By the time you are reading this, I will be in Philadelphia hailing a cab at the airport ("I spent a year in Philadelphia ... I think it was on a Sunday." W.C. Fields).
Yes, Philadelphia in August, there's nothing quite like it with its hot, humid weather and its seasoned, volcanic citizens. Who can forget Philadelphia Eagle fans pelting Santa Claus with snowballs before a football game in Veterans Stadium several years ago? Many of those snowballs were filled with ice—how nice. But I must be here no matter how challenging the prospect may be. Why, you ask? Because Harry, my son, is finally getting married.
What a turnabout for the lad—why, just three years ago, he was the lead singer and front man for the local 1980's rock band, "Umlaut." Many of you can recall Harry sweating profusely on stage as he belted out the lyrics of some of his favorite poets who created the messages of AC/DC and Metallica. Ah, those were the days.
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Now he lives in Pennsylvania with his life partner, Colleen, and young son, Drake, works full time in a deli for a major grocery chain and attends culinary school at night—Harrison 1, Black Sabbath 0. Tomorrow, he's getting married.
Harry's sister, Sarah, has been selected as "best man" since his older brother and band mate, Mark, can't get away. Crystal, Harry's niece, Sarah's aunt and my granddaughter will be attending and performing a song with the aunt and grandfather at the blessed event for the bride, the fair, Irish lass, Colleen, and the groom, Harry, her uncle, the brother, my son. It will be a true Irish wedding with the spectators wearing hats in the garden of a friend at a place to be named later.
I will faithfully report on the events next week to let you know how it went. Will it be a quiet, reserved event? I think not. I wouldn't be surprised if Ozzy Osbourne showed up, careening into the podium, wiping out the front row and yelling, "Sharon!"
Nice talking to you.
