Jeff and JP and I all found each other online (Friendster, Facebook, and MySpace) a couple of years ago and we've stayed in touch and learned more about one another than ever before. Thank God for the Internet. Jeff and Carolina actually met over MySpace. Because of our online reconnection, I was able to recognize JP across the lawn and make a bee-line. Oh, did I mention that JP's a big 'mo? Yeah. So there's that. I knew there'd be at least some gay-friendly action on this trip, and judging by some of JP's online photos, there would be some Kevin-worthy wackiness.
JP's was the first familiar face I saw and I made a bee-line over. Well, I made the bee-line as he was also standing next to the bar. (All fags do.) I was immediately introduced to JP's life-long friend (and one presumes fruit fly) Liz Coffey.
Love the lovely Liz. She became my partner in crime for the weekend—until I met some of Jeff's friends, but that comes later.
I greeted Aunt Patsy and Uncle Johnny—I never knew how hilarious Johnny was— and got to meet the charming Carolina.
After 12 hours of travel and a moderately cranky car trip with the parents, I also got very close to Christian and Wil, the bartenders.
It took me a while to find my seat—I didn't care where they put me as I was certainly the odd man out. I found my place in the corner (nobody puts Baby in a corner!) with Carolina's South American friends. While I was up at the bar, Umberto switched the tags to he could be next to his girlfriend, which left me next to a six-month old. But I tell you, that six-month old was good company.
I had the international table. These guys were fun. Incomprehensible, but fun.
Working around the table there was Diana (Columbia) and her husband (Serbia)— "I'm from Columbia and he's from Serbia and our child was born in Alabama; I don't know what that makes him." "Bubba."—then Brazil, Uruguay, Umberto (Venezuela), Grace (Columbia), Roland (Argentina) and Paula (Chile). Then there's
I became closer to the bartenders.
I think it was Jeff who checked on me at the bar (it was just behind our table). I said I was having a lovely time but mentioned that I was having a little difficulty because I don't speak Spanish.
"They speak English."
"No, they can speak English."
They weren't, which makes total sense as they are all good friends and South American and why would they speak English at the dinner table? Paula would translate for me from time to time. Basically, the heated conversations were generally about Venezuelan politics or South American football/soccer teams. Even with the language I would have nothing to contribute. But by the end of the night, I was tight with all of these guys. So much fun.
At the end of dinner we started taking photos of the table, when Roland stopped and got in my face and said, "Wait! Are you a Republican?!" I honestly didn't know what he was looking for in an answer. I erred on the side of left. "I'm gay. How liberal to you need me to be?"
But the real stories, what we can recall of them, happened after the rehearsal dinner. The young ones went to the hotel bar (oh, by the way, the Holiday Inn may be the best hotel around this town, but maaaaaaan did it suck) and ti just went downhill from there. The Father of the Groom and the Father of Wilson also joined in and started a downward slide. My father was a hit with Jeff's buddies as he was shaking his cane on the counter and at the bartender to get a drink. Classic.
I do want to say this right out: Jeff's friends rock. I was expecting this close-knit group of friends to be, well, close-knit. But they welcomed me with arms wide open, as if to say, "Where the hell have you been? Let's go." I came to be quite fond of every one of them and they became my long lost best friends for the weekend. Enough so I sort of ditched my family to hang out with them.
We closed down the
Then we decided to walk to the town square as there were reports of bars there.
We walked there with long necks in our hands.
Oh yeah, the building next to the hotel: the police station. We were promptly pulled over, or whatevered its is you're overed when you're walking, and had to pour out the drinks.
It was 1:00 ish and the first bar, some sort of fish bone, had already called last call. Just off the square was a slightly divier bar that would serve us. It was called the Monkey Barrel, but with half of the neon lights out, this bar called to me like no other.
Seriously, how awesome is that?
God we were having fun.
And each and every one of us was pretty much well past trashed at this point.
Exhibit A: This guy.
Yeah, he was just dumped by his girlfriend, was hating all women, was really horny though, and started the touching on me. Like "show me on the doll" sort of touching.
Now I am all for hooking up at weddings. And he was even sorta cute. But there was no way I was going to go fool around with a closet case in rural Georgia who would likely follow up his morning after/post-coital regret and shame with a blunt instrument to my head or heaven forbid a firearm. I was drunk, but not drunk enough for that. I was, however, drunk enough to play his touching game in the bar. Treasure trails can be so much fun.
We were finally kicked out of this bar so they could close. I have no idea what time it was at this point, but for some unknown reason the Happy Pickle down the block was open, and the new owners, young guys, were awake and made us all sandwiches. We took over their place and I think they realized their new cash hours are going to be the ones after last call. If they didn't lose all their profits in the rice krispie treats we kept snarfing while we waited.
Now see, the hotel is only a couple of blocks from the town square. And, one reasons, a couple of blocks back. But there are a couple of turns. And if you exit the square on a street other than the one you entered on, then the it's-a-left-then-a-right-then-a-left takes you in an entirely different direction.
Justin and I ended walking over a mile in the wrong direction into the dark Georgia night. It was after 3:00 in morning; we were hammered; we were exhausted, and now we were lost. And it's not like there were lines of stores or places we could ask for directions. After we realized we were clearly lost we found an open gas station. The woman working the night shift was so not happy to see us. She was, visibly, a bit harsh. Imagine Florence Jean Castleberry from Alice, but with much harder livin'. She looked at us like the drunken sots we were.
"It's five lights back."
We were nowhere close.
Justin and his wife Stacey at the reception
And as harsh as the morning was, it was a fun night. And Jeff's Colorado buddies totally made me one of their own, and for that I thank them. I felt both embarrassed and popular as every few minutes some one or some crowd would shout "WILSON!" above the din.
When I made it out to brunch on the square with my parents the next day, we bumped into various characters from the night before. After about the fourth person who emerged onto the sidewalk only to shout "WILSON!" my mother turned to me and asked, "What did you do last night?"
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