuck again. Drive you bastard. Drive. Faster.
When I finally got above ground, it was 3:22, and I was at 77th and Park or Lexington or whatever the fuck avenue the 4 train runs on up there, a few big blocks from the edge of the park still. Texting the groom, I practically ran to the wedding site. My dream of rowing to the wedding still stuck on the train.
Arriving, sweaty and late, how could I NOT hide in a tree?
The groom and the bride were gorgeous.
So were all those in attendance. (Do you wanna sit down?)
And though before I arrived, I knew no one other than the bride and groom, the wedding, the reception, and all the attendant festivities were as warm and as wonderful as they would have been if I had known all the revellers my entire life.
You know that party they have for Bilbo Baggins 111th birthday in the first Lord of the Rings movie? This party made that party look like a LAN party.
Congratulations to Mr. and Mrs. Bambouche. The perfect wedding is the best way to begin the perfect marriage.
XO, JRoot
PS[color:white]Photo CD goes in the mail tomorrow. Don't get your hopes up, though. It was a disposable camera. And I ain't no Richard Avedon. [/color]
By the way... did Brent wear white linen like he promised? I see something white and flowy behind Kristy. Also, who is sitting next to Mena in that rowboat?! Does Eric know about this?
that's me... eric was in the adjacent boat, what came to be known as "the hash boat," icegrilling me.
yes, linen.
congrats E&A on a great wedding. Step one to a great marriage.
Neta, I just saw this. (Man, the first post I made wasn't even in English. I'll credit it to being overwhelmed.) B.A. wore linen, and looked fly, as always. With his new hair style he really looks like a super-Italian Tony Montana (Antonio Montaine?) And judging by the smoke pouring out of that boat, the world is his. After his toast at the reception, when I went to hug him, he grabbed me by my cheeks and kissed me... Full.On.The.Mouth. (Delicious!)
Oh, and when your husband heard of the people with tattoos--in more painful places than the ones he's been crying about contantly--that would be attending he asked for photos. So tell him this woman has twice the ass-ink than him and she seemed to have no problem sitting in her boat!
(Yea, that just happened!)
More Strutter-Related silliness. Asprin Miami Nice & Dyra Stanks having too many drinks before they go home... together! (Dyra's wife out of town + Asprin, newlywed and vulnerable = Details Plaese?)
Pictured above is the arm of our Reverend (who was sobriqueted (?) "Rev. So Wrong" by all in attendance). The Good Reverend has covered himself, which is poorly captured above, in images of monkey skulls (a souvenir he smuggled out of China) and octopuses throwing chess pawns into the ether. I think he finishes a few yards ahead of the rest in the "Certified Bananas" marathon. (Funniest thing: when it was all over, and he was going home, he told us how honored he was that my wife asked him to officiate, it was sweet, and then we read the wedding guest book and he signed it, "It was all a dream, dreaming itself awake, Baba. -Rev. D")
Oh, and when your husband heard of the people with tattoos--in more painful places than the ones he's been crying about [/b]contantly--that would be attending he asked for photos. So tell him this woman has twice the ass-ink than him and she seemed to have no problem sitting in her boat!
(Yea, that just happened!)
You misspelled "crowing" (and you haven't seen the latest photos, either!). Diggin' her Fudo Myoo, though.
File Under: The One That Got Away[/b]
I love that picture. I just wanna know if he danced.
In Crocs? It seems unlikely. (In an obliquely related but doubly relevant note: I'm ashamed to admit how long it took me to realize that Bam's old location was not actually "it does not behoove an alligator to dance.")
Speaking of questionable footwear: Please tell me that that one photo is a trick of the light falling across JRoot's foot, and that my man was not in fact perpetrating with a suit con mandals. 'Cause that's a dump-you-out-the-rowboat action, right there.
More importantly: Warmest congratulations to Bambouche and his, Mrs. Bambouche and hers, and to all of theirs.
You misspelled "crowing" (and you haven't seen the latest photos, either!). Diggin' her Fudo Myoo, though.
My dictionary says:
crow (verb |kroō|) . noun [usu. in sing. ] the cry of a cock.
Hmmm.
I failed to get a picture of her "Death Before Dishes" tattoo for you, though. Let's see your pictures!
I just wanna know if he danced.
In Crocs? It seems unlikely. (In an obliquely related but doubly relevant note: I'm ashamed to admit how long it took me to realize that Bam's old location was not actually "it does not behoove an alligator to dance.")
