Now its Friday afternoon. Luckily the other groomsman and his wife were going to Manhattan in their rented car after the tux place. Bummed a ride.

This fellow used to be a coparticipant in the Lower East Side devilry with myself and mister groomy mcgroom. He moved out of NYC back to his childhood home of Oklahoma some six years ago, partially to escape indviduals that wanted to see his skin removed and also to give his wallet some relief. An attempt was made a few years ago to re-establish himself as a New Yorker. Failure. Moved to Memphis, got married, and pushed out a couple of puppies.

So the questions about the September shitstorm start filing in. Completely slips my mind that I may encounter people that desire the perspective they once had living in Gotham. I want to say I was annoyed with the reliving of it. Wasn't that. Just bored with it. Annoyed with the rigamarole of it. Retold the events with a matter of factness.

Sitting at home. No nap. Stupid movie on cable. Watching the time cushion for my next bus rendezvous fade. Friday evening and it's rehearsal dinner time.

Stepping off the bus at Wallington, I see the marching gun metal grey onslaught of storm clouds persistently moving overhead. Dash to the phone. "Um, she took the car to get her nails done, gonna have to walk." He met me on route as the skies unloaded. I adore thunderstorms. Unfortunately a snazzy rehearsal dinner get up, and of course my four eyes, have adverse effects with canary sized precipitation. Partially soaked, we made it just inside as the clouds dropped anchor.

Possibly the fact that homie and I haven't spent much time together over the last year caused him to forget who I am. He gazed quizically, scanning for insanity, as I revelled out on the porch in the pure mayhem of blanketing pummelling sheets of rain and scores of lightning bolts that were literally striking mere feet all around us. So invigorating. Trees were splintering everywhere. Blinding light. Streets awash with ankle deep flooding.

Mistress arrives and asks us to shutdown the house. Arms folded on couch as I observe them preparing for the night.

Did you do this? Don't do that. How many times do I have to say it? Bickering is one thing. Actually it's one giant puss filled thing I avoid whenever possible. But, bickering for an audience is a selfish thing. No desire over here to be an unwilling participant in perpetual couple's dysfunction. Brief moments of conflict are completely understandable. The apparent self loathing pleasure of constantly creating an opposing stance, within earshot of company, seems like a form of sado masochism that I don't find sexy. She must be a demon in the sack. She is cute. Has a compulsion to insult, and slowly peck away at a man's testosterone. Needless to say, herr spanky would have given her an honorable discharge ages ago.

What's in store? A third wheel road trip through Jersey. Forest fires and power outages creating dining hall juggling fiascos. Family member seige galore. It shall be told.