the best man's speech   Now it begins: the well-remembered sprawl of invitations and rumored food and lawn chairs, the eternal flame of protocol kindling the games of our ritual launch, and a lady of note, her shoes correct, needless of instruction, with hand on hat, dangles the bottle, smiles briskly (for effect), and then, with proper violence, clubs the bow that hulks behind the artful bunting; the crowd erupts, wine flies, the shuddering hull rocks with impact, slowly settles, is still. End of show, end of rites -- what now? Scriptless, we turn to leave the crew alone and free to write a story of their own.     © Michael Fleming San Francisco, California September 1990