The reservation casino which hosted the reception was vast and Vegas-like. Due to our misplacing of the invitation, MHG and I were not staying in the casino hotel with the rest of the wedding party. And so, we milled about the reception hall after dropping off the exceedingly heavy place settings we had bought for a gift.

The set-up of the hall was like being backstage. The bride’s younger brother is part of a successful high school jazz ensemble, owing considerable skills with multiple instruments to his father and my old junior high band teacher. I once had some skill in Le Jazz Hot, myself under that instructor’s tutelage, but there simply isn’t room, even in the most modern and experimental jazz hearts, for jazz baritone. But, with some appreciation for the musical form, I felt a little undeserved rush of excitement and pride at their warm-up and eventual dinner performance.

After proving my distinction with the open-bar, lime-saddled Corona cooling my cufflinked hands and making the best witty conversation I could manage in the presence of such unknowns, I was subjected to a delicious and mildly uncomfortable dinner. As ushers, the cousin and I were seated at opposite ends of a table on a sort of sacrificial dias. This meant that MHG sat with the bride’s parents and explained away her hair color choice while I attempted mild introductions with the groom’s obviously-intimidated, sweet but shy sister.

As if sensing my need, the grey-haired gazelle of a server kept my champagne glass at overflowing for the duration of the dinner. She had ulterior motives, I’m sure, as I found an unidentified room key in my pocket later. What can I say? Every girl’s crazy ’bout a sharp-dressed man.

Whether from simple drunkenness, confidence, or extreme desire to be loved by all around me, I was drawn to the dance floor. Drawn by the persistent pushing at my back from MHG, that is. I performed some stereotype-disintegrating dance moves inthe center of a circle that formed but held no real purpose. It wasn’t long before the young jazz combo endeared themselves to me. Everyone loves a fool.

But the DJ beat me to that punch (other than the “everyone loves” part.) As the DJ started his schtick, his assistant unrolled a banner which prominently displayed the number for the company. Smart marketing, perhaps, but certainly tacky; the name would be sufficient, many of us thought. But then we realized that this DJ was going to be much more than a silent installation providing entertainment via proper mixes. Before the first notes emanated from the over-loud speakers, he was already talking like a 50s radio star, warbling his voice into the microphone, welcoming us to an event we had been celebrating all day and to which he was a minor part at best.

And the music did not help. Not only did the DJ dance manically behind the turntables, much in the way that an injured octopus flails about after being shot with a poison made from PCP, but he also joined us (and by us, I mean other people) on the dance floor for an overly enthusiastic and dubiously announced Macarena. Also, when the moment called for special and sentimental music, the DJ called for simply the most criminal modern pop-country music ever known to man. When dancing with the appropriate parent, the bride and groom seemed less tormented than the audience as some forgettable twang-ridden redneck drunkenly sang through his nose over steel guitar fumblingly played by an orangutan with fingers the size of sausages.

MHG and I slowly turned our faces toward one another and noticed that our expressions were like mirror images of one another. Our brows were furrowed, our mouths formed in a partial “o.” As MHG then pointed out, this expression is the perfect retort to such horror, as it silently communicates precisely what the wearer has in mind. “It’s like your face is beginning to form the question ‘What?’ but simultaneously beginning to form the question, ‘Why?'”