Last Monday, I wrote 2500 words on my weekend, and if you just skimmed over it because it looked too long, well, you missed out on some good stuff. I'm warning you, this is going to be just as long. So the same caveat applies. Enjoy yourself, its a celebration. -PF
Videocameras at wedding receptions should be outlawed. I'm serious. I've been captured on still film in some compromizing positions, most notably in Austin TX with a male stripper (don't ask) and St. Louis with a girl at a party, as we emerged from a secret hiding place where we sought "privacy" (do ask). Damn bastard cameras. But still photos can be explained away. There's lots of excuses. You can always claim the photo is taken out of context, that the actual event was not what it appears to be in the photo. You can claim its the work of some skilled Photoshop artist changing the image. But videotape doesn't lie. The actual events are right there for everyone to watch, taking them to the events, just like they were there. Its DAMN EVIL.
All I'm saying there's some real INCRIMINATING video of me from Saturday night. And some really EMBARRASSING video of me from later in the night.
So of course, if I get ahold of these videos, I'll be posting some of them here on the site...
I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm pretty hot. And the camera loves me. I love the camera back. Its a big ol' lovefest. I don't ask for the camera to find me. It just does. And when it does, I give it some love, mugging for it, giving it some good stuff to record. Cos there's nothing worse than a sexy person giving a low-energy performance, phoning it in because they can, like ever actor in Oceans Twelve...
The really bad, awful, INDEFENSIBLE video is, well, lets just say as we're dancing to "Billie Jean" by Michael Jackson, the camera pans to me. I'm having a good time, singing along, doing some nice Jacko impersonation dance moves, and I notice the lens on me out of the corner of my eye. So I turn to the camera, and wink. And staring right into the lens, I sing the next line.
"Billie Jean is, not my lover, ah!"
Turn away to dance. Turn back to the camera, with overly strained facial expressions and using my outstretched hands to further express myself and bring the viewer closer, I sing to the television audience.
"She just a girl who, thinks that Iiii am the one! But, the kiiid is not my son! He he he, ohh noo. He he he, ooooh!"
And then spun around, threw my left hand in the air, moved my right hand to my belt, and tried to do the splits.
After that, the high notes on the vocal scale, essential to any Michael Jackson singalong, were really easy. Not a stretch at all. Almost a relief.
"For forty days and for forty nights, law was on her side..."
Counted the days out on my hands. For dramatic effect. Also to make sure that I could still do complicated mathematics after the traumatic splits of only a moment earlier.
"But who could stand when she's in demand, her schemes and plans..."
Threw my hands up as if to say, What am I supposed to do? Not do the splits? I'm pretending to be Michael Freaking Jackson circa 1983!
"Do a dance, on the floor, in the round, babe."
I don't know what that means, no one does. So I just danced some more.
"People always told me, be careful what ya do...Don't go around breakin' young girls hearts!"
I put myself in the shoes of all the ladies to have their hearts broken by me, and let those feelings ooze to the surface, creating a visual tapestry of pain and sorrow, accompanied by a falsetto that Barry Gibb would be proud of. And it was good.
"And mama always told me, be careful who you do...Be careful who you choose, because the lie becomes the truth, hey ey!"
Don't I know it.
So this tape exists, in the video archive of the reception, back in Fort Dodge. Horribly, excruciatingly embarrassing. If I get ahold of it, I'll put it up here so we can all laugh at me together...
But I said there were two videos, you say? The other video, right. Well, I won't be posting that one. All I will say is that The Go-Go's are one of the finest bands of the early 1980's, with many finely crafted and expertly performed tunes. And like the Go-Gos said in one of their biggest hits, Our Lips Our Sealed, mine are as well. Also Belinda Carlisle was pretty hot back then.
Lets say, hypothetically speaking, you were to consume a living breathing goldfish. Were you to regurgitate the fish, what would you suppose the chances of that fish still being alive when it makes its triumphant return from your stomach would be?
I'd say with some degree of certainty, right at 50%.
How do I know this? On Saturday night, we decided to conduct a scientific study, and make the hypothetical a reality. Consume live goldfish we did.
Let me back up a second and explain everything before you get all freaked out, OK? The centerpieces on all 30 tables in the banquet hall had little individual fish bowls, three inches in diameter, each containing water and one goldfish. The family of the groom likes to have a good time, sometimes going off the hook and things get out of control. Upon seeing the goldfish, I immediately thought to myself, "I bet someone will eat one of those fish before the end of the night."
