It is 12:13 a.m. here in NJ, thereby making it Wednesday. Here's Part III.

Forgive the apparent allusion in the opening passage that suggests we're the bad guys. It was just easier to write the parody that way. And ignore the artistic license taken -- I KNOW the installment number does not match up with the prologue. Well, it does in my version, just not the original that inspired it. Any further similarity to persons or events, living, dead, or passed out, is not even a coincidence: You dreamed it.

EPISODE III: The Reception.

A not-so-long time ago, in a city far, far, away...

It is a period of civil war. But that has nothing to do with us. Rebel receptions, partying in hidden rooms of the Chateau Rand, have tried to out-party the K-B celebration.

During the battle, Rebel spies managed to look in on the party while heading to the bathroom and caught a glimpse of the Empire's ultimate weapon, the Chicken Dance, an elaborate maneuver with enough power to destroy an entire planet.

Hijacked by the Empire's drunken agents, Hobie and Jeb race home

aboard their hotel vans, hoping the cake contains the stolen plans that can save the people and restore freedom to the Hilton Northbrook ...

THE RECEPTION: �HEY, IF YOU'RE GOING TO THE BAR, GET ME ONE TOO!�

The hotel lobby was full of confusion. There were three or four different groups waiting for their various buses, and the drivers did not seem to know entirely what was going on. After some time, the K-B wedding reception group moved outside, with some people nearly boarding a coach bus heading downtown or to Skokie or somewhere. Eventually, we were put in a mini-bus and a van, then driven over to Chateau Rand for the reception.

Downstairs at the Rand, a line had formed to get into the banquet room � it was here that Barb and Mike formed the receiving line, which was limited to just the bride and groom, allowing things move along rather quickly. Trying to be funny, I held out my driver�s license as I approached Barb. She looked at it and asked what it was for. I said, �Aren�t you checking IDs?� She forced a laugh, hugged me, and I moved on. I tried the same bit on Mike, and his reaction was, �Wow, that�s a nice picture!� At least I got something.

Inside, the guest book was set up to the right, on a table with a tableau of photos from the earliest days of the bride and groom � both as people, and as a couple. Mia and I found our placecards and hunted for the table. I returned later to look at the pictures. Among them was one of Mike playing guitar at an outdoor campus concert � a photo from the original DC archives. A grade-school photo of Barb showed a head of full-bodied, curled locks, which would�ve qualified her for residence in New Jersey in the 80s. I complimented both of them on the display, with which they apparently had little � if any � prior knowledge as far as the selection of images used.

The wedding party was introduced and entered the room to the theme from �Shaft,� a selection that amused those of us at Table 20. As the hors d�oeuvres worked their way around the room and the line formed at the open bar, we settled into our table. I sat facing the dessert table and its ice sculpture with, to my left, Mia, Liz, Heather, Cande, Joe, Faye, Bounce, Jen and Michelle. Behind me at the next table sat Skalcaholics, coincidentally (or not) the closest table to the bar. Apparently, Tim drank so much they had to close the bar during dinner to make a liquor run.

Through dinner we did what you do at a wedding reception: we sat and talked, ate and clinked our spoons against our water glasses, forcing the bride and groom to find each other (at the rare moments they were not together) and kiss. Kevin gave his best man speech, and Cheryl followed with her maid of honor toast, there was some cutting of the cake, and dinner came.

After the meal, Barb and Mike made their way from table to table. If you were writing a movie about a wedding or with a wedding scene, you�d cast Mike as the groom; or perhaps base the groom on Mike. Every moment, for 12 hours � at least the part of the 12 hours I saw him � he smiled. And it was never one of those smiles that grows weak and fades as you hold it for the camera; no, it was a pure, genuine smile of elation, of knowing he had found the perfect mate (without strings attached). His face lit up on cue, and though it may seem the kiss-on-command tradition of spoons on water glasses might grow tiresome, Mike�s eyes widened under raised eyebrows and his smile was renewed each time he kissed his new wife and caressed her face with his hands.

Barb, too, fit the movie role, continuing a string of gorgeous brides I�ve seen in the last 13 months. Her flowing, sleeveless white dress (they all look the same to a guy) fit perfectly and exposed her well-defined arms, making me just a little bit glad for the long sleeves and jacket I wore. My arms, like my musical ear, lack any kind of tone.

Seeing Mike throughout the wedding and reception, his excitement and clowning came as no surprise to those who know him. He�s a card, a ham, a joker � but, in a refined, intelligent way. If people could survive on laughs alone, Barb and Mike would live forever.

