When Donald asked Mitch and I to be his best men about six months ago, my initial reaction was one of immense gratitude at the honor involved. This sentiment held a benevolent monopoly over my thoughts on the topic until about four weeks ago in San Diego when confusion and a weak sense of neglected responsibility crept in to cloud the sunshine, and I decided to do a little research into what it is I'd actually be required to do. As has almost invariably been the case throughout my life, I ended up wishing I hadn't done that -- that I'd followed my prefered head-in-sand policy instead and given ignorance the chance to swadle me in bliss right up to the moment fact was undeniable, that as advertised by all the fatuously disregarded signs, the bridge was actually out not so much ahead as directly underfoot.

As I'd cynically suspected, the primary function of the best man, now largely cerimonial, is to protect the nascent couple from physical attack ("rush the stage now or forever hold your peace") and/or bodily tackle the groom should he elect to cut and run in a moment of lapsed clarity, but I had no idea what else awaited my attention.

For example, I hadn't realized until I'd done a little reading that the best man would be expected to dress up like James Bond and (if he was any kind of man at all, let alone the titular "best") be responsible for manifold matters from organizing the bachelor party to dancing with the maid of honor to handing off the ring and bearing legal witness -- most things shy of actually marrying the bride.

I didn't know, also, that in Uganda I'd ideally be married to only one wife and armed with a liturgy of well-tested matrimonial advice as well as a machete and brace of pistols; that if I let my guard down in the Ukraine for even a second some impish celebrant would abscond with a shoe from the bride's foot leaving my buddy Don to cough up cash or choke down a tall shot of vodka in return for it's release. Of 18th century England my sources simply read that "the best swordsman in the area was chosen as the best man". Unfortunately for that particular Anglican tradition, I've been in this area exactly twice in my life, and my sword wouldn't fit in the overhead bin.

As if all this wasn't confusing enough, an article in Wikipedia stokes my anxious bewilderment still with a report that in Bhutan (a small country wedged between India and the People's Republic of China) (and I quote) "the best man's performances for the guests before commencement of the marriage can last for 5 hours with the exhausted man returning to his wooden carriage very similar to a dog kennel to watch on before joining the other guests to celebrate the special occasion - usually in a drunken stupor." Drunken stupor I understand well enough, but I must have clicked on the words "performances" and "dog kennel" each ten times before conceding they weren't linked to anything and there'd be no more ellucidation on their meaning.

In short, I know very little at this point about what's expected of a best man, and what I have been told scares me senseless. The indelible swell of flattery and pride I experienced at the outset of this invitation endures unerringly, of course, but I'm haunted with doubts now about whether or not I'm truly man enough to lead a platoon of groomsmen through the muggy New England heat in ambiguously defined five hour "performances" while protecting life, limb, and footwear with musket, saber, and ill-fitting monkey suit and drinking myself toward a stupor.

Luckily for me, for my good buddy Don, his beautiful wife Kristen, and for all of us in attendance today, however, I've got by brother here, Mitch, to assist me.