Team Lucky and the organist from hell

In the midst of Pineda camp, we took a brief excursion to the land of corn and football for my cousin Alan’s wedding. Once again, our family continues to strengthen the gene pool by throwing in some hardy Irish Catholic stock via his lovely bride, Bridget.

After work on Friday I took a shuttle flight out to Chicago. I met Juan and Val at O’Hare and we drove to the lovely Skokie Doubletree, just outside of Chicago, where the whole wedding party was staying. As the family’s only known “friend of Dorothy,” it was my responsibility to make sure the wedding party knew that New York was in da’ house. So I decided to go in full-out Cuban pimp drag with a tan pin-striped linen jacket, khaki pants and … wait for it … a straw fedora. I was the fashion toast of Skokie that weekend, I’ll wager. Doubly impressive is the fact that the only item I actually brought with me from NYC was the jacket, white shirt and shoes. I purchased the rest of the ensemble just hours before the ceremony at the Marshall's next door to the hotel. How's that for living on the edge?

The wedding day started off a bit rough for us. Per usual the Aunties drafted Juan, Val, Trish and I into singing for the ceremony. The organist was, to put it nicely, difficult. I guess we should have been prepared for some attitude, given that Al kept telling her we were “professional singers from New York.” I’m sure she came to the table ready to show us snooty East Coasters how they roll in Chicagoland. But let’s get real, it’s a wedding in Skokie not our premier at Chicago Lyric. You’re really going to choose this particular situation to have a my-dick-is-bigger-than-yours smack down?

First off, Val sent the organist dozens of music choices that we knew the couple would like and that we have performed at other weddings. But instead of honoring the family’s choices - because the wedding is obviously all about the organist - she decided we’d perform two songs of her choosing. Fine, yours is bigger than mine. This wouldn’t have been a problem had the songs been, well, good. But instead we got saddled with New Age-y, faux folk/pop ballads of the blandest sort - Christian elevator music.

We arrived at the church right before the ceremony with unreadable faxed copies from the hotel since the organist wouldn’t fax the music to us in NY because of some bulls*it about long distance faxing. After telling her we just wanted to plow through the song to learn the notes - remember we’re sight reading - she stops us two pages in to give us notes about dynamics. Really? The ceremony is set to begin in 20 minutes, we don’t know the song and you’re worried that we’re not catching that decrescendo in the fifth measure? Get a grip, lady. The funny part is she kept telling us we were singing too loudly. Um, we were marking (for you vocal laymen, that means we weren't really singing out, just sort of singing under our breath so as not to tire out our voices). I’m sure her ears were bleeding during the ceremony when we actually did sing with our "real" voices. On a side note, a few guests at the church commented about how the singing could have been louder and that it was difficult to hear us at some points. I'm just saying. Anyway, her wedding … I mean, Al and Bridget’s wedding ... went fine even with little rehearsal and bland music choices. Thankfully, Al is the last cousin to get married in that church so we never have to work with this woman again (knock on wood).

Twenty minutes into the reception, all thoughts of the organist from hell had dissipated thanks to the soothing embrace of beloved family member, Vodka Collins. I'm embarassed to say it, but we were “that” table. You know, the rowdy drunk group everyone whispers about and leers at. Don’t judge, we had a rough day. Regardless, we had a blast with our Canadian cousins, Serena and Jonathan, who can really put 'em back.  And also our Indiana cousins, Hannah and Clara, who didn't drink at all (don't worry mamma Leslie), although they may have been privy to some mighty saucy language from the rest of the table. They're off to college soon, so I'd like to think we were just breaking them in.

My fedora was the hit of the evening, with everyone (okay, mainly the under ten set) fighting for a chance to try it on. Watch for my upcoming Fedora Series, to be published once I get the photos off Trish’s camera. And while we're on the subject of fashion, Gerry and I were disappointingly the only wedding guests to do a mid-reception outfit change. How can you attend an event and not have at least two costume changes?

Oh, and I almost forgot about the surly wedding photographer.  I don't care how good your photos are, unless you're Ansel Adams it is not appropriate to tell your clients to shut up. While trying to get a group shot of the dozens of cousins, Little Miss Surly actually said (and without irony or joking smile), "If you don't shut up, this is going to take a lot longer." Oh no she didn't. Granted, we were all very drunk and rowdy.  But it's a wedding reception, not a class photo shoot for Miss Buffy's Finishing School. After the initial shock and probably priceless shot of us all staring gaping-mouthed and wide-eyed into the camera, her comment only made us laugh louder and act even more inappropriately. That put Miss Surly-pants over the edge and she actually threatened to separate Margot and me. Seriously. It was like a real life Saturday Night Live sketch, only funny. (Note to photographer: if you want to take an organized group shot, don't wait until the end of the night after everyone's gotten plastered.) 

The highlight of the weekend? - discovering the culinary Mecca known as Portillo’s Hot Dogs. The life changing experience can best be described in three words - dipped beef sandwich. ‘Nough said?

