A Moment with John Coltrane
Last night, I went to a wedding I was convinced I would not enjoy. It was with the Blacks of Europe (yeah, the Irish)…and I know, I know – any good Irish wedding is going to have lots of liquor flowing in all directions. Since the wedding ceremony was a Catholic mass (at 5:30 in midtown Manhattan on a Friday afternoon), my need to get to the booze began around 2:30. In fact, I came home early from work to run a few errands, get a good shave going and gobble up the last of the lasagna. I was pretty sure the food at the wedding wouldn’t be too good. The Irish don’t a reputation for food – do they? Aiight then.
The wife and I, and her best girlfriend rolled out to the wedding where we met up with the hubby of the girlfriend. Cool peeps who are always ready to suck down some suds or better – gin and tonic. The wedding was nice. It wasn’t fast enough though. I’ve simply had enough of being subjected to white folks’ low self-esteem art work in these halls of religion. This church even had a buffed out Jesus – ripped, six pack and everything. I was thinking to myself that it must have been tough to get that ripped back in the day unless you were a farmer or some other type of laborer. How buff can you get delivering parables and fending off bad men in the temple. In any event, the blond locks always throw me for a loop. On a brighter note, the happy couple (beautiful all night long) actually received the blessing of Pope Benedict…that’s really something else.
After the ceremony, we high-tailed to the reception where I proceeded to get my drink on with haste. Tanqueray substituted for Bombay Sapphire. The open bar bought my silence and sacrifice. Tanqueray for everyone!! I don’t how many I had, but when I went to the party I was the only pepper in a sea of salt. By the time I left, everyone was a Panther with a story to tell about Miles or Trane or Dizz. It was that kind of night. The vibes and the love was there – alcohol in the proper doses can do wonders. I danced with my wife and her girlfriend. I talked about music with the husband of another girlfriend. I met an “up-and-comer” who lives in Hollywood. I met some cool musicians and the parents of the happy couple. Smiles all around. “Damn, yo. Where are the black folk?” “Uh, working the bathrooms.” “Ok, I guess I do have to piss!”
It seems I went a bit overboard and shared a hug with a stranger that was deemed too enthusiastic. My problem is that I don’t honestly recall the hug – but it must have been good because I got the wrath today. So, I’m reflecting and listening to Part 2 – Resolution (Trane’s, A Love Supreme). My sacrilege of a hug was occasioned by a conversation about meditation. I was drawn in by the aura of my huggee. I felt this warm red glow as we talked about connecting with one’s inner self. It seems I connected with my sinner self. I don’t know how the hug ended – did I really let go on my own? Did I get yanked? I suppose I’ll never know. I know who I’m not asking.
Today, I’ll continue my recovery (lots of water) and try to find some solace in the promise of meditation. The good news is that there are no more Irish weddings with open bars on the horizon.
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- August 19, 2006 / 6:44 pm