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Thursday, 16 September
Admitting Impediments

All of our friends are apparently STEALING OUR IDEA. A while ago, the wife and I decided to get married, and now everyone is copying us. Jesus, people, be original! Buy a potbellied pig or take up macrame or send taunting letters to the FBI. Getting married is so lame now; we totally had the idea first.

This is apparently our year to endure the things. We already went to one earlier in the summer, which was held in a perfectly lovely boathouse thing, replete with full Western exposure, giving everyone present a grand view of the shimmering water, the gorgeous sunset, and the stroke-inducing summer heat. Everyone, including the bride and groom, felt like bugs scurrying around under a gigantic magnifying glass, as if the ceremony was a particularly cruel panel out of "Calvin & Hobbes."

On Friday, we've got another one; a friend of the wife is getting hitched to a local musician--the wife and said friend also spent many years hanging out with bands, which I refer to as the "groupie years," irritating the wife to no end--and so I am promised many ostensible celebrity sightings. People like, say, Stone Gossard or Jeff Ament or the shambling corpse of Layne Staley.

(Who I actually met years ago, working retail. We could make conversation!

Skot: So. Layne Staley, huh?

Shambling Corpse of Layne Staley: (gnawing rattily on overcooked shrimp) Yuh.

Skot: You probably remember me from a few years ago. I sold you some pillows and shit that one time.

SCoLS: Yuh.

Skot: So . . . any new projects? Or stuff? Like . . . you need . . . I don't know . . . a guy on tambourine or something? I could be your man.

SCoLS: Yuh.

Skot: I'M IN THE BAND! I'M IN THE BAND!

That would be pretty cool.)

Not that I would recognize any of these guys anyway (except for Layne Staley, being a corpse and all). I guess I'll try and look for the guys who just have that "rock dude" vibe about them, that vibe that always makes me think of strangely pampered undertakers: they seem privileged and aloof, but there's some earthy stink of gloom always haunting them.

"Is that Mark Arm?" I'll say to the wife, pointing at some sallow creature uncomfortably inhabiting a bad suit.

The wife will roll her eyes. "No. I think that's L.'s uncle. He works in insurance."

"L.'s uncle is Mark Arm? He looks terrible!" This is where the wife will stop talking to me, and I'll spend the rest of the evening casing the joint, and accusing random strangers of being Chris Walla.

On Saturday, we are attending an event where a friend-couple of ours are renewing their vows. This is charming, I suppose, if a little . . . I don't know . . . soon? They are lovely people, but around our age, so it kind of makes me want to ask, "Hey, uh . . . so what happened that you have to renew the vows? Come on, spill. Who fucked up?" Then, hopefully, I would be treated to a tearful rant about how one party cheated on the other, or failed to feed the dog properly, or committed mail fraud. Whatever.

"G., do you promise to love and cherish M. for the rest of your days?"

"I do."

"And to not invent bogus internet personas?"

(Long silence.)

"Look, Kaycee just started as a goof, really, I . . . "

"And not to invent bogus internet personas?"

"Yeah, okay."

And then two weeks after the vow-wow, the wife and I hit another ceremony, this time for her friend M. and his Mystery Fiancee. Nobody seems to have met her. M. is a fine fellow, and I would say that even if he weren't close to seven feet tall and perfectly capable of picking his teeth with my femur. He just apparently met this person and it all clicked or whirred or purred or gasped interestingly or whatever; and now they're getting married. Naturally, everyone is excited to have a look at the bride, if only to assure themselves that M. hasn't gone off his nut with drink and decided to wed, say, trickster god Loki, or perhaps some clever, sentient yak.

Given our very strange friends, anything could play out. Perhaps, one day, after realizing that being undead was kind of a crappy existence, the shambling corpse of Layne Staley would be looking for love. And in this state, he could meet up, quite innocently, with the clever, sentient yak (who herself is getting a little tired of the shaving regimen she has to maintain). They'd go for coffee, talking haltingly at first, and then animatedly. Eventually, they'd fall in love, and the clever, sentient yak would leave M. for SCoLS--M. would be heartbroken, but would soon find happiness in buying a potbellied pig.

