Bob Wire Has a Point (It's Under His Cowboy Hat)

I Dreamed I Went to the Wedding of the Century

By Bob Wire, 4-09-08

It was a shocking e-mail, to say the least: “Mr. Bob Wire, your presence has been requested at Jay-Z’s apartment in New York City, to help us celebrate a special event.”

Wow, I thought, Jigga’s going to retire again? I guess he wants some advice from a guy who’s already come back from being washed up several times.

“Security will be at a maximum, and your discretion is appreciated,” the invite continued. “We want the event to be as free as possible from media exploitation.” Further information was provided concerning dress code, flight information, etc. Being a local pseudo-celebrity in a small, isolated college town, I was a bit mystified as to my inclusion in the “event.” But what the hell, free Cristal.

As we all know by now, it wasn’t a retirement party, but a wedding that took place over the weekend. The news was a surprise to no one, yet captured headlines and blogs as if Amelia Earhart’s plane had been found on Jupiter.

My flight to New York (first class, natch) was uneventful, save for sitting across the aisle from Sir Colin Hickey, lead singer of the late, lamented International Playboys. “Shawn wants me to come help him choose an outfit for the event,” said the sartorially indulgent front man. He informed me that Shawn was Jay-Z’s real name. “We met at a charity concert in Gillette, Wyoming, back in ’96.” This tidbit confused me mightily, and I figured the questions it raised were better left unanswered.

We landed at JFK and were whisked away immediately in a white stretch limo. A large bucket of crushed ice was inside, loaded with cans of PBR. “Wow,” I said, “talk about doing their homework.” I popped open two cans and handed one to Sir Colin. “Here’s lookin’ up your old address,” I toasted.

By the time we reached our destination, we were shirtless and drunk. We clambered out of the limo and looked around. “Hey, man, this ain’t Manhattan,” said Colin. “It’s fuckin’ New Jersey! What the…? I wanna talk to Hova! Bring me the head of Jay-Z!”

I was trying to calm him when a burly white man walked across the parking lot and handed us a pair of room keys. The old school kind: an actual key attached to a large plastic fob. I looked around. We were in the parking lot of a Motel 6 in Paterson.

I took my key and tried to focus. “Hey, aren’t you…”

“I’m your concierge, Tom Arnold. You’ll be staying here for security reasons. We don’t want the press to get wind that Jay-Z and Beyoncé are getting married tomorrow night.”

“Beyoncé who?” I asked. Sir Colin and I fell all over each other laughing.

Arnold, his mouth pressed into a grim line, shook his head and snapped his fingers. The limo driver, Fifty-Cent, carried our duffle bags full of gin and clean underwear to our rooms. “Thanks, Fiddy,” I said, placing two quarters in his outstretched hand. He frowned. “Hey, don’t look at me, man,” I told him. “Maybe you should’ve called yourself Twenty Bucks.”

The following afternoon Fiddy returned in the limo and picked us up. Tom Arnold was nowhere to be found, but when we got in, Woody Harrelson was seated in the back, toking on a blunt the size of a Sharpie. He handed it to Colin, and explained the drill to us. We were going to enter Jay-Z’s apartment building through the service entrance in the parking garage, and ride the supply elevator all the way to the roof, where the Wedding of the Century would take place that evening. I was to wait in the study, while Sir Colin would join the groom-to-be in his dressing room to issue clothing advice.

“Why am I here?” I asked Woody, waving off the joint.

“Oh, because Beyoncé likes the bass line in your song, ‘She Knows My Face Like the Back of Her Hand.’” I recalled a quote from Hunter S. Thompson: when the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.

We got on the elevator, and Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin were already there. Colin peered at Martin. “Hey, aren’t you the singer for Coldplay? Wow, I didn’t know Jay-Z was gay.”

I elbowed Sir Colin in the ribs, and we tried to stifle our giggles. I told Gwyneth that I liked her choice of name for her daughter. “Apple is cool, seriously. I’ve been using Macs since 1986. I think you should call your next kid Wozniak.” Sir Colin erupted, spitting out a mouthful of PBR. I’m not sure where it came from, since we’d left the beer in the limo. Fortunately, we were at our destination.

Gwyneth and Chris debarked, leaving us in the dust. We were ushered to the coat room by a jaunty young black man named Usher. He pinned name tags on us and told to wait in the foyer for further instructions. Soon a minion appeared and whisked Sir Colin away.

That was the last I’d see of him for the entire trip. I found out later that he’d gotten waylaid in Jay-Z’s boot closet with Snoop Dogg, and got so stoned that he managed to shave his head with a shoe horn. I later asked the washroom attendant, Pee Diddy, what happened, and he told me that Sir Colin was last seen in the master bathtub, naked, with no water, singing Christian hymnals and playing with Paris Hilton’s Chihuahua.

I donned my finest cowboy shirt and brand new 501’s, and rode the elevator up to the roof. Under a pair of huge white tents, a batch of famous people were sipping champagne, smoking Cuban cigars, and laughing over the collapse of the middle class. Waiters circulated with trays of hors d’oeuvres, and a police sketch artist moved through the crowd, making quick, candid sketches of the guests (the invitation had insisted there be no cameras). I shoved a fistful of giant prawns into each pocket, grabbed a bottle of Cristal, and staked out a spot in the corner of the tent.

I suppose most folks would have been star-struck by the presence of so much pop culture royalty. But the enforced secrecy, the ham-fisted security, and the self-professed importance of the whole thing squeezed the joy out of the event like juice from a lemon pressed between Pam Anderson’s breasts (which actually happened during the reception).

I flew home the next morning feeling empty, used up, and irrelevant (not unlike Pam Anderson). I momentarily worried about Sir Colin’s fate, but knowing he always lands on his feet, I let it go. My brief journey into the maw of celebrity culture had been surreal, shocking, surprising, and not a little unsettling. If that’s what being rich and famous does to your life, they can have it. I’ll continue to be content in our sleepy little town, oblivious to trends, happy to be occasionally recognized by the odd waitress or grocery clerk.

It’s probably going to be two or three years until the next Wedding of the Century (Brangelina? Courtney Love and David Archuleta? Sir Colin and Pam Anderson?), and I’ll just read about it in the tabloids like everyone else.

[If you enjoyed this column, pass it along. If not, what the hell, check back soon at NewWest.net/BobWire. You’ll probably like the next one.]

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