Jose and Jared's Wedding.

Gather many friends and give them a place to romp around, swim, drink, eat and sleep together for a weekend length. J&J had rented this place so far away from town you had better sleep there, because four hours is a bit much to drive for a day, let alone just one night. Folks having spent San Francisco together for the last five or so years, and then some other folks, we caravaned up to Shambhala Ranch, near Ukiah. Three hours drive, one hour on a dusty road with Willie Nelson on the half-dead stereo.

Heidi inspects a camera. I should have inspected what was in my leather bag before I drank it.

Amy and Austin afloat.

David and Kristie in purple.

Me and Amy, hangin' tough.

Koz is on the advisory board. That night I think many of us were. And for a while after.

I whipped myself into a professional writing frenzy the night before that spilled over into the morning. I left a few hours after I had scheduled myself for the long trip. My timing was perfect - I walked up to the ceremony on a hill just as the vows had ended and people were beginning to recount the beauty of the event. I missed Caleb's reverential orations, Jered crying, and their hand-crafted vows. So much for the value of weekend work. Later I was able to facilitate a shot of tequila for each of them; that made me feel a little better.

Jose, Jared, Tequila, Jim, Wayne.
prepare.	to you.	drink me.	feel it.

This wedding was important for me - a chance to let a little Northern California into my bones and steep some with old friends. This picture sums it up for me:

Camraderie, good cheer in the foreground, and just behind, Jim lurks, half-smiling, behind lowered mirrorshades, he's doing something known only to him and the silver chopsticks in his hair.

David was there, and so were other folks, but I haven't linked their galleries online because I think maybe their photos are a special private thing that retain more value by remaining available only to a limited audience. Or maybe I just have to ask their permission. I was so busy having fun, I didn't take so many photos. I took time bare in the hottub talking to friends and strangers, cavorted with Sonic, met Maurice the bassist programmer italian-o-phile, talked Japanese with Jeremy and an American Timothy who was hell-bent on speaking fast, familiar and funny. I painted my feet with Mimi's (?) henna, argued about snoring and accoustics after some legendary log-sawing, jumped out of the hottub and ran into a swampy moss-laden bog of a pond, convincing Wayne I was drunk. Ert rubbed lotion on my face, Jeremy and Jim showed me their recent penis piercings. I met Jose's Mom whose husband fixed the transmission of their car on the side of the freeway after they decided the day of the terrorist attack that their flight from Mississippi would never leave and if they wanted to make the wedding they had better start the 52 hour drive just then. I slept where I fell. I ate what I found. I wore mostly leather clothes that came to smell increasingly like me and less like cow. I missed the people who slept in town, an hour away. I felt a baby do a broad grind against an amniotic sac. I watched a vegetarian help lower a turkey into a vat of oil, and the bubbles rushed over the top as the water, seasoning and poultry struggled to accept a deep frying feeling.

September

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