Right, so in the interest of clarity, when I said I wasn’t writing a Sunday blog anymore, I meant I wasn’t writing on Saturday night, because nobody should be on the internet on Sundays. They should be outside breathing God’s green air, making a turnaround jumper from twelve feet out, barbequing hot dogs, shopping at Best Buy, or whatever it is that Americans do now. Whenever my mom doesn’t see a blog from me each day, she assumes I’ve been in the hospital with a kidney stone. If my luck, allopurinol and water intake prevails, perhaps I’ll be spared from that forever. Three kidney stones is enough for anyone.
Fred Weller married the lovely and talented Ali Marsh last night, and it was a gorgeous gathering of old friends and fabulous dessert. Sean always gets pissed off when I engage in my usual starfucking at such events (you know, like here and here and etcetera) but he’ll be glad to know we didn’t end up rooming with Amy Poehler, who had to go back for Saturday Night Live or something. I did, however, get to meet one of my favorite guys currently in the biz: Thomas Lennon, who was once on “The State,” and now on “Reno 911” (both exquisitely funny). When Tessa and I went to see Le Divorce in Great Barrington last week, and his name came on the opening credits, I leaned over and told her he’d be the best thing in the movie. And he was.
So we told him so, and he was graciously delighted. Definitely a class act. Go see Owen Wilson and Ben Stiller in “Starsky and Hutch” ‘cuz he helped write it.
I have to say this about Westhampton Beach, however: the wedding estate was beautiful, but that town blows. I’ve been there off and on since the mid-80s with my buddy Jamie Block, and it has turned into The Worst of the Hamptons. Jamie and I were once in a 2-man cover band playing obscure Dylan tunes for the clientele at the local watering holes, and Westhampton seemed to have a soul back then. There was an ice cream parlor full of ne’er-do-wells, downscale coffee dives, an indie record store, and shops featuring clothes for less than $999.00. Now the main strip seems to have a town mandate stating that No Shops May Open Herein That Provide Anything Useful.
It is a wasteland of ceramic trinkets, insanely-overpriced real estate offices, candles for $94, and scores of stores featuring chartreuse-colored clothes for soon-to-be-morbidly-obese Jewish women. We walked around and tried to find a sandwich, but no food was served. Eventually I found a store that served inedible taffy and purchased a caramel apple for fruit consumption.
But no matter. It’s enough to see my old brethren from the University of North Carolina, all out in force to cheer Fred on. We have all aged in our specific ways, many entering into our mid-30s with more jubilation than we left our teens, even if there are some tell-tale lines of late night debauchery etched into our faces. As I sometimes fret about my own aging, I keep thinking that it happens to everybody.
I never entirely felt the bonds of brotherhood while I was at school, too addled by my own narcissism to fully grasp the concept. I never saw myself as part of the cool crowd, and remember vast, endless days spent ruminating in the basement of the Lodge, wondering why everyone else seemed to know what was going on. Age has now given me the understanding that nobody knew what was going on, and now I feel blessed to have these amazing, far-flung friendships dotting the globe like tiny pricks of light.
standing: Ali Farahnakian, Alex Yong, Ricky Bell, James Beeler, Charley Cassell, Steven Comfort, Scott Bailey, me
kneeling: Jeremy Kelly, Tom Silk, Alec McNab, Steve Ducey
(click for bigger image)