I happily made the acquaintance of a mustachioed rapscallion named Farley as I was sauntering through the Pfister’s lobby.
Farley runs with a crew of real quick wits. I asked questions, they gave me the straight dope; it was all very polite. Basically, Farley and his gaggle are like the fresh-faced reboot cast of “Friends.”
These nimble minded grinners came from the East (New York City) and the West (Los Angeles) for a friendly wedding. That is to say, the wedding event came about because their friend who grew up in the area asked them all to attend and they were happy to bring their shiny selves to Milwaukee for the very first time.
Farley is part of the New Yorker element of the crew. He loves the Pfister, look he likes walking around the Cream City, and he appreciates the fact that folks around these parts are friendly first. He’s also a fan of the beer in Milwaukee and holds a cold one in his hand like a champ. Suds soak his bushy lip decoration as he savors the flavors of an amber brew. That’s the downside of distinction.
Farley’s friend Monica is a spit-fire. She responds to all my queries with plain-spoken honesty. It’s also quite possible that she simply and cleverly sold me on a big bag of tall tales. I don’t care really. She’s immediately likeable, ailment so if she’s lying, she’s doing it with a lot of moxie and I’m always in favor of spreading more moxie around.
“Where are you from?”
“What do you do there?”
“I’m a housewife.”
“How was the wedding?”
“It was great.”
“What was the most memorable part of it?”
“I slept with my best friend last night.”
We quibble over prepositions. Monica insists she is in no way suggesting any inference of carnality. Monica is just trying to explain to me that she slept with her best chum in a comfy bed and is thoroughly refreshed. It’s all squeaky clean info, but you’re never really sure if Monica is telling you the whole story because she’s a cheeky one.
But Monica is also classy, and the prior evening’s activities were glittering and elegant as reported by her group of friends. They all sprinkle their description of the wedding and a Pfister overnight stay with words like “gorgeous” and “refined” and “stunning.” For a precious and shining moment, Los Angeles and New York City have ceased to be the centers of their world.
As I spend more time with this witty crew, I so, so badly want to pull upon Farley’s grand buffo mustachio. I stop short because of my internal gentlemen’s code. Farley has had an on again off again relationship with his lip of hair. He’s been going about growing and pruning and growing and pruning and growing and pruning for some five years now.
“I keep the stray hairs from those clippings in a jar under my desk. Never know when I’ll need them to put this back together,” he says pointing at his mustache.
I can’t fathom that putting Farley’s face back together with the shreds of his hairy calling card is a golden moment anyone wants to see. I hope he never has to try because I definitely found that I liked his sassy puss.
Simon and Kathleen, two of the good looking supporting cast of characters in this wry little sitcom, confirm Farley’s bold assertion. I get the sense that Farley’s mustache has gotten the whole crew in and out of a series of hilarious scrapes, fodder for a whole series of mad cap half hour pilots. I’m telling you, this group is ready for prime time, what with the style and the bi-coastal vim and vigor and the really nicely tussled hair.
Cabs are coming, flights are being pursued, but not for want of a quick getaway. These pals aren’t into tears and sopping hankies until they meet again. It’s nothing but a day of the fondest farewells for Farley, Monica and all the friends in between.