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Monday, 19 June
Love Is All
This Saturday, the wife and I put on our second-best finery (I love the West Coast) and attended the wedding of our good friends B. and G. B. and G., being of the frugal sort, held the ceremony in a privately owned greenlot in Ballard, thus screwing us, the guests, out of the common decency of, say, a roof, or seats. I would very much like to condemn B. and G. for this transparent ruse to jerk us out of creature comforts, and so I will: B. and G? Thanks for the rogering.
No! I kid. It was a perfectly lovely affair--a sunny day spent in a charming greenspace, flanked by rustic brick buildings--I kept waiting for Newsies to break out. "EXTRA! EXTRA! WEDDING TRANSPIRING!" It featured all the best features of outdoor weddings, including my favorite: the impeccable timing of our airline industry. At one point, the brother of the bride stepped up to give a poetry reading, and here's what we saw:
[Brother takes deep, nervous breath; opens mouth:]
[Brother concludes poem just in time for aircraft to clear our zone of audibility.]
This is easily my favorite wedding poem of all time, and I'm kind of an expert. It takes second only to "Half-Drunk Coughing Fit," and easily outdistances old chestnuts like Khalil Gibran's "I'm So Tired of All These Fairies" and "I Died of Cirrhosis of the Liver" at weddings. Give them a rest, folks.)
You always risk the weather when doing an outdoor wedding, of course, and this was no different. Happily, Seattle cooperated on this day, and rewarded us with a punishing 72-degree day of unremitting gentle sunlight. This, naturally, resulted in the unfortunate fainting of one young girl near us, as she succumbed to the abominable heat. Now, I've seen women faint before, and I'd just like to say this: it is exactly like the movies. She wobbled for a moment, and then gracefully went down on her hip, and then followed through with her upper body: it was like watching a fern wilt.
People gasped! But not me. Recognizing the importance of the moment--my chance to be the day's most lauded hero--I reached for my otherwise useless cell phone. "Do you need a doctor?" I rasped hoarsely. "Wow!" she moaned. "Do you need some water?" I pressed the poor woman. "I think I just need to get out of the sun," she wheezed. She wasn't helping me out in my heroquest. I disgustedly bounced my cell phone off her forehead with a decent overhand. "Get out of my sight, you delicate flower," I snarled. She tottered off while people pointed at me and glared. In the foreground, B. and G. continued their litany of devotion, supremely unconcerned with how I was totally willing spend some cell phone minutes to help out a friend of theirs. Fuckers. It's not like nobody else had a cell phone--several people did--but I got mine out first. I get fucked all the time.
Anyway, after all the blah blah blah of the wedding--yeah, kiss the bride, you poor sap, now you're locked in--we went to the damn reception, where everyone decided to fucking bitch at me. "What's with the cell phone to that chick's forehead, dude?" and "Put your pants on, for Christ's sake, man!" and more of this shit. I don't know why people get so uptight. Anyway, the beer flowed freely, and the bride's sister, who is apparently the touring xylophonist for Built To Spill got up and joined the band for a rousing rendition of the Flaming Lips' "Bugs"--I admired the tattoo on her back that reads VICODIN--well, the rest is kind of a blur. I remember brandishing a broken beer bottle at a very wary B. and him saying, for some reason, "Not in the grapes! I need these boys!" B. is so lame now. It used to be about the music.
Anyway, I ended up getting brained with a banjo, as usual. I hate weddings.
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No, I can vouch for the fainting spell. That really happened.
Also, the banjoist is planning on suing for damages. Your head broke his resonator.
You admit to seeing the movie "Newsies"?
"Your head broke his resonator."
You so have a career in porn waiting for you.
Man, I hate the "getting brained with a banjo" part of weddings too, but it's worth it for the free Bud Light and Safeway macaroni salad.
Hi. I'm from Miami. So you see, I'm rather disinclined to believe that bit about fainting from 72 degree gentle sunshine. It can't be. The rest of it sure, banjo-braining and whatnot, but c'mon! 72? As in: seventy-two?
Here, we call that "winter". And by "winter" I do mean that we wear sweaters.
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