After a quarter century writing for this rag I have finally generated a complaint, proving that fraternity boys - even, in this case, fat old ones - can develop good taste.
We at Dik's Ravings are met with a dilemma. We attended Tom Sporney's wedding in October. Our dilemma is as follows: we are used to reporting in a certain style, namely the style known as "all lies." In this case, however, the "truth" is far more hilarious, and, as an added bonus, far more damaging. "Tell the truth, then," I hear you saying. Here's the rub: Tom is my editor. Plus, he'll let the new Missus read this. Nevertheless, here is my brave attempt to, for the first time since the Carter Administration, Tell the Truth, despite the possibility that I will be emasculated, or, worse, edited.
Tom Sporney wed the [insert verb here - something along the lines of "bubbly" or "torrid"] Geraldine Green, a buxom Yorkshire wench he mail-ordered from England over the Internet. The wedding, in which both wedding party and guests sported Groucho glasses avec nose, took place in suburban Maryland under reasonably sunny skies. Fraternity folk in attendance were Ralph and Carol Olivier, and Dik and Kelley. The bride wore a stunning thingy with whatayacallems on the hoozits, and what hoozits they were. (I didn't need Kelley to slap my face for what I was thinking, I slapped myself.) She either had some interesting piercings, or had recently lost a fight with a staple gun. Her flowers matched her tattoos. Nothing matched her little dog, which wore a tuxedo. The presents included a squeeze-bottle of cheese - don't ask - which the bride set aside "for tonight."
Ralph Olivier took the wedding pictures. He called me three days later and said that the proofs revealed only 4 shots in which the bride wasn't holding a bottle of gin. The bride told us a story about almost getting busted when she told the customs officer at the airport, who was searching her luggage, to "get your soddin' hands off me crotchless knickers." Tom smiled the whole day, but we think he was ripped to the gills on Sterno. All in all, the Sporney-Green nuptials were - what's the word I want? - surreal.
Kurt Dodd and I cadged a meal off of Tom Berg and his bodacious wife, Val, last month. We ate on the patio of their manse in Virginia - I've got to sound off to the Pentagon about how over-paid naval officers are - and watched Kurt mercilessly tease the 3 Berg girls. Speaking of the Berg girls, Tom is going to be in the market for a shotgun soon, as the eldest is approaching dating age.
Speaking of naval officers, unconfirmed rumor has it that Captain Chris Klyne may become the Cornell Navy ROTC commandant, or whatever the job is called. (If you want good journalism, what the hell are you reading this for?) I was sworn to secrecy on this tidbit, so don't tell anyone.
I recently attended a picnic at Paul Wessel's house in New Jersey. In attendance were Bill Dinan, Casey Sayre, Joel Bragan, Mike McCoy, Neil Best (Fidelman), Wes, and Dik. Bill Dinan must have a pact with Satan, as, bizarrely, he seems to have more hair than he did 20 years ago. Everybody is hale, and I secretly taped the story about the pygmy prostitute at the campground in Florida. I will embellish it and make it my own, so that in future tellings, it will be me who runs through the picnic pavilion with the bag of zucchinis.
I ran into Brett Sylvester at the DC zoo, where he was showing his toddler daughter the chimps. Also in attendance were Brett's Chinese in-laws. He doesn't speak any of the Chinese tongues, and they don't speak English. Man, Brett's got it made! Brett reports that Tom Yazdgerdi is back in the District of Columbia after his State Department sponsored sojourn in Albania.
Doug "Maggot" Wright writes that he is living in semi-retirement on a boat in Phoenix, spending his leisure time as a drummer for a band that never plays on land. He stays in touch with San Franciscan Big Bob Mateus, who is keeping a low profile after vocally supporting the Giants in the recent World Series. Jim "Gringo" Criscuolo kindly and patiently re-explained to me what he does for a living, and I promptly forgot; I think he designs ATVs or lawn mowers, or possibly fighter jets. Something with a motor. (He still doesn't know I scored with that little redhead he had the hots for, back in the day.)
Matt Schiff tells his brothers, given the recent spate of deaths of too-young brothers, Carpe Diem. To which I add: use both hands.