So in my tradition of being behind as far as time goes, let me just say that two weeks ago, I had a blast. One of my friends and former roommates from college is getting married. That makes two this year. Former roommates, I mean. Not just friends of mine because Lord knows there's far too many of those getting married this year. It's like living in sin has suddenly gone out of style.
But anyway. The reason I bring this up is because two weeks ago, I headed back to the magical land of Central New York to partake in the best part of a marriage ceremony. The bachelor party.
Tom Hanks won for Philadelphia and Forrest Gump, but was snubbed for this? I have no faith in the Academy.
Now, now, I'm sure the reception is going to be a pretty good time, too. That's why I'm going back this weekend to watch the couple actually go through with it. But the party was fantastic. I'll get to that in a bit.
Never one to let an opportunity slip by, I noticed that the same weekend of said bachelor party there took place an annual event called The Great American Irish Festival.
"Awesome" thought I, "I can go to this on Friday night, and the bachelor party Saturday! Sleeping is what homeless people do!"
"Word." thought Once and Current Housemate, because in the short time of living together, our brains have once again synched.
"Should we call Honus?" I wondered.
And so it was agreed. Myself, Honus and OACH (referred to now as Oach) attended the Irish Fest. Here's a picture of the two of them:
"seriously, put the camera away."
Us three had several plans for the night. One was to listen to Irish bands rock the Herkimer Fairgrounds.
Another was to ogle the fiddle players of such bands, who cast an alluring spell over the audience with their fast paced bowing and fiery hair.
Thirdly, Oach wanted to steal the curly fries of a small child. They looked really good and it would be far more fun and cost-effective than actually buying them himself.
Seriously, though. That kid was done. His stomach must have been positively crammed with fried potato and salt and vinegar, or ketchup, or however he decided to top off that golden deliciousness. We stood, and silently rooted for the family to give up and walk away.
Alas. 'Twas not to be. While we were quite correct in the assumption that this child was finished with his food, we vastly underestimated the eating capacity of those seated around him. Horrified, with our spirits sinking, we watched as the adults swept in and devoured the rest, robbing Oach of his conquest.
Finally, our little plastic baggies were emptied of the small green coins that you could exchange for Guinness at the beer tents. That, combined with the potato misadventure left us feeling pretty low. Observe.
We were three different types of sad, evidently.
So, after a few rounds of "How many seven-year-olds do you think you could beat up?" and a couple "Mom, please don't shout at pedestrians as we're driving out of the parking lot" we were headed for home and a few hours of shuteye before traveling to the main event.
Actually, I think I'm going to leave you in suspense for that part. I'll wait until the couple actually speaks its vows before showing off the adventures of the following evening. Nothing too terrible, but why take any chances?
Peace out for now,