Debbie and I are married June 16th, 2001. Ed serves as best man. (We have pictures of him in a suit, in a church to prove it.) Friends of ours from Ohio fly all the way out to Tenafly, Debbie’s hometown in New Jersey, for the wedding. They fly out not so much because they want to share in the nuptials, but because, having witnessed multiple Hamell On Trial shows, they want to see if Ed can get through the best man’s toast without using the words “fuck” or “motherfucker.”

At the reception Ed seems more nerve-wracked about delivering the toast to maybe 50 family members and friends than he did the previous year playing the 10,000 seat Universal Amphitheater in Los Angeles when we toured with Ani Difranco. He rehearses the toast in an upstairs room, seeking approval from a test audience of one, the maid of honor, Debbie’s sister Linda. He then writes it down on a little slip of paper, which he hands to me so I can prompt him in case he forgets anything or gets lost. “Wait a minute,” I say, “I have to serve as your roadie at my own wedding? This is supposed to be my day.” “It’ll be cool.” Ed assures me.

Sure enough, he gets lost in the middle of the toast. (It was very complex, but really moving, we still have it in our wedding scrapbook.) I’m just about to give him the next line when he launches into a spiel he does onstage sometimes, “My tongue got in the way of my eyeteeth and I couldn’t see what I was saying.” He tells a couple of jokes, compliments Debbie’s parish priest on his command of oratory (which he claims he can’t match) and eventually segues seamlessly back into the toast. Friends and family are laughing heartily, everybody is enormously charmed and all of a sudden our wedding reception turns into a Hamell On Trial show.

I swear that if he’d had a guitar handy he would’ve done a couple of songs. You should’ve been there.