My assignment was simple: stand in for Mike Diskin while he takes his first vacation in six years and deliver anecdotes from my Saturday night festivities. In the words of my favorite rapper, I was commissioned to bring tales of demons and drugs, and of getting pissy drunk in the club while the DJ does the needle rub.
But for my first installment, I decided to opt for something more refined: a story that involves love and happiness, health and sickness, binging, purging, a city where designer-drug dealers maintain 24-hour hotlines, and — brace yourself — the promise of eternal monogamy. You guessed it; I went to a wedding in New York City.
I left Boston at around noon on Saturday. At the time I felt dramatically hungover and in much worse shape than I should have been, considering the mere dozen or so beers I had slugged the night before. I credited my shakes to a chronic lack of sleep, then scraped together some potential outfits and went to scoop up my baby mama. (We don’t actually have children together, but it’s that kind of longterm, on-and-off, lamp-throwing relationship, if you know what I’m saying.)
By the time we hit Hartford, it was clear that I wasn’t just in bad shape from Friday night. When the massive plate of Boston Market vittles I consumed proved incapable of curing me, I realized that I was legitimately sick for the first time in years, complete with a leaky nose, fever, chills, and, to the dismay of my date, an intestine bursting with ruthless flatulence (which was probably more the product of my diet than my flu-like symptoms, but an excuse is an excuse).
Following a too-short nap at my Manhattan safe house, I chewed enough DayQuil LiquiCaps to numb myself, then got dressed (in thick, bright-orange corduroys and a smooth camelhair sport jacket — yeah, I’m one sexy beast) and headed to the main event in Brooklyn. For a brief time I felt up to the task, or at least, I had enough energy to do the only things guys really have to do at weddings: eat like a madman and tell my girl that she’s the hottest thing on site.
In a rare act of prudence, I ruled out drinking, dancing, and non-herbal drug use. The wedding was catered by one of New York’s most renowned chefs, and I was set with smoking blunts and grubbing my face off. Midway through the cocktail hour, I was still in good enough shape to avoid being identified as ill. I even cracked a few jokes for the server who asked if I was Dave Attell (I get this query constantly, but I usually just kick people in the shins).
I began to fade around salad time. In addition to my sickness, I blame the queasiness on Beyoncé, whose “Single Ladies” I find both annoying and unwarrantedly suggestive. As if weddings don’t already bring out the worst in women, now we have the queen of fraudulent empowerment selling girls on superficial matrimonial bliss. Homegirl won’t be so quick to push rings when she walks in on her husband diddling Rihanna.
Despite there being some moments when I had to sit directly on the heater to temper my chills — and the experience of tossing up steak au poivre while fellows in the next stall kicked the evening into overdrive — I can honestly say that I enjoyed myself. Even if the whole experience reaffirmed something that I’ve known ever since I watched my uncle remove my aunt’s garter belt with his tongue and teeth: marriage makes me nauseous.
