After a morning of bleaching, I gun out of camp preparing for TJ’s wedding lacking a suit, gift, and directions. I arrive at home to do an emergency load of wash and walking into the kitchen I am greeted by a duck, an honest to God duck. I look at it, the duck looks at me and waddles back into the rec room. Next, I put on my clothing to facilitate an emergency visit to the Men’s Warehouse, my shoes aren’t tied, I have no belt, and I’m wearing shorts with suspicious white bleach stains that look like I was wanking up on the car ride over. I pass by the duck again, drive to Men’s Warehouse and turbo-stumble through a door where Harvey Fierstein’s illegitimate tailor brother greets me and with a slow crescendo that makes the whole thing more melodramatic brings his hand to his forehead to tell me “Sir, I am a tailor, and there is no greater sorrow to a tailor than saying this: I cannot fit you”. I drive to the local Big and Tall and luck strikes. A man of my approximate build recently returned an entire set of coordinated suit parts and had the courtesy to dry clean them before returning them thus ensuring their cleanliness and wrinkle-freeness, w00t. I have 9 minutes to get to Arcadia and the final 12 seconds before being officially late involved parallel parking that would have challenged the driver of a Matchbox car.
The wedding itself was wonderful and was officiated by TJ’s brother. The odd part was the music: the pre-wedding tunes alternated between classic wedding music like Pachabel’s Canon and the soundtrack to Guys and Dolls. The cocktail hour saw classic folk and Negro spirituals. The dinner included such wedding classics as Lola and 50 Ways to Leave Your Lover.