There was, in fact, a "Fiery Red Emma" at the nuptials, though she's a Living Irish Defense Attorney (LIDA) and not a Deceased Russian Quotable Attent??ter (DRQA).
Dancing, you ask? What Ross was referencing was an episode starring the Croc-Shod Panther pictured in my clutches. It took place,at the wedding of the oarsman of the aforementioned "hash boat." That is, the Fred Durst looking guy (who would cockpunch me if he heard me refer to him as such, but this is strictly for easy identification purposes).
The Durst wedding was a Portuguese affair. Like, Straight Outta Alfama-type realness. The most noteworthy feature of this wedding (besides the stunning abundance of gorgeousness) was Open Bar was not just the call of the day but a way of life.
Croc-Shod Panther heard of the Open Bar Policy before the invitations were mailed and promised anyone who would listen, "I'mma get fuuuuuuucked up." The day arrives, and dude, bless his heart, shows up in a shirt he found on the street with little swatches of duct tape where the buttons should be. All of us who count ourselves lucky enough to be in the vicinity of his love know that he's the kind of guy you have to accept, like a fourth-hand Telecaster once owned by a dude from Molly Hatchet, as is.
I was responsible for the music at the Durst Family Open Bar Wedding. Once the dancing started, our friendly Croc-Shod Panther, who'd been double-fisting gin-and-juice dranks all afternoon, straight got loose. He was cutting a serious rug (after smoking a J in the bushes where he was peeing, "That line for the bathroom is just too long."). He was freaking every woman who dared park on the dancefloor. And I mean everyone. 90-year-old granny's who flew in from Portugal. Pre-teen neices. Sisters. Mothers. Married. Divorced. Engaged. It DID NOT matter. The interesting thing, he did it all with his eyes closed. Completely drunk (well, fuuuuuucked up), eyes souled shut, diving his way around the dancefloor, dancing with everyone and no one in particular.
It was really a sight to see.
At some point he lost the swatches of duct tape, and the shirt, and both of his shoes, and his camera, and most of his clothes, and his ability to stand... The night ended with Crod-Shod Panther's cousin and I trying to pick him up off the floor. He was so sweaty and dead-weight-drunk he just kept slipping out of our hands. So we drug him by his feet across the dancefloor and towards the car, much to everyone's delight. I mean, he was drunk, but that didn't stop him from being absolutely lovable to everyone there.
We're about halfway out the door, dragging him by his bare feet, when, all of a sudden he sits bolt upright, eyes wide, and SCREAMS the name of his high school girlfriend.
"MICHELLE!?"
His cousin and I kinda look at eachother? Like, "what the..."
Then his vision clears, and he focuses on us, the two dudes holding him by his feet. He smiles a little, twists his middle fingers--all gangsta-like--and screams "WESSSSSIDE!" then promptly passes out.
The most incredible part is that he was awake, fully dressed, and at work at 7 the next morning. He called me, even before I got up (and I get up early), and said, "Hey, did you see my camera?"
Anytime any of us hear that he is gonna be at a wedding we all look at each other and ask, "Think he's gonna dance?"
Sadly, he didn't dance at my wedding. But he did call me from Central Park (two days before the ceremony there, and 8 hours after his plane landed and he was supposed to be at my house--and the phone he used showed up on my caller ID with the name of a girl who went to our high school 15 years ago?) to ask "where the party at?" When I asked him where he was, and he told me Central Park; I asked him what he was doing, he said, "Looking for a laundromat."
I've learned to just roll with it, you know, as is.
Speaking of questionable footwear: Please tell me that that one photo is a trick of the light falling across JRoot's foot, and that my man was not in fact perpetrating with a suit con mandals. 'Cause that's a dump-you-out-the-rowboat action, right there.
Reason # 7,659 to love JRoot with rash abandon.
I've fielded no less than 70 emails and phone calls (there were only 50 people at the ceremony) in the last week that focused on a central theme: "And who was that guy J*r*my? --the one in the tree--he was really great, we talked for like an hour about birds/law/okie noodling/childcare/the death penalty/poetry/jazz records/ad infinitum.?"
In fact, on our honeymoon in Iceland, between Just About Lost and Absolutely Nowhere, my lovely wife turned to me--quite out of the blue--and said, no, demanded, "That J*r*my, goddamn, whadda guy!"
