Wedding Blog, Pt. III - Houston, you are the problem

Sábado! Sábado! Sábado! Ver como una mujer se casa con un idiota! Este sábado!

And again, in my ongoing quest to somehow make the best night in a couple's lives all about me, I procrastinate to present part three of my four-part series on weddings and how they are ruining my social graces. As the two previous weddings completely understand, I unfairly compare the festivities and ceremony I was invited to the unfair disadvantage of my super-nuptials (because everyone wore capes). In the span of 14 days, I have tasted four cakes, witnessed two awkward kisses ordered by officiants and watched the Mavericks have a parade. Only one of the previous listed events I watched in my boxers. As this series is three-quarters done, I keep the same hypothesis that we as grown-ups do this to ourselves/we do/we and no one else/we do it to ourselves. So, moving forward from the demonstrative setup, let's have Kristi Garsee and Jeff Garner get married, shall we?

As two weeks ago where lack of planning and general disorganization was the order of the day, the Garner/Garsee affair was saturated in planning. Emails from three months out noting proper behavior at the church, itineraries broken down by quarter-hours and tuxedo fittings with alerts pointing to stragglers that have not yet been measured by a really gorgeous black woman...oh, wait, that last part only happened to me. Well...okay, then. So, I ask you, good readers of the blogging blog, is it better to be the freewheeling participant or the rigid clockwatcher, slave to the seating chart?

My answer to the rhetorical: they both suck. That's why variance is the spice of life...unless you are doing something that demands precision.

Speaking of precision, my timing was impeccable to where I totally missed the setup of the chapel. I didn't have to line up any of the 3000 chairs that faced the already-built arbor. I am seeing a disturbing trend that all weddings somehow have manual labor involved in them now. I thought you just showed up, the chairs were set, the Chuppah was built, the food was on the way and the bride and groom don't have to do a damn thing except choose to get a good night's rest. The only fair review time for this wedding would be the magical day in question. No day minus one activities for me. We (The Lovely and I) are there for the mission-critical day at hand.

Mira como estos hombres tratan de crear una foto divertida, sin hacerse daño. Este sábado!

As mentioned in part II, travel always seems to be a necessary evil to partake in weddings unless everyone you know and love is embedded in the same township. So, there's no real reason to complain about something that is inevitable...

...unless it's in Houston.

To carry the same torch of many Dallasites before me, I am going to bang on that city like a kettle drum. I. Hate. Houston. I know it's silly to throw out the word "hate" to a city that has a sub-par football franchise that has the same geographical construct as the metropolitan neighbor to the north. But damn-it-all, I can't stand that town. It consists of 95% roads. Traffic is the official city hobby. Their city flag features two cars bumper to bumper. They shut down AstroWorld because they needed another park and ride (that no one uses). Houston is not Houston unless you are going seven miles an hour on an interstate highway. I hate it.

I know it is completely unfair to judge a wedding based on the city where the event takes place, but Houston is just one big demerit. Besides, it's the point of this exercise is to bash all weddings other than mine. Try to keep up, folks.

After the longest 4 hour drive ever, we hit the hotel and take one big sigh of relief that Houston traffic was not our demise today. Not today, Houston traffic, not today. After a nice hour break of watching my nephew avoid me, it was time to gear up. What's the gear, you ask? Brown tux, pink vest and tie, brown cowboy boots.

Yeah, let's re-examine that. I understand the wedding colors were pink and brown. Okay. But they are real sticklers to the scheme. This concept is lost on me because we didn't have colors at my kickass wedding. Colors for the wedding seems like one of those details that could turn your average, easy-going, reasonable human being into a maniacal, blood-thirsty, hulk-like smashing machine with the strength of 12 evil monkeys.

But the kicker--pun intended--was the elusive chocolate brown cowboy boots. I haven't ridden a horse since I was in Costa Rica (where horses are pretty solid methods of transportation). Even then, I was in my Vibrams. So, cowboy boots aren't vital to my wardrobe. I have a pair of black, soft leather ropers just in case President Perry relinquishes the federal mandate. But now I have to find and purchase brown boots to match the tuxedo? One would not think it would be difficult to find a pair of brown boots in Dallas, but Dallas isn't Fort Worth (thank God or whatever entity separated the two). I would have had an easier time finding an illegal underground unicorn fighting ring. But I found some. They are pretty nice. If ever I could force the excuse to wear them, I think I can try to slip them on once in a while. But damn, I didn't put this much effort into my own wedding.

I will be honest...I have no earthly clue as to what is going on other than Houston gang signs.

So, there we were. Three hours early and suiting up for the event in what looked to be a day-care facility within the church. So, here come three photographers that looked like they just got out of a Yearbook layout meeting. "Okay guys, let's go outside." Eight guys in boots and tuxes...brown boots and tuxes...standing in crematorium heat. Blast furnace wouldn't begin to describe the absence of comfort. And I have to stand there in un-broken-in boots and "act like you are talking to each other"? I was talking to all of them before you kicked us out of the air conditioning.

