Taking the Cake

Let them eat wedding cake? The Crier hears that the towering monument of pastel goo that held center court at the Belle Meade Country Club reception honoring the recent merger of the Weigel and Henry families was large enough to have fed every teacher, prison security guard, and child currently in foster care in the state of Tennessee. None of those bourgeoisie, however, were among those invited to the lavish affair that united Ashley Weigel, daughter of Bob and Patsy, and Douglas Henry, son of Lolly and Senator Douglas, whom the Crier suspects has been a member of all 101 General Assemblies. (Senatoress Marsha Blackburn was on hand, presumably to accept the fawning thanks of all those in this $100,000-and-over-annual-income crowd for her unflinching opposition to any filching of their filthy lucre.)

The actual I Do’s were staged at St. George’s, another towering monument that holds center court in Belle Meade, which was the only building in Middle Tennessee large enough to contain the well-heeled crowd, outside of Opry Mills (yet another monument to conspicuous consumption, but the Crier digresses).

The vast space not only comfortably held all 1,200 guests, but prevented a potentially catastrophic bridal party gridlock mid-aisle—a very real concern when your tally of attendants is more than two-score, thus proving the young couple is not only swimming in family money, but also close friends. The Crier’s mind reels at the thoughts of all those young ladies on the strong arms of handsome groomsmen. How was their spot in the procession assigned? By height? Weight? Pedigree? Net worth?

From the Church of Belle Meade to the Club of Belle Meade was but a quick sprint up the Boulevard, one this group could make blindfolded. There, guests wined from an open bar, dined from a bountiful buffet, fox-trotted to Pat Patrick and his Orchestra, lifted bottomless glasses of bubbly to their good fortune, sated their sweet tooth with the aforementioned wedding cake, and had not one fleeting nanosecond thought of the budget crisis threatening the state just outside of the sovereign state of Belle Meade.

With the notable exception, that is, of The Gentleman Senator, who has selflessly devoted himself to a lifetime of public service in gratitude for the precipitous union of his own father many moons ago to Catherine Craig, heiress to the National Life & Accident Insurance Co. fortune. The Senator, who waddles when he walks and is fondly known by the childhood nickname of Duck, kept in touch via cell phone with his legislative colleagues, who were toiling to find a solution to the fine mess they’ve gotten us into up there on Capitol Hill.

Unfortunately, none, including the Mighty Duck, has been able to come up with an idea that will raise the necessary revenue to save the unwashed masses while simultaneously saving their sorry asses come election this fall. Perhaps the magnanimous father of the bride—who as president of Cumberland Comfort Air knows a little something about hot air, and who is said to have dropped at least a half-mil on this immodest spectacle—could lend the august body of working stiffs a bit of free advice on the subject of high finance.

For a good time, call Adam?

The Crier always suspected that Adam Dread—columnist, stand-up comic, bon vivant, self-proclaimed man of leisure, and unabashed self-promoter—is just the type to write his own name on the walls in ladies’ rooms. The Crier never suspected he would be willing to pay for the privilege, though word is that is just what he has done.

A few weeks ago, the Belcourt Theatre unveiled its overhaul and celebrated its grand reopening at a hip little soiree, for which supporters paid $75 a head. Unfortunately, the ticket price didn’t include the heads in the ladies’ room. It seems that the Save The Belcourt folks ran out of money before completing the redo of the powder room.

Though the necessary plumbing was in place, the individual toilets were lacking the basic individuality women expect of their bathrooms, due to a glaring absence of stall walls.

Now, while men seem to enjoy the practice of standing shoulder to shoulder with their penises in hand taking aim at a common receptacle, women usually prefer to do their expelling comfortably seated, in relative privacy. Mrs. Irene Wills, mother of artist Tom, an instrumental figure in the Save The Belcourt movement, was particularly appalled. Upon emerging from the loo, she was overheard telling her son that conditions inside were ”horrid“ and something had to be done.

Never one to let the knock of opportunity or a challenge from the fairer sex go unanswered, Adam rose to the occasion, offering to donate the necessary funds to protect the womenfolk’s modesty. He coaxed friend and fellow bachelor in arms Andy Van Roon into matching his generous contribution, under one condition: The Belcourt will install small plaques on the back of the bathroom doors noting the sponsors, which immediately brought to The Crier’s mind an amusing twist on Adam’s campaign slogan ”Dread This Election“ in his unsuccessful bid for Metro Council. It could have been worse; the bon hommes suggested to the Powers That Pee that they would be willing to dig deeper in their pockets if the Belcourt would install stainless steel toilet seats engraved with their names. One can only imagine how Mrs. Wills would react to being forced to sit on Adam’s space.