Last weekend I went to the reception for a wedding ceremony held on an island off Michigan's western coast for two of my oldest friends and a small boat's worth of immediates. Their relationship has never been the kind that's decorated with romantic fanciness, so it was as surprising as it was touching to hear them talk about how much in love they are, how neither of them can imagine life without the other. As they stood in front of us, telling each other the reasons that they've spent the past seven years inside this massive love of theirs, even Morgan, who had never met either of them, was close to tears. I know I was. Recalling in the middle of this hugely deep thing the time, five or six years ago, that I walked into the living room of my house to find the man currently acting as MC for the event prone on the floor with a vegetable-oiled carrot up his ass on a dare, almost ruined the moment. But it didn't. About the carrot and ass thing, you have to understand: Kalamazoo's in a valley. Humid air collects there, and so does boredom.