Congratulations to Team Lucky (below). Bring me something nice from Hawaii.

(Photo courtesy of Leslie Cruz Ruegsegger)

July Fourth

Stricken with a case of gout, Juan gimped his way through our second annual Washington DC July Fourth Celebration at the fabulous Shoreham Hotel. The hotel was just as opulent and borderline inappropriate as I remember, with the bell staff (all black, of course) in white uniforms and gloves opening doors and pushing luggage. Gotta’ love the south. Because the other Pinedas were in camp all day and I had a half day at work, we weren’t able to leave NJ until around four in the afternoon. After our annual pee break and pilgrimage to the Maryland House rest area on I-95, where Trish and I noshed on cheesy crab pretzels at Philips, we rolled into DC around ten. As spoiled New Yorkers, we were surprised to find most of the restaurants in the area closing up by the time we checked in and settled into our rooms. So sadly, our first celebratory vacation meal consisted of Chinese take-out. We did end up splurging for some yummy room service dessert - cupcake of the day (vanilla w/ fresh fruit) and a trio of crème brulees.

Gouty McGouterson and Val spent almost all day Saturday lounging in their caftans poolside while Trish and I hit the tourist trail aboard the Old Town Trolley. I’d highly recommend the all day pass, which basically let’s you wheel around all the city’s famous landmarks serenaded by the cheese-tastic ramblings of the trolley driver. The only drawback is that the trolley route is one way, which forced us to ride the complete circuit twice after missing our stop the first time around. We also spent part of our trip trapped on a near empty trolley with a Jersey couple who seemed equally uncomfortable with our driver’s crazy disclosure of random personal facts - awkward. They jumped ship at the first opportunity for an “impromptu” visit to the National Zoo (likely story). We feigned interest in the Georgetown mall to escape our weirdo driver and happily waited for the next trolley.

Highlight of the day? You guessed it, lunch! We gorged at The Burger Joint in DuPont Circle, a poor man’s version of NYC’s Chelsea gayborhood. I’ve deduced that all the hot DC dudes are vampires, since none were on display in the afternoon sunlight. Oh well, we got our beefcake at lunch where I ordered a huge bacon cheeseburger and Trish ordered the lobster roll. To our surprise and delight, our order of roasted garlic fries came topped with (gasp!) whole, roasted garlic cloves. Perhaps further evidence to support my vampire theory, given the odoriferous sent emanating from our pores following our gorge-fest. Dinner was almost as memorable, with Trish and I ordering an array of gourmet hot dogs from room service, including one topped with blue crab. I know, sounds nasty, but everything tastes better topped with crab (or bacon, or cheese, or deep-fried!).

With Juan still out of commission Saturday night, Trish and I decided to check out the nightlife in DC’s current party spot, Adams Morgan. Conveniently located walking distance from our hotel, we followed the steady stream of tramps and preppies emerging from the nearby Metro station to Columbia Street, the hub of Adams Morgan. We found several blocks of back-to-back bars, cafes, restaurants and hookah joints populated by drunk skanks and douchie frat boys partying the night away, obviously looking to get laid. Heaven - if I were 15 years younger. Unfortunately, the median age of the revelers was well below my cut-off age. So Trish and I contented ourselves with people watching and scouting out likely restaurant choices for a daytime visit. On our trek back to the hotel, several bimbettes-in-training enlivened our trip with their attempt to walk the half-mile route slightly inebriated and in 3-inch stilettos. Girls, please, either practice at home or donate those fuck-me pumps to a pole dancer or homeless drag queen.

Since Juan spent all day Saturday recuperating, we decided to take a Sunday morning trip to the nearby National Zoo. Of course, we still had to get gramps a wheel chair since he couldn’t handle all the walking. As the older brother, I inherited the role of wheelchair custodian. Not too difficult a chore given that the zoo is built on the downward slope of a hill. Unfortunately, it wasn’t until reaching the bottom that we realized I would have to push all two-hundred-plus pounds of gimpy boy back up to the top, not a simple task in 100 degree plus weather. Oh well, at least we benefited from the wheel chair pity factor and easily pushed to the front of every exhibit.

After our zoo expedition, we treated ourselves to a long, relaxed lunch at Tryst, a trendy Adams Morgan bistro Trish and I spotted the night before. The vibe was very East Village and we wiled away most of the afternoon people watching and nibbling. That night, as has become our custom, instead of watching the fireworks live, we slipped into our PJ’s, ordered some pizza and wings and watched the concert and fireworks on TV. I know it seems lame, but lying in your underwear with a slice of pizza in an air-conditioned hotel room versus fighting sweaty crowds for a tiny plot of grass hours before the show? - seems like a no brainer to me.

Monday morning we loaded up at the hotel’s gourmet all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet before heading home. In a fun coincidence, are server was the waiter who served us at last year's BBQ buffet disaster!  We had a great laugh teasing him about it and he informed us the manager in charge of last year's fiasco was "no longer working here."  Oh well.  We thanked him again and told him we'd be seeing him next year.