the worst of the best

Two years ago, on July 6th, I was the worst best man. My good friend Alan had asked me to be his best man at his wedding in Las Vegas. I was game even though I don't know jack about throwing bachelor parties and know even less jack about Las Vegas (the last time I was there I was 9). Also working against me was the fact that my cousin was getting married two days before so I could only get there late on the day before - pretty much ruling out a bachelor party. Strike one.

So I'll skip over the little details (yada yada) and jump to the toast...oh, the glorious toast. Digging up a little college anecdote was just what the occasion called for. Alan and I had been in the same class of composers at Oberlin. During our shared junior recital Alan and I were backstage as a piece of his was being performed. He asked me, "What do you think this piece is about?" My mind raced through the usual suspects of compositional motivations: a lost love, general violent angst, a supplication for world peace. But I had come to expect even higher, loftier motivations from Alan - and so it was that he answered, "Masturbation." Of course. Thus began a brief survey into all of Alan's earlier pieces only to discover that sex was a common element in all of them. This prompted me to say, "I guess in order to get to know your music better I'd have to sleep with you." We had a good laugh and that was that.

Then came my moment to speak in front of Alan, his new wife, and their respective families (children included). I'm not sure what possessed me but I told a pared down version of the above story and then concluded with..."And to [his wife], who will always know that much more about Alan's music than I could ever hope to." Not really a big deal, kind of charming in fact. But the awkward silence and the hesistant path of the glasses to lips informed me that maybe I had crossed a line. No one said anything about the speech to me afterward (or since) which makes me even more convinced that I royally fouled that one up.

I consider myself a good judge of propriety, but having breached the faith bestowed upon a best man, I feel less sure of my senses of humor, charm, and tact. Strike two.

That being all I have to share regarding my worst best man story, I'm afraid I have to invent a sport in which it's TWO strikes rather than THREE that renders you "out." Imagine that sport exists...and imagine me slinking back to the dugout in shame.

Happy Anniversary, Alan