My dad's brood all made the trip in from various American cities, including but not limited to: San Diego, West Branch, IA and The Woodlands, TX. Saturday morning started out with a great Southern breakfast courtesy of Big Jones with my brother Cory and his wife Gretchen. Abandoning the low-carb diet I've been rocking like it was 2003, I went for the poached eggs, pulled pork and cheese grits, as did my brother. This earned a enthusiastic fist pump.
After Cory showed me how to tie a half-Windsor (a full Windsor seemed too risky), we made our way down to the church. The ceremony was very grand and the music regal. I think I heard a trumpet in there somewhere. Well played Paul family. Well played.
We had a few hours to kill between the end of the ceremony and the start of the reception, but Katy and Gretchen were hesitant to travel too far in high heels. After a nickel-and-dime tour of my downtown office, we went across the street to Bandera, a restaurant overlooking Michigan Avenue, to kill some time and get an appetizer. Five minutes into our cheese dip and cornbread appetizers, we looked out the window to see thousands of people marching down both lanes of Michigan Avenue. I was flattered that an impromptu parade would break out in my honor, but quickly I realized it was more serious than that. They were marching against the overturning of Prop 8. Thousands of people. This went on for a good 15 minutes. The best sign was probably one that said, 'If you don't like gay marriage, don't marry a gay person'. The irony that we had just come from a decidedly heterosexual wedding was not lost on me.
Heading down the block, we stormed the Intercontinental Hotel, where the wedding reception was being hosted. We met up with my dad and his wife Chris (not the married cousin) and noshed on lamb shanks and sushi rolls in the reception area. My libation of choice was Captain and Diet Coke, a surprisingly agile drink.
We were seated at the Handfelt Table for the dinner, and I was able to make nice and get some good face time in with my Aunt Mary and Uncle John, who instructed me to write a book, which he would then publish. Any suggestions for a subject/title? 'The Handfelt Happy Hour: The Novel'? 'Growing Up Handfelt'? 'War and Peace II: This S*&t Just Got Real'? '
After a great meal of steak and lobster (and to think I forgot my ascot!), the dance floor was greeted rather rudely by the Handfelt Table. Soon an All Handfelt dance circle was formed. Oh the horror! In the history of weddings, it is unlikely there has ever been a more horrifying display of 'white people dancing'. If memory serves me correctly (and at that point, the Captain and Diets were taking hold), Uncle Leo broke out the patented 'sprinkler'. My dad entered the circle with relatively low expectations, and lived up that billing with the white guy, Mick Jagger 'chicken strut'. I decided to go with the tried and true 'string dance' and while I did in fact work it, there was much rust.
Our bellies full of booze and butter-soaked lobster, the four of us bid adieu to our family and thanked our gracious host, Mr. Chris Paul, before hopping in a cab and heading back north to our place. Cory and I had a couple of beers and I proclaimed my undying love for our cat. The hay was then hit.
The next morning Cory, Gretchen, Katy and I went to Piece Pizza (wonderful stuff), soaking up some of those Captain and Cokes with two huge pizza pies. Cory and Gretchen left from there and and Katy and I meandered around our old hood in Wicker Park before heading home to recover.
It was a great weekend, filled with lots of laughs and lots of catching up. I mean, really, any time you can get more than 5 Handfelts dancing at one time, it's a cause to celebrate. Or cause to panic. I can't figure out which.
2 comments:
Headline from the Chicago Sun Times: Paparazzi Foiled at Christie-Paul wedding.
The nefarious Ben Handfelt hired the obligatory black Range Rovers, HSE Sport editions, complete with three burly, sunglass-clad drivers. This crafty ploy outwitted all the paparazzi itching to take pics of the Paul, Christie and Handfelt entourages.
The three drivers, according to an unnamed source, were instructed to drive in various directions: south to McCormick Place, north to Evanston along Lake Shore Drive, and lastly, west along Wacker. Hundreds of camera-and-bag-totin' photographers took the bait and peeled out after these decoys. By the end of the wedding reception only one resolute photographer was within rock-throwing distance of the hotel. And this one was seen at 11 pm taking pictures of those silly ornamental thing-a-ma-jigs atop the Tribune Tower that people crane there necks to see while the wedding guests quietly slipped away. Final score: Ben Handfelt - 1, Paparazzi - 0.
Ben,
Thanks for not publishing any photos of the famous and good-looking brothers of the Handfelt family. On the black market those pics can go for tons of money - and the good-looking Handfelt brothers wouldn't even get a dime
from the publication therof. Thanks again Ben, you are a real pal. Ben I am so thankful once again for not putting up any PICTURES OF ME on your website. You are a real prince of a man.
You know what, I could probably name nine more good reasons why you decided not to PUT ANY PICTURES OF THE GOOD-LOOKING HANDFELTS on the website. But I won't. It's kinda late.
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