The golden gopher gay bar

In the same tone she used to ask us what color linens we were thinking for our wedding Too far out in the suburbs; too hard to get parking for relatives with limited mobility; too stuffy; too avant-garde. And: Oh no.

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My father is a generous, brilliant, gentle man: a fierce legal mind and crusader for justice for the oppressed, a whip-smart writer whose career led directly to my own, a gorgeous preacher who, a year later, golden deliver a beautiful homily at my wedding. Bar is also, for reasons known only to him and his god, completely obsessed with college mascots.

Getting the vague impression that she has some connection to the U of M multiple kids in college, lilting Minnesota accent, wearing a maroon jumpsuit, I thinkI mention that Goldy will be in attendance at my wedding. She neither smiles nor frowns. She just sort of says hmm and stares straight ahead the way you do when the cashier at the organic food co-op starts telling you about their polycule drama.

I am beginning to have gay about having Goldy at the wedding. After a fall of university intransigence over a contract with the grad student union of which, full disclosure, I remain a member until August and university-wide funding cuts that killed the job I was hoping to have after graduating from my MFA program, having a living, breathing symbol of the U at the most important day of my life is beginning to feel ominous.

A consequential month. I defend my thesis on a Tuesday and walk across the stage at Mariucci Arena with my friends two days later on Thursday. Still, the broadest gopher I see from my dad all month is, without a doubt, when he learns that Goldy has finally confirmed his presence at my holy matrimony.

We eat in the garden surrounded by peonies and ferns. My thoughts could not possibly be further from a certain gopher. Everything has gone right, and I am a complete emotional wreck. Why the no one—aside from the entirety of pop culture—tell me that weddings are a lot, emotionally? The ceremony was everything I wanted: The rain held off until the moment we stepped inside from the terrace, friends mingled across milieus and scenes, the toasts were beautiful, my new WIFE!!!

I cannot imagine a more perfect wedding. I am overwhelmed by love. He, or more specifically his head, is absolutely huge, the size of a feral hog, his grin so blinding it makes you forget how threadbare the paws on the suit are starting to look. In his gold-sequined tuxedo, he looks like precisely four-hundred bucks.

That fear dissipates the moment I see Goldy get on the dance floor, though. We spend the next 15 or so minutes in the care of my dad as he takes photo after photo of us with Goldy. I am beginning to suspect that this is, in point of fact, the happiest day of his life. Here are some of those photos:. He is thrilled to pose for the photo pretending to marry my wife and me; he kind of annoys one of my friends by assuming that she and one of her platonic female friends are a couple; he flirts with virtually every single person at the venue regardless of age, gender, or obvious marital status.

Love is love, and, reader, Goldy loves everyone.