The evening started something like this:
with cocktails and a plan. An impressive plan, if I may be so bold, and with mod sixties costumes. And kazoos. See, Veronica’s getting married. Soon. What better reason to celebrate, and dress up and carry on? And involve as many Raleigh landmarks and strangers as possible?
We met at Babylon to organize ourselves. And then we headed out on foot to photograph some history and culture. The North Carolina State Seal was as good a place to start as any.
Actually, we had already checked off “cartwheel,” and “find your sixties counterpart,” as we found a guy whose fabulous shirt matched Julia’s wig at Babylon. We also collected our “get reprimanded by an authority figure” here, although it was really just a long, long, all-the-way-down-the-block long, glare from a security guard.
Which didn’t stop us from doing an album-cover shot.
Here we also found “corn,” and “urban nature,” and “statues.”
We waited for the R-Line, where we collected “ballerinas” and “riding a skateboard.” Then we headed for Glenwood South. Glenwood South is not my scene. But I knew that we’d rack up some impressive points. We scored “R-Line,” “someone doing NCSU finger puppets,” “Carolina Frat Boy,” “bearded guy,” “fedora guy,” “guy with Croakies,” and “poozers.” All of them were as nice as could be. The one who licked Willows eye during one of the photos, out of nowhere, was a little too nice. Or, creepy. Whatever.
Then it was on to Legends. In the parking lot, we staged probably the best photo of the night:
There were lots more shenanigans after that. There was “riding a Rickshaw,” “driving a Rickshaw,” “dance in the cage at Legends,” “singing ‘Carolina In My Mind’ to an out-of-towner,” “shimmer wall,” and “making the pointy hat on the skyscraper your pointy hat.”
We covered some ground. Everyone had a fabulous time. I didn’t think wigs would cause so much of a ruckus, but wow. We made all kinds of friends. I figured we’d get some catcalls, but I wasn’t prepared for how nice everyone would be. People got behind the effort. People were congratulatory, and cheered on the bride. We’d be off at a restroom, and girls we didn’t know would corner us and ask all about where we got our dresses and how to plan a bachelorette party that was this much fun, without involving any plastic body parts or anatomical cakes. (We were mostly dignified about the whole thing, and only turned raunchy with our first bartender’s suggestion that we order a “Panty Dropper,” which was a drink she’d invented. Someone in our group decided that we should walk in and boldly order one of those at every bar, and just see what they handed us. It actually worked. Different drink every time. But funny.) Everyone was a good sport.
We ended the evening at Mecca, with one last toast, and a fruitless quest to be photographed with the Mecca ham. It is under lock and key at some remote location. The staff tried really hard. They woke up the boss. They called Atlanta. They offered us a ham sandwich. But The Ham: just couldn’t be done. We settled for drinks and a photo with a photo of the ham.
We called it a night, after accomplishing 90% of our impossible checklist. We did not find “a pilgrim,” or make it to Moore Square for “darts at Tir Na Nog” or “on top of the acorn.” In my only true disappointment of the night, we did not find anybody named “Skip Woosnam.” But we still had a memorable night.
More fun ahead: there is still an actual wedding coming, which will be way more celebratory than this. And we’ll raise a glass again, and toast two fabulous people, starting a whole new chapter together. Much love you both!