As for the mythical raer footwear, I can only offer this--which is cut from an email about something completely different (him traveling across the country for a wedding and making time to see our Last of the Blacksmiths, introducing himself to them, only to be heckled by the bass player)--but I think it's applicable here:
If he was trying to wind me up, he completely failed. I guess I'm too dim to recognize when people have stopped effectively talking to me and started trying to give me shit. Probably to do with my failure to recognize (and desire to vanquish) the ironic pose. I do things because I want to do them, not because it's cool to do them, and especially not because it's lame to do them and it's so lame that it's cool.
A dude that does his own. Truly. One of a kind. If I were Italian I'd probably kiss him full on the mouth.
More importantly: Warmest congratulations to Bambouche and his, Mrs. Bambouche and hers, and to all of theirs.
Speaking of questionable footwear: Please tell me that that one photo is a trick of the light falling across JRoot's foot, and that my man was not in fact perpetrating with a suit con mandals. 'Cause that's a dump-you-out-the-rowboat action, right there.
Putting the MAN[/b] in mandals since 1975.
And frankly, I'd rather be dumped out of the rowboat by the Hyde Park fashion police than accidentally fall out on my own initiative when the hand-sewn leather-soled shoes I got in Sicily that are downright married to that suit betray me on the damp floor of the rowboat. My pride I can do without, but those shoes...
birds/law/okie noodling/childcare/the death penalty/poetry/jazz records/ad infinitum I had forgotten about the okie noodling episode. Another highlight in a weekend full of 'em. Sometimes, when you're noodling in really deep, three men have to go into the same beaver hole.
(yea, that just happened)
If I were Italian I'd probably kiss him full on the mouth. If only you were Italian, the cipher would be complete!!!
Comments
CONGRATULATIONS!!!
I am hugging and kissing both of you!
Your suit looks even more 'spensive than you described and Addie's dress looks even more incredible on her than it did on the model in the high fashion runway show (she sent me preview pics before the wedding, but I couldn't tell you). It's all about her shoes, though!
Wish we could've been there. Can't wait to see you both in August.
All my love.
By the way... did Brent wear white linen like he promised? I see something white and flowy behind Kristy. Also, who is sitting next to Mena in that rowboat?! Does Eric know about this?
that's me... eric was in the adjacent boat, what came to be known as "the hash boat," icegrilling me.
yes, linen.
congrats E&A on a great wedding. Step one to a great marriage.
Best wishes to both of you,
Mike
so random but yet
It was May 30 and the wedding was scheduled for June 2. I hadn't RSVPed. At all. I just couldn't bear the thought that I wasn't going to be able to make it. But time, distance, funds, and responsibilities were all conspiring against the trip. My ass was looking to be stuck in the show-me state, and I was heartsick.
I didn't know anyone who would be at the wedding besides the bride and groom, so this wasn't going to be one of those weddings where you go as much to see your friends who are also invited as to see the bride and groom. This is one of those weddings where you go because the folks who are getting married are those rare sorts of folks that you wish you had as next door neighbors. The type of folks that, if you could, you would talk to and see every damn day. In my case, time and distance haven't yet allowed that particular dream to come true, and it just seemed like time, distance and other pesky forces were going to keep me from their blessed nuptials as well.
At what seemed the last possible minute, fate knocked the first domino and suddenly all the obstacles were gone. A belated and affirmative RSVP was off to the bride and groom, and I was off to the city, my former home, for the wedding.
Shuffling into my suit Saturday afternoon, everything seemed to be lining up perfectly. Down to the Borough Hall 4 station that would take me up to 77th street, the nearest subway stop to the boathouse. I should get there at about ten to three.
Only to find that there were no 4 trains running between Atlantic Avenue and Brooklyn Bridge. At all. Until Monday. Knowing that trying to get a taxi to the middle edge of Central Park on a Saturday was just as risky as the rally from the J-shuttle train time-wise (and much more disempowering if it went wrong - just fucking sitting there, sweating my balls off in the back of a cab, stuck in traffic, miles from the wedding site), I took the shuttle.
Here's a glimpse into my private mind garden: Fuck. This is taking too long. I'm on the 4 train at Canal Street, but it's already 3 p.m. I should be rowing by now. The wedding is supposed to start at 3:30. What? The 4 is running local. Fuck again. Drive you bastard. Drive. Faster.
When I finally got above ground, it was 3:22, and I was at 77th and Park or Lexington or whatever the fuck avenue the 4 train runs on up there, a few big blocks from the edge of the park still. Texting the groom, I practically ran to the wedding site. My dream of rowing to the wedding still stuck on the train.
