hitched
My little brother is getting married this weekend, which is bringing on a lot of anxiety in these quarters about what exactly the best man's dinner speech is supposed to cover. I asked my oldest son, who himself looks to be presently Niagara-bound, for advice. He just delivered a successful address as best man at his friend's wedding last weekend. Three thumbnail rules, Nick said: Don't write it down, keep it light and funny because the bride's people will be bawling like an unchained pack of widows and orphans during their speeches, and make the bride look great.
These things, especially the third, I can accomplish with minuscule effort. But I guess I'll also need to sneak in a word or two about the groom. When your brother is 11 years younger than you the relationship is not completely, or characteristically, sibling-like. There's a father-son component: when I left home for college he was not quite 6, and that experiential gulf takes a long time to close. You've enjoyed only-child status for what seems like forever, and then, upon your departure, he gets his turn with the mantle. As adults the two of us may in some ways be more like sociable cousins than ground-from-the-same-mill brothers; we see each other once or twice a year, and when we do we don't argue, or seem to get on each other's nerves. We did fight some as kids, though -- there were evidently enough reserves of childishness in my teenage psychology to see me through sustained emotional volleys with a four-year-old -- so the b-word is not ultimately a stretch.
That was the first distinct phase of our...is there a less-icky-but-still-applicable word out there than relationship? He would hang around messing up my shit, tagging unwelcomely along, tattling, and spying; and I would kick his balls in return -- or, once when I heard him hovering tightly against the keyhole at my bedroom door while I was engaged in fevered pharmacological investigations, blow a sharp shaft of smoke into his eyeball. During the second phase, I had grown maturer but he had only grown bigger, and on my visits home he would kick my balls, for no good reason. A few years later, he was a budding musician and, as such, admired me. He went through a variety of noisy bands whose names had Bitch and Shriek and Scumhole and Warts and Kill The Audience in them. One time I sat in for a song with his junior-metal band, in a karate center, and he gave me a sweetly sincere introduction: "And now, it is our pleasure to bring on stage, from the successful and Grammy-nominated bluegrass group Special Consensus..."
And here we are in phase four, with him having drifted away from shrieking metal noise and into the arms of a beautiful Irish Catholic girl, and me now closing in on a Grampy nomination. My brother's an accomplished violinist and college professor now, and I love the fact that we ended up in similar but not identical fields. When I have a question about the formal workings of music, or what was going on in Europe six hundred years back, I call him up. Once in a while, at our folks' house at Thanksgiving, he'll start up a groove on a busted banjo or a coffeetable, and I'll start banging along, and we'll go on for twenty minutes, improvising an avant-garde duet, and making the whole family cry. When I need an ad hoc string section on a recording, he drives over and gets it done. I'm glad to have learned a little about Elliott Carter and Shostakovich and Ligeti and Steve Reich...although I still don't care much for the metal.
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3 comments
As someone once said, "Marriage is not just a word, it's a sentence." I'm doing fifteen to life and I gotta say it's a swell thing. I used to go to a lot of weddings with a wedding band. One somewhat memorable toast was when a father of the bride in a rambling soliloquy began talking about the night she was conceived. I was at the board debating whether to hit "mute" on his channel. At another I saw a funny car driver who is fearless at 200MPH faint slowly away at the altar. As Best Man, you have to be prepared for anything. I'm sure you 'll do splendid, and I hope your brother and his bride live it up.
Mr. Fulks,
Be glad you're not planning a batchelor party. Tom seems rather persnickety.
THE BACHELOR PARTY: WHAT YOU NEED TO KNOW.
BY JASON ROEDER AND MIKE SACKS
posted at http://www.mcsweeneys.net
- - - -
Gentlemen,
I want to thank you all for joining us this Saturday as we celebrate my brother Tom's last day as a free man. Many of you don't know Tom very well ? he's not an easy man to know ? which is why, in close collaboration with his psychotherapist, nutritionist, life coach, spiritual guide, and second psychotherapist, I've written up the following guidelines.
For the love of God, read them carefully.
We'll kick things off at 11:00 a.m. sharp. It's probably a bit earlier than you expected, or might care for, but it usually takes a while to coax Tom out of his room. We'll beg through the door for a few hours, sing some happy songs, and loudly pretend he's missing out on all the Cheetos we're enjoying. When he finally lets us in, no more than three of us will be able to occupy the room at any given time. The room is very small, and one of Tom's chief fears is that bandits are always out to surround him. So while a few of us are partying in Tom's room, the rest of us can chill out against the wall in the hallway.
No strippers, fellas. Sorry! Tom's under the impression that pregnancies can ? and usually do ? occur via lap dances. Over the years, I've tried explaining biological realities to Tom using a variety of books, charts, and anatomically correct hand puppets, but no dice. For the record, he's also worried an impregnated stripper would somehow use the baby as leverage to steal his collection of unused plastic straws.
No alcohol, either, I'm afraid. For reasons Tom has never made entirely clear, fermented things make him sulk. The chemical enhancement for the evening will be Gatorade. The electrolyte boost usually makes Tom see tracers, which is always good for a giggle, until it becomes horrifying.
There will be no goofy hats, Hawaiian leis, X-rated Mardi Gras beads, ironic pimp canes, feather handcuffs, or blow-up booby balloons. Tom deeply mistrusts party favors.
There will be music, though. Tom's learning to play the spoons, but as a beginner he only plays one real spoon against an air spoon. So, that's what I mean by there will be music.
Tom's highly allergic to more than a dozen common foaming agents found in shampoos and soaps. I've listed each of them on the back of this brochure, so compare those to your bottles at home. (Tom has indicated that Prell within ten feet will kill him, outright.) Honestly, it'd be best if you didn't wash your body or your hair within at least 48 hours of the bash, but if you must, consider the homemade rinse (recipe also on back) fashioned out of honey, purified water and other natural, organic ingredients, including highly-processed New Zealand bat guano. Not cheap, but I can promise you, worth it.
Avoid prolonged eye contact with Tom. He thinks that people look him directly in the eye because they're peering straight through to his brain, which they covet.
Don't say the word "nonpareil" in Tom's presence. Just don't do it.
Finally, you might not want to ask my brother about the bride, Mary. Even if he does answer, he offers very few details other than "she's a good speller" and "it's hard to tell from a photo, but she seems to be about my height."
Those are the basics and should be enough to get you through the early afternoon. Generally speaking, if Tom tenses up, licks his lips furiously, makes furious clucking noises, or rams his head through the window, just backtrack a little and change the subject to something he enjoys. We don't know what that is, but, hey, you could get lucky. You had better.
We're gonna have a blast, dudes!
? Keith
I think you've written your speech already.