Wedding Bells, Drives from Hell, Jokes that Smell, Muscles Swell
Warning: This is an uninspired post. I am tired and cranky, but I love my readers.
I have returned from the wedding where Carrie and Marcello pledged their lives to one another forever or at least until one of them gets really sick of the other. This might have been my favorite wedding I have ever attended. They just seemed like they were having a blast. The music was fun, the dancing was plentiful and as David Brent says, the vino did flow. Plus, as a favor to the couple, they actually sent me to yell at the staff of the venue. I love having a reputation for getting things done. Also, in line with my reputation, I drank and danced tons. See photo. Nice pose, CH!
Yos, as always documented the days and nights of love and roses digitally and has posted the fruits of his labor, as it were, online.
It was downright lovely to meet Gijyun.
In between the rehearsal and the wedding, I had a nightmare scenario come to life. My car broke down in the middle lane of Roosevelt Boulevard. For those of you who have not had the acquaintance of Roosevelt Boulevard, it’s main road that helps you traverse the outer limits of hell, a.k.a. Northeast Philadelphia. My opinion might be tempered by my experience there this weekend, but Northeast Philadelphia is the god damned ugliest, most horrible place in the history of places. I felt zero brotherly love as hoopties zoomed past me, yelling horrible things about me and my Ford Focus. My car got tired; give him (my car's name is Friedrich) a break!
Anyway, Yos talked me through the whole ordeal while driving behind me with his hazard flashers on, since I am basically helpless in the face of technology breakdowns. I did not hold my hand or cradle me in his arms, but I wouldn’t have turned it down. Pray for me and my car as evasive action to repair will take place this week.
I have never been so happy to see summer rain. The heat subsides for a moment; I sigh a breath of relief. I will be whipping out my Turin Brakes record tonight in celebration.
I saw the Aristocrats this weekend. It’s a movie about the way different comics interpret what’s known in their circles as the “dirtiest joke in history.” There was lots of talk of blood, poo, piss, semen and more poo, all of which ended up on someone’s grandma’s face at some point. Well, several grandmas, including Bob Saget’s. People actually got up and left the theater because of some of the vile versions of the joke. There were some hilarious moments, but I remain, as I suspected, unenthused by poo.
Just to let you know, the Electric Slide is on the radio right now. You would be wrong if you didn’t think Sandy was trying to do the dance. You would continue in your wrongness if you thought she knew how to do it. And you would be the wrongest person ever if you didn’t think that I didn’t love this shit.
The Judge has hired a new assistant. As soon as I flesh out the bare-bones gossip I have heard about him (something about being a fake preacher!), I will figure out how I feel about him. If he reduces my workload, he’ll be my new favorite person.
In an effort to become the second weakest male in Philadelphia (currently, I am number one), I cashed in my two free personal trainer sessions at the gym. My trainer was just mean enough to me to get results but nice enough that I didn’t throw my barbells at him. Which I definitely could not have done. Anyway, my point is: I can’t move my arms above my head.
Hey look! A virtual tour of Philadelphia Murals!
WXPN needs your input about the best albums of all time. I have my list down to about 30 albums. I am wavering because there is a difference between my great albums and favorite albums (personal experiences influence opinions) and no "greatest hits" are allowed. Hmph.
See? I told you. Uninspired, cranky, etc. I am out of here, like T.O. Sorry for the scattered thoughts. More focus tomorrow.