They went through their round of dances � their first as husband and wife, Barb with her father, and so on. After dinner, the floor opened up, with the band warmed and ready. We danced well � as in we danced hard. Some people danced well, as in impressively smooth and coordinated. I was not one of them. But I was dancing like I never danced before. I was a maniac on the floor, swinging and flailing, nearly knocking out other dancers. During �Rock This Town� with Courtenay, I actually felt as if I was coming to the end of a distance race, and I had to find those last few breaths in me to reach the finish. Man am I pathetically out of shape. But I threw in all kinds of crazy moves and turns, maybe a jump or two. I did some twisting and something that may have been a precursor to the �running man� I thought I saw in some 50s movie. Or it may have just been a Polish boy from Jersey sweating like a dog. (Earlier that night, I proved myself a Polish failure � I couldn�t polka. Roll out the barrel so I can hide my head.)

Cande stole the show, working the floor like a confident, smooth operator, drawing praises from everyone he took by the hand and led to the floor. After �Rock This Town,� when Cheryl and Cande boogied alongside Courtenay and myself, Courtenay complimented me on my enthusiasm, and Cheryl praised CJ�s abilities to his wife. He wouldn�t stop, spending most of the rest of the evening on the 12-by-15-foot plywood arena with Courtenay or Mindy or Jen or Michelle or Mia, or all of us in a group. As the rest of us returned to the table frequently to grab a drink or sit out a song, CJ was rarely among us.

About 10:30, with half an hour to go, the band called the bride and all the single women out to the dance floor for the bouquet toss, the seventh event in the Wedding Decathlon (following the Church Escape, Smile Endurance Challenge, Receiving Line, First Dance, Table Slalom and Cake Cutting, and preceding the Garter Hunt, Threshold Crossing and � ahem � Closing Ceremonies. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge.) Barb threw the flowers backwards over her head, and some woman caught them. I wasn�t paying much attention. But I joined the throng for the garter toss, with no intention of trying for it but interested in watching the process. I stood behind, if I remember correctly, Barb�s older brother Tom. The woman in the band � we�ll call her Debbie because that might have been her name � claimed, �I�ve never seen so many good looking single guys in one place!� But I bet she says that to all the drunk hordes of garter receivers.

Barb took her seat in the chair, and Mike got down on his knees and began the search underneath the dress as Tom Jones� �You Can Leave Your Hat On� played. Debbie ordered Mike not to use his hands, as tradition dictates, and he complied. After he had been under for some time, Mike drew back, took a deep breath, and disappeared again. Shortly after that, he slid back on the floor, garter firmly in his teeth, to cheers from the inebriated posse of testosterone. Before he tossed it, Debbie suggested all the guys take one step forward to avoid hitting the chandelier while lunging for the airborne garter. She must�ve seen Skalcaholics at Jazz Man�s that one night. Then the garter flew ... about two feet until some guy the near front grabbed hold of it. No idea who that was, either, because I�m too short. Those of us to the right never had a chance.

We circled around Mike and Barb and sang to them -- "Let Me Call You Sweetheart" or something. We were packed in tight, a couple of circles -- or a circle and a half -- swaying, bumping into each other, serenading Barb and Mike. At times, opposite sides of the "circle" would collapse, converging on the Bechtels as they danced. Eventually, the entire group made a run, compressing what might have been the entire reception onto the dance floor. "Barbara Ann" came on, and the bride danced again with her father. Then, in a moment of pure bliss, what without a doubt had to be the most sublime moment of the entire day for the newlyweds, we all took part in The Chicken Dance. "Why am I doing this? I really wanna know -- I must be drunk (clap, clap, clap, clap)." I thought the Hand Jive was next.

The band got in a few more songs before closing things up, and few of us � the friends of the couple � stepped off the dance floor. By now, as far as I could tell, many of the older friends and family had departed, or were scattered about the tables, bidding their farewells. The dance floor was one big mass of mostly 20-somethings getting down. After 11, the speakers went silent, and we were surprised that we�d gone over the 11 p.m. closing time. Usually, they�re pretty strict with receptions. We also lamented the lack of Skalcaholics on the CD player, which we�d been expecting; I think it was promised to some. As a few of us talked of heading for the door, the familiar opening chords of �Press Your Luck� blasted across the room. We dropped what we had and ran to the dance floor, crowding in front of the speakers and skanking to Skalcaholics once more. �Thigh-High Nylons,� �Commodore 64� and a fourth song that�s since slipped my drunken memory followed. We hopped and danced, kicked and swayed to the recorded sounds of �Noah, Paula, Tony, Tim, Joey, Griff and Mike.� Paula played certain notes in her memory on an invisible trombone, Mike picked out chords on his air guitar, and Noah laid down a beat on an imaginary drum set. We all joined Tim in singing along with his almost three-year-old recorded voice, and watched Mike on his solos. Turning around in my hopping during one song, I saw that I was dancing with Barb and Courtenay, and was immediately reminded of the Skalcaholics� final on-campus show at Senior Bar, when the three of us together closed out two years of skanking to �London Transport.� We kept dancing until the songs finished, releasing a final applause of appreciation at the end. I turned to Paula and said I�d never danced with a Skalcaholic before. �Sure you have,� she said. I replied, �Not really, at least not down on the dance floor.�

