The Nice People of Davenport
Davenport ChurchOn Friday I went to my friends wedding. Okay, maybe not so much “friend” as it is the cousin of my best friend Royce. They live in Davenport, which is a sleepy hillside town, off a road built for white people when they want to drive by the oceanside to Santa Cruz. With a population of around 350, Davenport looks straight out of a Thomas Kinkaid painting, if Thomas Kinkaid imagined his paintings inhabited by crazy-ass drunk Mexicans. All of whom are related to Royce.
There are the things I have learned about a Davenport wedding:
1) I’ve only been to Catholic mass a couple of times, all of which were part of a wedding ceremonies. While I don’t necessarily believe in the Catholic faith, I’ve always felt that there’s a grandeur to it that’s fascinating to watch. You know, the cantors, the candles, the solemn “Thanksbetogod,” “Andalsowithyou” back and forth between the priest and his congregation. There’s something calming about the ceremony of it all.
Yeah, not so much with this one. I’m fairly sure this will be the Catholic mass I attend in a while where the wedding crowd “whoos” while the bride goes down the aisle. Twice. And where there are cholos waiting in the parking lot. And a guy with a pimp hat with a neckbrace in the audience. And a bridesmaid with three neck tattoos. (In her defense, she was very nice, so long as you don’t fuck with her, which meant “look directly at her.” Just kidding. Kind of.)
2) As someone who’s been to his share of Filipino weddings, I’ve decided there really isn’t much of a difference between a Filipino wedding and a Mexican one; one plays more Mexican ballads, the other plays more songs to do the thirteen-step cha-cha to. They both play latin freestyle. And serve pork. Pork, I have learned, is the sacred food of the Catholic people. And since pork is so delicious, I am okay with this.
3) Chinese wedding banquets might serve champagne - maybe beer - but it’s purely for show. After all, old Asian people don’t really drink at weddings, and they sure as hell don’t party with their own family. Mexicans drink at weddings. A lot. They also sneak in kegs, which unfortunately didn’t sit too well with the rent-a-cops. Six police squadron cars were called shortly afterwards a broke up the reception at 9:30pm, and while I can’t say I attended my first wedding-reception-turned-angry-racial-melee, I can finally cross “Attend a wedding reception broken up by cops” crossed off my life’s To-Do list. Baby steps, I suppose.
That is all.