Arriving, sweaty and late, how could I NOT hide in a tree?
The groom and the bride were gorgeous.
So were all those in attendance.
(Do you wanna sit down?)
And though before I arrived, I knew no one other than the bride and groom, the wedding, the reception, and all the attendant festivities were as warm and as wonderful as they would have been if I had known all the revellers my entire life.
You know that party they have for Bilbo Baggins 111th birthday in the first Lord of the Rings movie? This party made that party look like a LAN party.
Congratulations to Mr. and Mrs. Bambouche. The perfect wedding is the best way to begin the perfect marriage.
XO,
JRoot
PS[color:white]Photo CD goes in the mail tomorrow. Don't get your hopes up, though. It was a disposable camera. And I ain't no Richard Avedon. [/color]
CONGRATS!!
Neta, I just saw this. (Man, the first post I made wasn't even in English. I'll credit it to being overwhelmed.) B.A. wore linen, and looked fly, as always. With his new hair style he really looks like a super-Italian Tony Montana (Antonio Montaine?) And judging by the smoke pouring out of that boat, the world is his. After his toast at the reception, when I went to hug him, he grabbed me by my cheeks and kissed me... Full.On.The.Mouth. (Delicious!)
Oh, and when your husband heard of the people with tattoos--in more painful places than the ones he's been crying about contantly--that would be attending he asked for photos. So tell him this woman has twice the ass-ink than him and she seemed to have no problem sitting in her boat!
(Yea, that just happened!)
More Strutter-Related silliness.
AsprinMiami Nice & Dyra Stanks having too many drinks before they go home... together! (Dyra's wife out of town + Asprin, newlywed and vulnerable = Details Plaese?)Pictured above is the arm of our Reverend (who was sobriqueted (?) "Rev. So Wrong" by all in attendance). The Good Reverend has covered himself, which is poorly captured above, in images of monkey skulls (a souvenir he smuggled out of China) and octopuses throwing chess pawns into the ether. I think he finishes a few yards ahead of the rest in the "Certified Bananas" marathon. (Funniest thing: when it was all over, and he was going home, he told us how honored he was that my wife asked him to officiate, it was sweet, and then we read the wedding guest book and he signed it, "It was all a dream, dreaming itself awake, Baba. -Rev. D")
File Under: The One That Got Away[/b]
You misspelled "crowing" (and you haven't seen the latest photos, either!). Diggin' her Fudo Myoo, though.
I love that picture. I just wanna know if he danced.
In Crocs? It seems unlikely. (In an obliquely related but doubly relevant note: I'm ashamed to admit how long it took me to realize that Bam's old location was not actually "it does not behoove an alligator to dance.")
Speaking of questionable footwear: Please tell me that that one photo is a trick of the light falling across JRoot's foot, and that my man was not in fact perpetrating with a suit con mandals. 'Cause that's a dump-you-out-the-rowboat action, right there.
More importantly: Warmest congratulations to Bambouche and his, Mrs. Bambouche and hers, and to all of theirs.
My dictionary says:
crow (verb |kroō|)
. noun [usu. in sing. ] the cry of a cock.
Hmmm.
I failed to get a picture of her "Death Before Dishes" tattoo for you, though. Let's see your pictures!
There was, in fact, a "Fiery Red Emma" at the nuptials, though she's a Living Irish Defense Attorney (LIDA) and not a Deceased Russian Quotable Attent??ter (DRQA).
Dancing, you ask? What Ross was referencing was an episode starring the Croc-Shod Panther pictured in my clutches. It took place,at the wedding of the oarsman of the aforementioned "hash boat." That is, the Fred Durst looking guy (who would cockpunch me if he heard me refer to him as such, but this is strictly for easy identification purposes).
The Durst wedding was a Portuguese affair. Like, Straight Outta Alfama-type realness. The most noteworthy feature of this wedding (besides the stunning abundance of gorgeousness) was Open Bar was not just the call of the day but a way of life.
Croc-Shod Panther heard of the Open Bar Policy before the invitations were mailed and promised anyone who would listen, "I'mma get fuuuuuuucked up." The day arrives, and dude, bless his heart, shows up in a shirt he found on the street with little swatches of duct tape where the buttons should be. All of us who count ourselves lucky enough to be in the vicinity of his love know that he's the kind of guy you have to accept, like a fourth-hand Telecaster once owned by a dude from Molly Hatchet, as is.