It was a fitting close to the reception, and the hotel drivers had been kind enough to wait until 11:30 until we were finished. That, or Barb�s father slipped them some cash when he went to talk with them 15 minutes earlier. We tipped them well upon our return to the hotel, so they made out just fine. The ride back on the mini-bus became a sing-along, with selections from Bon Jovi (�Living On A Prayer�), the Notre Dame songbook (�Hike, Notre Dame� and �On Down The Line�) and the Michigan fight song (mostly ND�s vulgar parody). Not to mention Steve Goodman's �You Never Even Call Me By Name.� And taking along a slice of cake in a bag was not a good idea for this particular group, which quickly started flinging it from back to front and back again.

POST-PARTY: �A BIG SHOUT-OUT TO MY DAD AND MOM�

I run into some trouble when I drink. It�s nothing drastic, and luckily it�s never gotten me in real trouble. But it makes me look like an idiot.

I say stupid things, and I catch onto and won�t let drop stupid things other people say. For example (again, none are exact quotations but rather recreations from scattered memory):

� To Mike: �I was watching while Barb danced with her father and I saw the spotlight from the video camera cast his shadow on the wall. His profile resembles Alfred Hitchcock�s. Your father-in-law�s silhouette looks like Alfred Hitchcock�s.� Mike replies with a �No way� that really says, �Riiiiiiiight.�

� To Mindy: �You sound just like the woman from Wisconsin on �Survivor.� It�s that Wisconsin accent.� Mindy denies it vehemently.

� To Paula: �Hey, I�ve never seen anyone play �air trombone� before!�

� �Yeah, Cheryl does look like Minnie Driver.� �No, I don�t,� she says. �Sure you do,� and I continue to call her Minnie for the next 45 minutes until she flees to her room.

� (Not from the wedding, but it will prove my point.) �Well, Caitlin, we did notice (you�d put on a little weight), but we just didn�t say anything.� (That so came out the wrong way.) I�ve not mixed the Captain and Coke since.

At the hotel, Mia and I went upstairs to change � Mia took a shower � and Mindy arrived shortly thereafter. In half an hour, we were down in the hotel bar, which was split between wedding post-party guests and townies out to see the band featured this particular night. Michelle, Jen, Mindy, Mia, Cande and Courtenay sat on stools near the pool table, and I spent some time with them. But I hung out mostly near the bar, talking with those I hadn�t seen in a while, in some cases, since graduation � Matt, Tony, Mike, Barb, Paula and Tim. It was a good place to be, because then I started to hear some talk of a one-song reunion. I reported the news back to the others near the pool table, and Mia wondered how they would perform, since the band wouldn�t let them use their instruments.

Tim, Tony and Griff reviewed their lines in their heads, then the show went on. Tony, Griff and Tim took microphones in hand and Mike and Noah flanked a fourth mike on a stand. The latter two laid down a beat, and Griff, Tim and Tony rapped out an a capella version of the Beastie Boys� �Root Down,� a classic Skalcaholics show piece.

After the one-song performance, I heard Mike tell one of his bandmates, �Any time Noah wants to lay down a mouth beat, I�m there.�

It may not have been Stonehenge or the Party in the Yardy, but it was Skalcaholics performing again. It was expected, and it did not disappoint.

That other band returned, and finished out the night with various covers of classic rock and blues tunes. By now, after more drinks and the guest appearance, we �danced� a bit more, as in we tapped our feet and swayed in the small bar. Paula and I spent some time talking, having not been in touch or heard of one another since, I suppose, that party in the Campus View courtyard. After talk of our respective jobs and living situations in Philadelphia (her) and New Jersey (me), we talked about America and our travels, mostly the National Park visits.

