Weddings and male bonding

Last weekend I went to a wedding reception after the memorial service I already wrote about.

The party was for my best buddy at work. In fact, someone started saying we were like a married couple, that we were each others' work wives.

I don't care. My buddy amuses me. He's still young and blustery and wants to actually do things, Sometimes those things are stupid, like when he wanted to infiltrate a dog fighting rings and take pictures. This was long before Michael Vick made the subject what it is today.

Still, a 6' 3 Lithuanian guy with way too much gel in his rockabilly hair probably isn't going to bland in the with pitbull set. And where did he intend to put his camera?

Still, at least he has ideas and energy. And we go to lunch together at least once a week to shoot the shit.

I don't know about where you all work, but there was a spell at my office where unless you brought food, finding someone to grab a meal with was pretty tough. So I appreciated his effort. And I think he could tell I have been down in the dumps the past few months so it has been nice of him to continue to ask, to put up with mopey Mike.

Well, my buddy is a bit of a worrier, just like me, and shortly before his wedding he tells me not to make any work wife comments on his fabulous day.

Mind you, at the reception part of the festivities my pal pulled a chicken out from under his bride's dress; danced to an Ozzie Osborne song with his mom; sang along to Bohemian Rhapsody while his friends circled around, then did a mosh pit to the fast part, then he wound up in the middle of the circle at which point I threw a dinner roll at him.

It was funny at the time.

After the reception there was more food and a party in his parents' back yard and it was a nice time, one of those summertime moments you wish there were more of, but since there usually aren't it actually makes them even more enjoyable.

There was drinking and swimming and more food, because we are Chicago people and we love to eat, dammit. And two nice looking blond women showed up with cameras. And there was more drinking.

And when I went to say good-bye to my buddy, he tells his wife, "Oh this is Mike, the guy I tell you about. They say he's my work wife."

Awkward moment, yet inside I am laughing.

Then my buddy hugs me and tells me he loves me. And I think he hugged me one more time.

He was drunk, because sometimes, a lot of times its easier for guys to say that to their pals with the help of booze.

That phrase, "I love you," is a tough one. It can cause so much trouble. It has for me and probably for a few of you. It's become overused and underused at the same time.

But I knew what my big tipsy friend meant and I told him I felt the same. His wife just stood there, probably knowing her husband all too well. He's goofy. His best man used a prop monkey filled with candy as a metaphor for him.

Still, according to an Internet game, if I were a dog I would be a St. Bernard, so I am a goof too, I guess: just a big, loyal, drooling, overweight, attention hungry, knock things over unintentionally, run through the snow with a barrel of booze around my neck kind of guy. Better that than a dog that fits in a purse.

So I headed home. A night can't end any better than with some sloppy silly moment that makes you feel good about yourself, that makes the Sinatra songs they play at weddings run through your head while you drive into the suburban summer night.