On the previous Saturday, sweet little Julia got married at the St. James Cathedral. I almost, almost didn’t make it. We were running so very late that Frank dropped me off in front of the cathedral and went to find parking while I rushed up the stairs, stumbled out of a shoe, asked some holy guy if I was too late, to which he replied “not yet, but it’s very close to starting”, to which I replied “OH THANK CHRIST” which I later realized was probably not among the more decorous things I could have said. The important thing is that when I crossed the threshold, I didn’t immediately burst into flames. Emily had the same thought about herself, but Tom countered that if god had any sense of humor, he’d wait to get her until the moment she stepped out of the church.

The ceremony was beautiful, the choir was wonderful, Julia looked gorgeous, and Jason couldn’t stop smiling. The last thing they needed was my donkey bray of laughter reverberating through the entire cathedral, but it was a close call. When the priest asked everyone to raise their hands to bless the couple, the couple in the row in front of ours had their arms around each other and thus only raised one arm each. Jim leaned over and whispered that it looked like they had a ‘heil Hitler’ thing going on, which had me doubled over, shaking in thankfully silent laughter. It also seemed like every time we were asked to contemplate something in silence, someone took it as the opportunity to drop keys, programs, cell phones, and the Encyclopedia Britannica on the floor, cough, and snort phelgm up into their heads…so maybe an echo-y design isn’t the best for a church. Just saying. If I were god, I’d zap every single one of the phlegm-snorters who were supposed to be quietly reflecting on my blessed love instead of sucking back a wave of snot, all squinty-eyed.

All too soon, it was time for the reception at the Olympic Hotel’s Garden Room, which was very, very nice.

As favors, Julia and Jason had ordered bottles of Jones Soda with their photographs printed on them–one of Julia as a child, one of Jason as a child, and one of the two of them together. Each place setting also thoughtfully held a large number of wine glasses, all of which were kept full at all times. We immediately settled into our ‘best table at the wedding’ behavior, which mostly consists of laughing loudly enough that other tables are jealous of our gaiety, even stuffed into dress clothes. Our table even got a shout-out during Jason’s wedding speech as he cast away the microphone with “Microphones? I don’t know how they work. They must be magic, ICP.” We hooted with laughter, no one else knew what was going on.

During Julia’s dad’s speech, a good half of the table burst into tears, all for different reasons. It was like we instantly switched from the best table to the ‘sobbing wreck’ table, but this was soon remedied with us busting moves on the dance floor.

^{First dance of the bride and groom.}

After a while, we noticed that the priest had joined the party but was still seated at a table while everyone else was well on their way to funky town (or whoreville, depending on whether or not you were the maid of honor getting banged in the bathroom), and Emily and I took it upon ourselves to get the priest out onto the dance floor. Picture it: April 24th, the Olympic Hotel’s Garden Room, George Michael’s ‘Faith’ playing overhead, and two hot, sweaty, drunk chicks approach a priest.

Mellzah: “You should dance.” Emily: “Yes, come dance!” Priest: “Oh no, that won’t be happening.” Mellzah: “Look, no one is a bigger atheist than me, but it would make me feel a lot better about religion if you came and danced.” Emily: “Plus, this song is about faith…a-faith-a-faith!” Some friend of the priest: “The only way you’re going to get him out there is if you play some Neil Diamond.” Emily: “….I’ll be right back.”

Moments later, ‘Sweet Caroline’ began playing. Emily gestured from the dance floor. “Come on! You promised before God and everyone!”

And that is how we tempted a priest into dance. Somewhere, there exists a photo of a priest both raising the roof and fist-pumping, and I am so very sad I don’t have them to share with you.

I still haven’t burst into flames.

On Thursday the 22nd, Cole and I went to Club Motor to see SST: Chronic Pain, to cheer on the handsome Cruz Bustamante, start up chants comprised nigh-entirely of expletives, fling PBR cans, and high-five an amount which some may deem excessive. Fortunately for us, we arrived before the doors even opened, and thus started our evening down the street at Hooverville, drinking Odin’s Beard or Thor’s Warhammer or something along those lines. We then bonded over our compulsion to crunch pretty much anything on the ground that looks like it might crunch satisfyingly, like a small pile of leaves, a peanut, or a hollowed-out crab on the beach–whatever looks crunchable.

On our way to Club Motor, we found this wonderful spectacle:

It’s your call: Are these ironic rims or deadly serious minivan business?

Inside, we started on PBR cans in the hopes to store up some to huck; little did we know that instead of flinging cans this evening, we were to be throwing balls, so we drank a lot of really shitty beer for very little reason. I played some Terminator on their arcade machine. Cole and I hung out in some random cage that was sitting out and talked, and every few minutes, one of us would fresh realize that we were having a serious conversation in a cage.

By the time the show was starting, we were both on our way to Happy Drunk Land. When they threw out all of the audience participation balls, I grabbed as many as I could and stuffed them down my shirt for safekeeping. Yes.

On our way to the restroom between acts, we realized that you could look right into the men’s room, and felt this was a photo opportunity that couldn’t be missed:

Not that our antics went unnoticed. Guys came out and said we’d need a much bigger zoom lens to see anything. A couple came out and started hitting on us. We brushed off this attention by having a dance-off with the door staff.

Then we watched some dude whose name I don’t remember wrestle the Holy Ghost.

Ronald McFondle never disappoints:

I started up a chant of ‘Sweaty Asscrack’ about Mr. Fitness, an accomplishment of which I am inordinately proud.

And then the inimitable Cruz Bustamante won the coveted Glass Bitch, a triumph after five years of fighting his way to the top, which I then promptly molested, and then followed him to the bathroom and took a picture of him peeing. I am nothing if not a moment-spoiler.

It was somewhere around this time that the people sitting at the table with us told us that we were ‘hilarious’ and ‘should have a podcast’, an idea which tickles both of our fancies. Why should I continue to deny the world anecdotes read in my ‘tampax commercial’ voice? Who wouldn’t want to hear stories about attempted emu-riding and a foot stench so powerful it once caused one of her parents to vomit in a car?

We went to discuss the idea further and also to get some food in our bellies at some diner that looked like a Denny’s but was not a Denny’s. Sadly, The Simpsons & Family Guy-themed BBQ place was not open.

Happily, the Dennys-But-Not-Dennys had a sign posted saying that if you ate there within two days of your birthday, your meal would be free, and it was within two days of my birthday, so chalk up one more meal on my free-birthday-goods-and-services-awesome-business punchcard. They were also awesome for giving us pictures to color when I slurred that I wanted one.

…it’s almost mesmerizing in a way, isn’t it?