Sunday, April 3, 2011

Wedding Blog from one man's perspective, Pt. 1

After some prodding to write a wedding blog from the male perspective, I gave in. Please understand that I am aware of the dangers in doing so, but I have refused to heed such warnings.  Victoria will understand, I'm sure...but just in case I am too cocksure, like the ignorant almost always are, then I apologize to her in advance. Let me start by saying that moving toward a proposal is like strapping yourself to an  amusement park ride and being pulled up several stories, waiting for your gut to drop. The drop is visible, and you see those in front of you beginning to put their hands to the sky (I'm 29, so I'm seated somewhere near the middle). When let loose, the uncontrollable plummet begins. It all began with her chasing me around the car, trying to gain back possession of this little black notebook. If you read this, honey, you are fast as hell on those two little feet.

I obviously won the footrace, only to find pictures of bridesmaids dresses, cloth swatches, and a guest list. Holy shit! My contributions so far have been mostly been contrived of insisting on playing drug riddled songs by KiD CuDi during the ceremony and deciding that maybe a mariachi band specializing in metal music might just be the right choice for us. The thing is, she went along with all of my decisions. She's willing to put up with quite a bit of my shit.

Here is one example:
Before I proposed, we went to bubble gum alley to see The Lord of the Cello Marston Smith wail in the streets of downtown San Luis Obispo.  He is armed with an electric cello, light box and one bitching fan.  I mean, the air moves through this guy's hair like a Kansas tornado as he croons the women in his golden breastplate of armor. There are even videos of him playing atop a mountain, in complete Yanni fashion.

After insisting that maybe he had just played "our song", she continued to speak to me.  I was baffled. Soon after, we settled near the pier at Avila, where a Dr. Seuss quote won her back to my side.

So, I have concluded that this woman does really love me, which is no easy task. I still have the freedom to insert KiD KuDi songs into the ceremony, which I never thought would really happen. On top of this, I have complete freedom in naming our first born son, unequivocally. I'm leaning toward Maximum Force Wood, but am open to suggestions.  I am also curious if there are any proven ways to insure a male is born, though I will love all of my children no matter the sex. Really...let me know, though. 

Here's the deal. She still finds me as a compatible mate. Even after my family hesitated to congratulate us (only slightly) because of our announcement on April Fool's Day, she is still in. Campy street performers can't even drive her away. I'm starting to become grateful of the little black book she so diligently chased me around the car to gain possession of, unsuccessfully. They say the Devil is in the details, and she has the Devil on a short leash.  As a man, unable to fully gain focus on these details, I am extremely lucky to have a beautiful woman to come in and tighten the slack.

Crush a bit, little bit, roll it up, take a hit
Feelin’ lit feelin’ light, 2 am summer night.
I don't care, hand on the wheel, drivin drunk, I'm doin’ my thang
Rollin the Midwest side and out livin’ my life getting’ out dreams
People told me slow my roll I'm screaming out fuck that
Imma do just what I want lookin’ ahead no turnin’ back
if I fall, if I die, know I lived it to the fullest
if I fall, if I die, know I lived and missed some bullets


An afternoon in Hollyweird

My true intentions were to watch the Dodgers play the Giants as the baseball season revved into full swing, but sometime Saturday morning the intent shifted into a goose chase to find  Johnny Depp's mark on the star studded streets of downtown Hollywood. It wasn't my mission, but I felt more than obliged to help. First I happened upon Charlie Sheen's star and decided to simulate a 7 gram rock "bump".

This may seem like odd behavior, but let me assure you that this is one of the least obscene gestures you'll witness in Hollyweird.  For instance, Michael Jackson's still kicking doppleganger hovers over his Walk of Fame star while tourists shove a few creased dollars into his one gloved hand in exchange for a photo opportunity with the King of Pop incarnate.  There are more than a few people outfitted as "your friendly neighborhood Spiderman" and are also willing to pose for profit, and I was physically accosted by Diego (the cartoon character) after refusing to exchange money for photos. 

As religious proselytes chanting "Jesus, Jesus, Jesus..." filled my hands with pamphlets and booklets of all shapes and sizes, I felt the need to get involved.  The countering screams of "Cheeze-its, Cheeze-its, Cheeze-its!..." spread from my mouth to the mouths of other dissenters until there was a clash between followers of Christ, and snack cracker enthusiasts rang throughout the street.  Just as we're about to turn the corner, I am tapped on the shoulder by a fuzzy red hand. I turn, only to see a man-sized Elmo looking me square in the face.  In a gruff voice diabolically differing from the childhood puppet voice that rings with familiarity to Sesame Street  fans past and present, I hear him chant "Cheeze-its, Cheeze-its, Cheeze-its" in my ear as he offers me a red furry thumbs up.  So, Either Elmo hates Jesus, or loves baked cheese flavored wafers.  It's too early to tell which at this point.

There are souvenir shops full of fake Oscar awards, with somewhat generalized placards.  They read "Best Dad Award" or "Favorite Child Award" and such.  I contemplated buying a "Parent of the Year" Oscar for the mother I saw snapping a shot of her over-sexualized tween daughter posing spread eagle over the star of one Hugh Hefner.  She is in the teal shirt, but scattered quickly when we poked fun about presenting her with said award.

Being from Kansas, where the prospect of stardom is about 2,000 miles (and countless tribulations) away from being a possibility, the side effects of notoriety on the Hollywood society is a fascinating case study. Placing the pieces together, those Spidermans, Elmos, and Michael Jacksons are soliciting donations by exploiting what the Hollywood culture holds dear.  While contemplating these implications, I stumbled upon the most somber Spidey I have ever seen.  He sat defeated in a corner along the walkway, aggravated that onlookers would take his picture without offering donations...just as I had done. It reminded me of a child that will end at nothing to garner attention, even if it's negative. Or is he, and those in his similar costumed albeit desolate position, just playing into the star studded spectacle that visitors expect? Maybe he is an entrepreneur of sorts. 

We found Johnny Depp's star, and actually found a knockoff squash-buckling Jack Sparrow asking for photo op donations, but decided to skip the opportunity.  We had completed our mission, and the sun was beginning to fade on the strip. I settled on purchasing a metal Wizard of Oz lunch box as a gift for Toto (Victoria), since leaving town without her means bringing back a meaningful trinket. It reminded me that "there is no place like home". I must admit, however, that Hollywood, California is goddamn entertaining.