Finally, there would be one last ceremony to attend, presided over, of course, by Loki.

Loki: "Do you, Shambling Corpse of Layne Staley, take this clever, sentient yak as your wife?"

SCoLS: "Yuh."

Loki: "And do you, clever sentient yak, also so swear?"

CSY: (Lowing happily) "I do. HRRRRAAAAAWWW!"

Loki: "Then I now pronounce you corpse and yak. You may tug affectionately on her teats."

SCoLS: "Yuh."

Crowd: "Huzzah!"

Loki: "Now let us celebrate with . . . burritos! Some of them I have shat in!"

Crowd: (Less enthusiastically) "Er . . . huzzah!"

And I'll be off in the corner with the wife, beaming. Why?

I'M IN THE BAND! I'M IN THE BAND!


Note: Comments are closed on old entries.

Comments

Man, the movie playing in your head is getting stranger by the minute, it seems.

I'm loving it. Reading your stuff makes the dogs in my head stop barking, and that can't be a bad thing.

Comment number: 005086   Posted by: Carlo on September 16, 2004 06:25 AM from IP: 193.28.194.12

I once had a potbellied pig. It's name was Miss Piggy, because I was too lazy and stupid to come up with a real name.

I did find happiness, but then I gave the pig away to a crazy Canadian who is in a cult where they all think they are Native Americans, and I was sad. Especially when the pig died and I was assured that they buried it the way they bury all loved ones, with lavender and hibiscus or something.

But if they were real Native Americans, they would have eaten her. Even the green wobbly bits.

The point is, my pig is dead, so now I'm getting married in three weeks. Wanna come? You don't have enough funerals.....I mean weddings.....in your life.

Comment number: 005087   Posted by: KOTWF on September 16, 2004 06:54 AM from IP: 65.78.210.158

Busted guffawing at work. Now I must pretend that I'm actually weeping, mad with grief over a wrecked stapler.

Comment number: 005088   Posted by: lisa on September 16, 2004 08:22 AM from IP: 159.33.2.41

Thanks so much for using "sentient" and "yak" together. That was life-affirming. If you somehow threw a "copasetic", I would be thrilled beyond reason. I like when people use SAT words in blogs. Mad props to you, sir.

Comment number: 005089   Posted by: rothbeastie on September 16, 2004 08:54 AM from IP: 149.39.250.30

Did you know that a Google search for "sentient yak" returns 844 hits.

We live in a strange world.

Comment number: 005090   Posted by: craig on September 16, 2004 10:05 AM from IP: 68.76.90.142

Jesus Christ. This is why I have no need for your paltry Earth drugs.

Comment number: 005091   Posted by: Cordelia on September 16, 2004 05:49 PM from IP: 24.147.35.105

you are really weird but funny as... well i cant say the word i want to because its a "bad word"! i like ducks. you should put me in your next entry ,about what, i dont know, you just should! whats wrong with you, were you abused as a child? did your parents beat you? too many sweets? thank you

Comment number: 005092   Posted by: Balooga on November 29, 2004 08:21 AM from IP: 208.183.105.11

you are really weird but funny as... well i cant say the word i want to because its a "bad word"! i like ducks. you should put me in your next entry ,about what, i dont know, you just should! whats wrong with you, were you abused as a child? did your parents beat you? too many sweets? thank you

Comment number: 005093   Posted by: Balooga on November 29, 2004 08:21 AM from IP: 66.4.225.11

you are really weird but funny as... well i cant say the word i want to because its a "bad word"! i like ducks. you should put me in your next entry ,about what, i dont know, you just should! whats wrong with you, were you abused as a child? did your parents beat you? too many sweets? thank you

Comment number: 005094   Posted by: Balooga on November 29, 2004 08:21 AM from IP: 208.183.105.11

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