Mia and I also got into some car talk with Mike. I have no idea how it started, but Mike brought up the Pontiac Grand Am GT with �Ram Air,� which is exactly what I have. �Which does absolutely nothing, but it sounds cool,� he said, speaking of the Ram Air feature which harnesses some of the oncoming air and directs it through the engine for more power. �Dan�s car has nostrils,� my friend Dave says.

�NO!� I replied, sarcastically, �It gives me five more horsepower!�

Mike did concede one thing.

�My car is ergonomically designed to slam into the wind and provide the most resistance to travel,� he said, referring, of course, to his Volkswagen Beetle.

I asked him if he had personalized plates, since I�d recently seen two Beetles with rather lame vanity tags. One, a white car from Virginia said, �PHATBTL� and was driven by your typical high school poser. The other, in a parking garage in New Jersey, bragged, �BLWNAWY.� But I tend to think that one referred to the car�s owner, rather than the license plate�s reader.

And that�s when Mike told us of his vanity plate, if he ever goes for one.

�Tell me if you get this,� he said. �U, U. T-H-E. Four, Four.�

I must�ve been trying to sound it out or had a look of pain on my face, because Mike gave us a second or two before revealing the riddle.

�UU THE 44 � Use the Force,� he said.

�Oooooooh,� I answered. �But maybe U-U T-H-E 4-S would be a little better.�

Mike agreed, or not; he at least acknowledged the alternative. But Mia had a better one.

�Why not U-U T-H-E 4-Z,� she said. I think that one might be it.

From the bar, which closed at 2 a.m. with the departure of Mike, Barb, Mia and myself, we headed up to 505 for the post-post-party. Walking toward the lobby, Mike took Barb�s hand and said, �Although I�m usually nocturnal, I�m ready for bed if you are.� Figuring that was the end of their socializing, I bid them goodnight and ducked into the bathroom on my way upstairs. I was surprised to find them in the lobby when I went toward the elevators, and they did join the group crammed into room 505, raiding Doug�s minibar. We balked at first, and Mia asked him if he was sure he wanted to do that to his hotel bill, but Doug insisted, citing �expense account� as his defense. That was good enough for us.

The radio reception was poor, so the music was provided by Doug�s laptop, a desktop jukebox. Requests were shouted out in between songs, and Mike put on a little lip-sync number to �Dr. Worm.� Someone asked if there was any Chili Peppers on the computer, and I suggested �Scar Tissue,� which was played. Cheryl wanted to hear some country, specifically Dixie Chicks, and although I would�ve supported that vote, those in charge did not hear it, or ignored it. I sat on one of the beds for a while, talking with Cheryl and Barb. Doug came over and insisted Cheryl looked like Minnie Driver � despite her protests � and I acknowledged the resemblance, but saw more of a reflection between Barb and Cheryl than any British actress. (That makes this the second straight wedding at which there�s been talk of Minnie/Mini. In Arizona, we floated down the Salt River with Mini-Me, a smaller tube holding our cooler of beverages.) Doug then volunteered for the task of pulling the dozens of bobby pins from Barb�s finely sculpted hair. It must�ve saved time later. I asked Barb when they were leaving for Orlando and their Disney cruise honeymoon. �Not until Wednesday,� she said, �which is why we�re still up.�

My memory after 12 hours of celebration and 10 hours of partying is thin. The rest of what I remember from 505:

� We thought Mia had left, without getting the key from me, so perhaps Mindy let her in the room. She emerged later, and it turned out Mia was on the other side of the wall that separates the sink/bathroom from the sleeping area. She told me what she was doing, or who she was talking to, but I have no idea now.

� I�d gone from one bed to the other at some point; after being on the one near the window, I was later on the one by the bathroom, talking with Cheryl. Then Doug, camera in hand, ordered everyone into the picture on the bed by the window, so we jumped back over there, crowding in and raising our hands in fists and open palms (for �505�) for the photos. I have no idea if I�ll ever see one, but if anyone gets their hands on a copy, please send one out to NJ.

� There were several visits made by hotel staff, responding to complaints from other guests. I don�t remember any of them happening while I was there though, and they were never more than simple requests to �keep it down,� as far as I know.

� Griff and I talked about writing and baseball � my two great passions, and his, I suppose � and we must�ve talked about writing books � collections of stories and such � but I remember little of it.

� Barb and Mike did eventually make their exit, and soon after the party faded as people went off to bed one-by-one. Mia and I departed at 4 a.m.

Waking Mindy for the second straight night, the three of us talked for a little while before falling hard asleep.