The Elephant and Butter

Nearly three years have passed since my inaugural post. Before that evening I hadn't really considered writing a blog. But when I came home to a dinner shared by my roommate Jeremy and his girlfriend Sarah, I was compelled. For two years Jeremy and I lived on the third floor of a massive, old brick building with a porch over-looking our town. Hardwood floors. Silver radiators. Mock pressed-tin ceilings. We staged a play in our kitchen after Jeremy noticed one night that our dimmer switch allowed us to fade up lights just like they do at the theater. So he wrote a play, 'The Porch Accord,' and built some stadium seating. I acted and made lino-cut programs. 

We cooked a lot in that apartment. We staged a reading of the pilot episode of 'The Golden Girls.' We wrote. We tended to our community garden plot. Toward the end of our time in the building, Sarah moved in, and I was extremely impressed with her wit and gorgonzola-sage sauce, enough to start up a blog I had never intended to start. Almost three years later, Jeremy and Sarah have announced they're getting married. And guess who'll officiate? Yup, me -- the ordained (online, a bunch of years ago, I think I lost the paper) Reverend Elephant and Butter. My idea for an entirely silent, gesture-based wedding doesn't seem to have popular support, but I'm sure we'll figure something out. In the meantime, here's to two lovely connoisseurs of the insane pageantry of being.