I think what it all boils down to is comfort. Was I comfortable in my tuxedo? No. I am 35 pounds overweight wearing an effed-up cotton-poly blend that wasn't supposed to wrinkle in 102 degree heat. Was I comfortable in my boots. No? I felt like I was about to tip over with the stupid, stupid heels while I am waiting for my Palomino to whisk me away. Was I comfortable in the church? No. For some non-religious reason, they didn't believe in turning the thermostat down another five degrees. Hell, I would have pitched in for the electric bill for the month if that was the case. Was I comfortable at the dessert reception? No. Ceiling to floor panel windows had a western exposure and they had an espresso bar. Fighting heat with heat doesn't work for me.

But three things trumped the whole batch of discomfort. One, my family was there. It's kinda a kick to the pants when you realize you haven't seen your parents in over a year, but that is forgotten the first hug you get from Mama. Second, The Lovely was there. No matter how my feet ached or my sweat streamed or my temperament tested, she was there to catch me or back me up. Three, Jeffery looks genuinely happy. For the first time in a while, the smile is there, the spring of step is bouncing and the wit is sharp as ever. It's amazing how a person emits negative signals when he's down in the dumps. But when there is happiness, you can't keep a good man down. And I blame that on Kristi.

To the happy couple, Houston would have not stopped me from this wonderful occasion. I speak for The Lovely when I say the ceremony was gorgeous and the prettiest flower in the whole bloom was the one walking down the aisle (not you, Jeff). I apologize for ripping on your color schemes, but the luchador masks clashed beautifully with the brown and pink. No disrespect, but my wedding was cooler. Literally, you could have walked outside without thinking you lost all your breath from the heat evaporating it. We are here if you need anything (including a baby sitter if you want to take the drive to Dallas). Good luck to the both of you.

Wedding Blog series disclaimer - if you haven't figured it out by now, I am going to be an a-hole about your wedding because my wedding was the best. See paragraph one again or just don't read my blog.

Lessons Learned, my three things.
1) Second wedding in a row where a ring bearer/flower girl completely stole the show. Way to go, August. I hope someone was rolling video on that. What is the saying about working with animals and children?
2) Nobody, and I mean no one, thinks you are cool if you are playing drums on your steering wheel with actual drum sticks while going 80 MPH. Houston drivers are a bunch of jaggoffs.
3) Swallowing your pride and saving 60 bucks on gas is worth it. Three cheers for the Corolla! The FJ is not a road-tripper, just an urban assault vehicle.

Three down. One to go. But there's a lot of other nonsense to get through, such as training in DC, the 24-hour blitz of NYC, the Rahr and Sons brewery tour, the loss of the NFL, an underachieving college football season, TX-OU weekend and my dog's birthday. Summer time/and the livin' is easy. Talk later.

Garbage Time - Sports are great until television ruins it

How the hell did Brian Cardinal get back to Dallas so soon after the game?

I called Mavs in 7. I was wrong. Oh well. Once again the sports spotlight is focused on the fair city of Dallas (not Arlington, thankfully). I am happy for the Mavs and all of their devoted fans. I am pleased to see the city in sports euphoria. What I was not pleased about was the NBA coverage ABC served on a cold plate of LeBron James.

As a small placation from the four-letter network (you know, the guys that run the sports operations at ABC since the mid-nineties—Disney), they have instituted an ombudsman…of sorts. In years past, they have employed journalistic hard hitters to show their teeth to what is wrong with ESPN and what they are doing right. This seems to alleviate the “too big to fail” axiom of “hey, we have a watchdog…see?” Now, they don’t call it an ombudsman anymore. ESPN pulled a Dell and has just outsourced to a media analysis team that yield not-as-impressive credentials as some of the previous Knights of the Veil.

Here now is my open letter to ESPN, ABC Sports and the Internet as a whole as three talking heads and a production truck tried to ruin my good time. I don’t know if they read it. Actually, I don’t care. ESPN has just gotten so damn big that I am the skull that the Skynet machines run over and turn to dust on a daily basis. But hey, at least it makes me feel better.

I'm confused. I thought Tyson Chandler was taller...and less female?

To the Poynter Review Project (via ESPN.com)

Unfortunately, my complaint and observations may seem biased due to my geographical location. However, I would like to disclaim any sort of presuppositions with a bit of background as you did with your Poyinter Review Project mini-biography. And I have had a couple of days to think about it.

As a lifelong Spurs fan, I have enjoyed a good streak of fandom from 1987 (when David Robinson was drafted), to the new awareness of playoff basketball, to a renaissance in 1997 (when Tim Duncan was drafted), to the championship runs in starting in 1999 and, most recently, in 2007. With that, I have watched hours of NBA coverage with all the networks. When ABC took over the Finals telecasts in 2002, ABC and ESPN brought a superior production value covering my beloved Spurs three times as they would reach their championship goal. The Finals series matchup between the two conference champs were the focus with ABC/ESPN coverage as the athletes and team personalities were featured in a secondary light. The game on the court was the most important storyline with the professionals broadcasting the game.