I was responsible for the music at the Durst Family Open Bar Wedding. Once the dancing started, our friendly Croc-Shod Panther, who'd been double-fisting gin-and-juice dranks all afternoon, straight got loose. He was cutting a serious rug (after smoking a J in the bushes where he was peeing, "That line for the bathroom is just too long."). He was freaking every woman who dared park on the dancefloor. And I mean everyone. 90-year-old granny's who flew in from Portugal. Pre-teen neices. Sisters. Mothers. Married. Divorced. Engaged. It DID NOT matter. The interesting thing, he did it all with his eyes closed. Completely drunk (well, fuuuuuucked up), eyes souled shut, diving his way around the dancefloor, dancing with everyone and no one in particular.
It was really a sight to see.
At some point he lost the swatches of duct tape, and the shirt, and both of his shoes, and his camera, and most of his clothes, and his ability to stand... The night ended with Crod-Shod Panther's cousin and I trying to pick him up off the floor. He was so sweaty and dead-weight-drunk he just kept slipping out of our hands. So we drug him by his feet across the dancefloor and towards the car, much to everyone's delight. I mean, he was drunk, but that didn't stop him from being absolutely lovable to everyone there.
We're about halfway out the door, dragging him by his bare feet, when, all of a sudden he sits bolt upright, eyes wide, and SCREAMS the name of his high school girlfriend.
"MICHELLE!?"
His cousin and I kinda look at eachother? Like, "what the..."
Then his vision clears, and he focuses on us, the two dudes holding him by his feet. He smiles a little, twists his middle fingers--all gangsta-like--and screams "WESSSSSIDE!" then promptly passes out.
The most incredible part is that he was awake, fully dressed, and at work at 7 the next morning. He called me, even before I got up (and I get up early), and said, "Hey, did you see my camera?"
Anytime any of us hear that he is gonna be at a wedding we all look at each other and ask, "Think he's gonna dance?"
Sadly, he didn't dance at my wedding. But he did call me from Central Park (two days before the ceremony there, and 8 hours after his plane landed and he was supposed to be at my house--and the phone he used showed up on my caller ID with the name of a girl who went to our high school 15 years ago?) to ask "where the party at?" When I asked him where he was, and he told me Central Park; I asked him what he was doing, he said, "Looking for a laundromat."
I've learned to just roll with it, you know, as is.
Reason # 7,659 to love JRoot with rash abandon.
I've fielded no less than 70 emails and phone calls (there were only 50 people at the ceremony) in the last week that focused on a central theme: "And who was that guy J*r*my? --the one in the tree--he was really great, we talked for like an hour about birds/law/okie noodling/childcare/the death penalty/poetry/jazz records/ad infinitum.?"
In fact, on our honeymoon in Iceland, between Just About Lost and Absolutely Nowhere, my lovely wife turned to me--quite out of the blue--and said, no, demanded, "That J*r*my, goddamn, whadda guy!"
As for the mythical raer footwear, I can only offer this--which is cut from an email about something completely different (him traveling across the country for a wedding and making time to see our Last of the Blacksmiths, introducing himself to them, only to be heckled by the bass player)--but I think it's applicable here:
If he was trying to wind me up, he completely failed. I guess I'm too dim to recognize when people have stopped effectively talking to me and started trying to give me shit. Probably to do with my failure to recognize (and desire to vanquish) the ironic pose. I do things because I want to do them, not because it's cool to do them, and especially not because it's lame to do them and it's so lame that it's cool.
A dude that does his own. Truly. One of a kind. If I were Italian I'd probably kiss him full on the mouth.
Thanks, really.
Putting the MAN[/b] in mandals since 1975.
And frankly, I'd rather be dumped out of the rowboat by the Hyde Park fashion police than accidentally fall out on my own initiative when the hand-sewn leather-soled shoes I got in Sicily that are downright married to that suit betray me on the damp floor of the rowboat. My pride I can do without, but those shoes...
birds/law/okie noodling/childcare/the death penalty/poetry/jazz records/ad infinitum
I had forgotten about the okie noodling episode. Another highlight in a weekend full of 'em. Sometimes, when you're noodling in really deep, three men have to go into the same beaver hole.
(yea, that just happened)
If I were Italian I'd probably kiss him full on the mouth.
If only you were Italian, the cipher would be complete!!!