Rock the bells.

Weddings, man. This, my brother's, was the fourth I've been to, but the first I've actually taken part in (as the best man). My responsibilities were relatively small, limited to a few ceremonial requirements. But just being in the midst of the chaos, a chaos which lasted a good half-a-day, was draining. Again, it wasn't even me getting hitched. Rain forcing the ceremony to be moved to the area for reception (The Uptown Hideaway), a debacle with the slide-show (which must have been completed minutes before it was shown), a delay on the ice for the beer, and a bunch of other stuff I won't go into here - shit happens. Let's just say that I couldn't pound an IPA soon enough. Warm or cold.

The clear highlight of the evening would have to have been the musical selections. They were a pleasant surprise. Emphasis on "surprise". While rehearsing the entrance of bridesmaids and groomsmen, no music was played. All I knew was that my brother's wife-to-be was going to walk out to a Cat Power song. So I was taken aback when the procession commenced to the tune of Outkast's "So Fresh, So Clean". It was dope. After the ceremony, the playlist included the likes of Lupe Fiasco, Souls of Mischief, Grandaddy, Ice Cube, Bloc Party, Arcade Fire, along with all the other jams I am forgetting. One of the photographers claimed it was the best music he'd ever heard at a wedding. I'd have to agree with him. Though my wedding hasn't happened yet (a largely hypothetical event), where there is sure to some Dropkick Murphys pumping through the system. In fact, if I don't get to drunkenly sing along to the following, it was never meant to be.

Besides myself, everyone else seemed to have a great time. Especially my family: both immediate and extended. Like I said in the previous post, my folks are a pretty reserved bunch. But whether it was the infectious joviality of spirits or the alcohol, they busted out of their shells. Right onto the dance floor. Seeing them all out there, immersed in uninhibited fun, I had to join. So I did what any other self-respecting white guy does in the presence of loud hip-hop: poorly executed break-dancing. I also dusted off a few choice moves from my golden years at 80's Nights in Bellingham. My mom proceeded to ask where I learned to perform these pelvic gyrations. I explained to her that college wasn't all about books.

In summation, the wedding was a rager. I only hope I didn't ruin the photos with my bulldog front. I swear, it can't be helped. I'm just a mean-looking son of a bitch.

I know this is a horrible transition, but I wanted to share my favorite passage from Molloy. Despite the lack of a real story, it shows Beckett dropping profound knowledge on a rather taboo subject. Keep in mind that this was written in the late 1940's. How it made it into the final draft, I do not know.

For as long as I had remained at the seaside my weak points, while admittedly increasing in weakness, as was only to be expected, only increased imperceptibly, in weakness I mean. So that I would have hesitated to exclaim, with my finger up my arse-hole for example, Jesus Christ, it's much worse than yesterday, I can hardly believe it is the same hole. I apologize for having to revert to this lewd orifice, 'tis my muse will have it so. Perhaps it is less to be thought of as the eyesore he called by its name than as the symbol of those passed over in silence, a distinction due perhaps to its centrality and its air of being a link between me and the other excrement. We underestimate this little hole, it seems to me, we call it the arse-hole and affect to despise it. But is it not rather the true portal of our being and the celebrated mouth no more than the kitchen door. Nothing goes in, or so little, that is not rejected on the spot, or very nearly. Almost everything revolts it that comes from without and what comes from within does not seem to receive a very warm welcome either. Are not these significant facts. Time will tell.

Wow.