One wedding, no funerals, some injuries

There's nothing sadder than a middle-aged hipster -- Lenny Bruce

"It's been a pleasure to get to know Dan and his family. Jasper? I don't know. The jury's still out on him."

There's always one quote that sums up every event I attend and the one above came from Roger, the father of the bride. My brother got married about ten days ago in Florida and hundreds of Floridians were exposed to me in the process. Not good. But then I needed a break from alienating the city of Austin. St. Petersburg, Florida seemed as good a place as any.

The funny thing is, I came back from Florida thinking Roger was the only one who grasped the Mike Jasper persona. He reads my column, he drinks the same kind of booze I do (whatever's available), smokes the same materials and generally raises hell. He was definitely glad I showed up, if for no other reason than to get the spotlight off his back.

At every party or gathering there's a lowest common denominator, you know. It's the one person everyone talks about, the one person everyone vows never to invite back. I've been that person too many times in my life, so now when I go to parties I try to seek out a likely candidate and then raise my behavior a notch or two above him. I've learned the hard way: If you don't find someone to point at, they will likely be pointing at you.

Roger wasn't the only one toasting the bride (Georgia) and groom (my brother Dan). I got tapped for the first toast at the wedding. I wasn't too surprised. I'm obnoxious, ill-mannered and outspoken. I've learned to expect retribution.

I sauntered to the microphone, a couple of ideas and many beers swimming through my brain. Standing at the mike, I looked around the room and noticed a few people with concerned looks on their faces. No doubt they had met me the night before. I felt like little Bobby, the kid in the fifth grade who was asked by the teacher to come to the front of the class and write a bad word on the chalk board. I looked at my mother, my step-dad and my brother -- who seemed slightly surreal in his Coast Guard dress whites. I could tell they were all thinking the same thing.

"Please don't say fuck. Please, please, please."

I was poised and ready to toast, always the consummate professional. After all, this was an easy crowd of 150 people in the multipurpose room (bar) of a Coast Guard station. Whereas, I had once been on the Gong Show. NBC baby, prime time. (Okay, it was only the afternoon show, but it featured the same midgets. Chuck Barris and the other guy who gave me the check.)

I decided to start with a joke from one of my old columns. From there, I'd wing it.

"Hellooooooo St. Petersburg! How the fuck you all doing tonight? Are you ready to rock?"

Just kidding.

"There are two important ingredients for a successful marriage," I began. "The first is love, trust and honesty. Yes -- love, trust and honesty. With those three things you can surmount anything that ever faces you in life."

I looked around the room. They were buying it.

"The second important thing for a successful marriage. (Pause) I can't be one of the people getting married."

Big laugh, except from the people who know me. They just nodded their heads solemnly.

Now what? I was out of prepared material.

"I just want to add it was a great wedding and I'm glad to finally be able to meet my new sister-in-law. And Danny boy... I love you brother."

When I left the microphone my entire body started shaking uncontrollably. I had accidentally said something sincere and was having a bad reaction to it. My arms shook violently and my knees wobbled. I felt gimpy and distorted like Hunter Thompson on ether or Joe Cocker before the final chorus. Or Eddie Money anywhere. I thought, just let me get back to the table, please, please, please and I swear the next time I'm asked to do a toast I'll say, "How the fuck you all doing?"

POUR ME IN A PLANE

I have no problem flying, provided I get good and drunk along the way. I didn't have a fear of flying in the 70s when jumbo jets were so popular, but now that I fly in the rickety Boeing 737s owned by Southwest Airlines I find I need to get sloshed. Southwest is a good airlines with a good safety record, but every flight offers the "History of Turbulence" along with the bag o' nuts.

We left Austin at 9:15 a.m., so the bar at the new Austin-Bergstrom airport was closed. When we arrived at the Houston airport, I sought out a saloon and finally wrapped my white knuckles around a beer bottle. I drank two. Then I drank two more on the leg from Houston to New Orleans.

I got off the plane at New Orleans and headed straight for the bar for two quick smokes and two more stiff drinks.

"Give me a Jack Daniels shooter and a Shiner Bock." I downed those and had time for one more Jack Daniels. If you're keeping score, I was up to seven drinks now.

As I reentered the plane my girlfriend came out to greet me.

"You weren't supposed to leave the plane," Karin said.

"Hmmmm. I did not know that. But it worked out all right I guess."

I could understand her concern. Had I been left in New Orleans, it would have been a life-threatening experience. A new life for me, a new life for her. On the plane from the Big Easy to Florida, the attendant sold me two more beers. That made nine. (By the way, do you tip flight attendants or what?)

By the time my girlfriend and I arrived at the Tampa Airport, I was as boiled as an owl. Too bad, since we had to go to the wedding rehearsal dinner within an hour. Somehow, we got to our hotel, checked in, changed clothes, met Dan in the parking garage and headed to the restaurant. (I'm writing this from memory, so I might be wrong about the order.)

We finally arrived at the restaurant, which I'm pretty sure was in St. Petersburg on another Coast Guard station. At the restaurant, I immediately started taking photos. Thoroughly. Tenaciously. Aggressively. Thanks to my parents, I am now the picture-taker of the family. I hate the fucking job, but what can I do? My parents bought me a Minolta automatic, so I feel obligated. Besides, I don't have to understand F-stops, lighting, speed... hell, I don't even need to focus. Which is good, since my eyes are going and I'm half blind. Totally blind when drunk.

I shot three rolls of film, all with flashbulbs. That's 72 clicks. My philosophy? If you're going to force me to turn Japanese, I'm going to make you pay. By the time I was through, no one could see anything but flashbulb blue dots before their eyes. I now had a level playing field. Even better, I had done my duty and could resume my role as the drunken sot at the dinner table.

Nobody ever gets invited back to wedding dinners anyway.

Unfortunately, all my film eventually got x-rayed at the airport. But that's another story and beyond the scope of this column.

(To be continued...)