Komrades:

This may be my last blog due to a certain post of mine. So....

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And now for some cultural reportage.

To start with, it is El Cinco de Mayo once again.

You've all heard the libelous term 'Italian Football Wedding', but you probably never had the pleasure of having attended one, since the most of you are barbarians. Herein, I shall describe one to you. But, for contrast, I shall open things with an inter-racial and inter-religious affair. My cousin's kid, an Eyetalian Roman Catholic, wedded himself off to a Jewish lass. Unfortunately, I was invited to the doings. Had to give the kids a present! The festivities took place at some ritzy North Shore Lon Giland yacht club. The opening goodies were Jewish, Chinese (natch!) and Italian. The Jewish goodies were mostly glommed before Consort and I got there, so we had to settle for the other slops. I know that you won't believe that Jewish goodies are top of the line, because of the way their regular cooking stinks (literally) to the high heavens. Probably to get God's attention. Anyway, both races mingled amicably. No brawls at all. When it came to the knot tying bit, a rabbi and a priest's time was wasted. I thought to myself, why not have a mullah and a pastor, really cement things? I also indicated to any who would listen, that since I am a defrocked priest, I would do the work, and at a small discount, since blood was involved. No one paid any attention. Somehow, I wound up behind everyone. Bride muscled her way up front. Since I couldn't hear or see what was going on, I summoned a steward and required him to fill a few beakers of Scotch and to deposit them on a balcony table. There I repaired, alone and peaceful, to watch the yachts bobble and the gulls enjoy themselves. Gulls and I do not see eye to eye on much. I hate the flying garbage cans with a passion beyond passion. Their object in life is to strafe the Imperial Chariot. There I sat, peacefully and alone, enjoying the libations and puffing away at cancer sticks. Unknowingly, (Like bloody hell!), I flipped the puff butts into the air. The gulls would swoop down and knock them back. God!, it was a pleasure to see them perform insane acrobatics whilst screeching their gizzards out. Yup! They got even with me. Never missed the target of their desires. Had a speckled burgundy chariot. Dinner was great. Anything one wanted - even pork.

Now, off to the object of this Journal. The broom's party would hit the church and assemble at the altar reeking of booze, and holding their heads, as a result of the recently terminated bachelor party. Very dirty jokes were swapped when the boys could coordinate the operations of brain and tounge. The priest, who had just adjourned the poker game at Dinty Moore's Back Room, put in a lordly appearance. The opposing Families sat across the nave from each other, taking every opportunity to glare at each other. Did I mention that this was an inter-racial marriage - Calabrese versus Barese? Iron heads against kerosene people? Don't get it? Forget it! After some extended while, the brides party shows up and marches up the nave. Oh! How beautiful! Pigs! She deserves much better. The witch can't cook. How handsome. Schmuck. (Yes, schmuck is an Eyetalian word.) Why doesn't he/she marry one of his/her own? The worst of ours, is better than the best of theirs. Even a Sicilian would be better. The priest does his thing, and the guests of honor agree to all the lies. All march down the nave to the feigned approbation of the enemies. When the happy couple get outside the church, they are pelted with rice. (I always thought that that stuff was grace.) After a short hiatus, all repair to the church hall, which is a combination basketball court/theatre. The tables are set up in an upside down 'U' fashion. Each has a bottle of Seagrams, a bottle of Teachers, and a few gallons of Gallo's Very Best. The beer is in kegs at the open end of the U. Here also repose several grosses of Italian hero sandwiches, clothed in butcher's paper, from Nickie's Gourmet Emporium. A band is stuck somewhere thereabouts. The bride and broom, along with their attendants, sit at the head table. The band strikes up a tarantella. The little boys commence doing cart wheels on the stage. The little girls start picking nits out of each other's hair. The opposing quarter backs start passing the heros. Gaspare, fried eggplant? Zi Pep, pepper and eggs? Don Cicci, meat balls? Fiatella, ham and provolone? Gina, mortadella? After a bit, the bride traipses about the tables picking up the cash (No checks, please.), in the folds of her wedding dress. Oh, none of your useless presents - we'll get our own. She dishes out candied almonds in a porcelain swan. Now, everyone goes about dancing and b. essing. Guguzio happens to espy his personal bookmaker, Irving, who has been somewhat tardy paying off. Ugly words turn into fisticuffs. Every one takes a hand in matters, settling old scores with anyone who comes into view. Even the ladies have a good hair pulling. Bras and corsets wind up on the basketball hoops. Priest retires to poker game. Irish cops are summoned. One winds up in a garbage barrel wrong side up with a zucchini sticking out of his nether part. Things don't go as planned for cops. They call for Italian back up. No Way! Cops retreat; back to fun and games. Things settle down and the canoli, sfoiliatelle, and Napoleons are passed around. Espresso with anisette. (Sorry, no eXpresso!) All good things must come to an end. So people pick themselves up as best they can, and start loading up on the remaining goodies and booze. There are some minor encore scuffles. Once safely tucked in bed, husband and wife exclaim that it was such a great affair, but.... Didn't Aunt Angelina look stupid in that outfit. The marriage won't last out the year.