Nothing Good Can Come of an Open Bar.

Some impressions from a wedding:

• If you put a doggy flotation vest on your wedding registry, be prepared to suffer the consequences long-term.
• If you plan to wear a long, filmy veil, you might think twice about an outdoor venue in a very windy part of town. Although it makes a cute moment when your dad has to fetch your veil out of a nearby tree.
• You get extra wedding points if your names sound cute together.
• Bicycle racers tend to stretch the bounds of wedding fashion close to, but not past, the breaking point. Although what is allowed of bicycle racers (retro martini-age gear including white shoes and belt) should not be attempted by members of the General Public.
• Despite what you may think, you can get a brew pub, which makes highly regarded artisan beers, to serve Bud Light to your guests.
• Wedding bands are a musical sub-set that should be admired much more than they are. First, they play soft Norah Jones tunes while everybody ignores them and eats their little wedding dinners. Then they try to get everybody interested with some catchy covers of Neil Diamond and Elvis while everybody ignores them some more. Then, after the speeches and the cake and the open bar and the couple's first dance, they let loose with some Tommy Tutone (867-5309) and everybody crowds them on the dance floor and steps on their cords. And they smile and sing pretty much any genre you can throw at them.
• Speaking of the wedding singers, whenever I hear Van Morrison (Moondance), I always think of every Grammy speech I heard in the 80's, because it was cool to thank him for being such a "huge influence" on them, even though none of them sounded anything like him.
• I like to dance. Drew does not. This means that once every two years or so, if he gets caught with me at a function with an open bar and some dancing, he is forced to dance with me, and I return the favor by not just leading, but gripping him so tightly that he has no other option than to do what I am doing. Which is not strictly a "dance," like the samba or the foxtrot, but more like whatever the music is requiring me to do. Kind of like forced interpretive dance, with only one of us knowing the steps. It's my method, and it works for me. He's good natured about it, as long as he can keep it down to once every two years or so.
• Dean is ready for nationals. I can tell because he looked like he was smuggling trout in the utility pockets of his trousers, even though his trousers didn't technically have utility pockets. (Large thighs. He's a sprinter. On the track. The bicycle track. The round one. Well, oval. Is the joke dead yet? Ah well. It wasn't very healthy to begin with.)