And sure enough, about 8:30, I was right. Standing at the bar, waiting for another pitcher of beer, two of the brothers came up and asked me to witness a truly groundbreaking moment in wedding reception debauchery. They planned to eat one of the goldfish. Sounded cool to me, since it was high time I stop making an ass of myself on the dancefloor.
First brother grabbed a goldfish out of the bowl, shoved it into his mouth, chewed it up real good, and then swallowed. The fish was dead -- the banquet room was a sweltering 85 degrees and the little fishy sadly could not survive the heat so he got out of the kitchen and went to fish heaven -- so if you're one of those fools sympathetic to the goldfish, no need to lose sleep.
Second brother, not to be outdone, grabbed a live goldfish out the bowl. Grasping it between his forefinger and thumb by the tail, he dangled the squirming fish above his mouth, and consumed it whole. He did not chew.
I don't know why I said it. Because it was certainly not going to help me find out if The Go-Go's were really as good as I imagined. But say it I did, sadly.
"I wonder if its still alive, squirming around inside your digestive tract?"
Before I knew it, he was inducing a reverse-of-gears on his digestive transmission, and within moments, the digested remains of pork chops, dressing, cheesy potatoes, corn, and lots of beer came back out of his mouth and onto the floor. Also returning was a completely live and seemingly unharmed goldfish. So it is indeed possible to consume it and have the fish live to tell about it! Good to know. This revelation changes my life forever. I will never be the same. Nor will the world.
The first brother, sensing he had been outdone, quickly grabbed another fish, this time alive, and ate it. When he hurled it back up, however, the fish was dead.
So, based on the results of my highly scientific study, I have to conclude that the chances of a live goldfish surviving being eaten by a human being are 50%.
And you thought I only knew more than you about pop culture. I know lots of things, as you can see. You bet.
"Can you hear them...they talk about us. Telling lies, well that's no surprise. Can you see them? See right through them? They have no shields, no secrets to reveal. It doesn't matter what they say, in the jealous games people play-ay-ay-ay...
Our lips are sealed."
If you find yourself thrust into the center of a dancing circle, and you don't feel like dancing, an excellent alternative is to run around the circle, waving your arms up, getting the crowd to cheer, and then slapping hi-fives with everyone. Trust me, it works.
Myself, I prefer dancing. Thrust into the circle on Saturday, I did a stellar robot, even staring cross-eyed at the ceiling that the Robot Dancer that randomly wanders into sketches on Chappelle's Show.
There's a third video clip floating around of me butchering the dance steps of "Strokin". At one point I think I gave up and danced the Funky Chicken instead. Until the people around me realized it and fell over in laughter, it was awesome.
There's also proof that I can slow dance, contrary to what I reported last week. I would still prefer to be at the bar, arguing with a guy from L.A. about the Dodgers-Twins game, or watching two guys eat and then throw up goldfish, than dance to that slow crap. But I can do it. And I did it. And The Go-Go's are really great.
"Say, he's bananas! B-A-N-A-N-A-S!"
A reception is officially out of control when:
a) A drunk guy brings a full pitcher of beer with him onto the dancefloor, and not only does no one stop him, he's cheered as a conquering hero
b) A discussion of whether the large wet stain on a person's pant seat is sweat or piss takes place, and no one cares what the answer is
c) A guy who consumes 15 glasses of beer (me) is sober enough to realize how ridiculously drunk everyone else is
The new definition of "sore" to me, is dancing for three hours non-stop. Feet, ankles, legs, everything. Not that I care, or that it stopped me from doing anything later on. Meanwhile, the new definition of best pop music group of the 1980's, to me, is The Go-Go's.
Piano Man is the greatest song ever written by man. I will not argue this. The dance closed with the Piano Man, and all 100+ people that remained gathering in the center of the dancefloor for a giant group hug lasting the length of the track, swaying back and forth for five minutes, everyone singing along. In the middle, one guy with a harmonica, playing along, not at all on key.
This is a bit of a tradition in the family. Because Piano Man is the greatest song ever, not even close, and everyone knows it to be true and loves it, and what better way to close a wedding reception than with the greatest song ever?