Due to previous commitments made with ESPN in the previous free agent season, this year’s Finals coverage made an erroneous left turn into a brick wall.

I guess ESPN/ABC sports had to continue the failed path of “The Decision” all the way to the end. It was obviously good television as the ratings windfall for Mavs/Heat hit highs not reached since 2002. People did want to see LeBron James, in whatever capacity “The King” would display his South Beach talents—to fail or succeed. However, your broadcast team completely forgot 1) there was another 12 players in away jerseys defending against the Heat and 2) there were four other Heat players on the court handling the ball.

The broadcast team of Mike Breen, Jeff Van Gundy and Mark Jackson were incorrigible in their blatant disregard and non-attempt of objectivity with their play-by-play and commentary throughout games 1-5 of the NBA Finals with a complicit production team. It’s as if the other team (the champion Dallas Mavericks) was transparent in their eyes of LeBronVision. In Game 6, the booth and the production truck started to turn a corner as the momentum was too difficult to ignore, but only marginally as they both continued to focus on replayed missed jumpers and hot-potato passes by James. Never have I watched such a broadcast where the primary objective was to follow James on his solitary quest from the May 2010 announcement to the coronation of the King ESPN always wanted to crown.

It would take a massive amount of naiveté and blind faith in objective broadcast journalism to think ESPN/ABC would not be tainted by “The Decision”. The fingerprints were everywhere as SportsCenter devoted 35 minutes on an inadvertent shoulder bump from James to coach Erik Spolestra—in December. I should be giving credit instead of rendering shame for the stick-to-itiveness of the story, which is one man in a team sport with 30 other teams vying for the same goal. However, this strikes a negative cord in one of the primary tenets of journalism: do not make the byline writer the story. Every nudge toward James smacked of the spin being performed, either purposefully within production or unconsciously with editorial. But again, naïve thoughts like this do not compose the national collective of broadcast journalism.

I also understand the broadcast team has to give the fans what they want. However, the execution was completely off target that is ruined the actual play on the court. Finals MVP Dirk Nowitzki would shoot a 15-footer in the second period of Game 2 with the broadcast collective continuing their discussion of how great James has been on defense. If the viewing is disconnected from the broadcast, that is a failure of the broadcast. Sure, fans listen to sports pundits such as Charles Barkley, but that sort of braggadocio is better reserved for the halftime, post-game or pre-game show. Van Gundy and Jackson (and unfortunately in certain points, Breen) have that flare for confliction and aggravation. Again, this is what our current sports broadcasting construct consists of. But it was as if the other team (the Mavs) was an absolute afterthought. By halftime of Game 3, I had the play-by-play on mute opting for the Mike Tirico and Hubie Brown radio broadcast.

Is there a “fix” for this? Partially, Mark Jackson is departing for the Golden State Warriors. But that is only a personification of the bigger problem. The following season will allow for incomplete story lines striving for closure. SportsCenter will once again follow training camp of the Heat and all 82 games will have the microscope set to 100x. The only “wish” I have for the next time the Finals roll around is that there is a certain amount of cognizance when broadcasting the next two teams, as opposed to the solitary chess piece that should be the sum of their parts.

Thank you for allowing this platform of critical analysis of the ESPN/ABC Sports product. This is a great evolution of understanding sports fans have evolved from the weekend watchers to the sharper eyes and ears that need to be heard to continue to (try to) enjoy the every-expanding ESPN product. Who knows, this Finals broadcast could be a successful spinoff to the ESPN original series featuring James and his exploits.

So...for what it's worth...

Lessons Learned, my three things.
1) Hey, Houston Rockets fans...calm down. You have two, the Spurs have four. Can't the Mavs have this one? One? Good gravy.
2) There should be something about planning a parade BEFORE the champ is crowned.
3) No, I have not been converted, thank you for asking.

Thursday's the parade. It's in the neighborhood, so why not? Kinda cool. Then to a wedding, in Houston. I will review the coolness of that next post. Talk later.

Wedding Blog, Pt. II - "You see that hill...that's Canada"

Congrats to Jenny and Bryan. This totally looks like a Chuppah. But apparently it's an arbor. Okay then.

Once again, in my ongoing quest to belittle everyone else’s “big day”, I intrepidly present part two of my four-part series on weddings and how they are ruining my liver and bank account. As you may already know (all four of you that read this drivel), I have unfairly compared one of the year’s four invited weddings with the camera obscura of my awesome nuptials (beef wellington, anyone?). The second wedding, one of the three in which I actually had to dress up for, will be no different. And yes, I keep the same mental tenant that we as grown-ups don’t need the trouble, but will gladly go through the trouble of getting hitched. So, without any more needful explanation, I give you Jennifer Murphy and Bryan Pena.

I think it is more the norm than the exception that most people invited to a wedding have to travel. It was the case for my folks recently departing Corpus that they had to drive in from Laredo. Some of my side drove in from as far as Columbus, Ohio (thank you, Matt) to get down with our festivities. So, me bitching about flying to beautiful and scenic Traverse City, Michigan is a non-factor. The trick was not to get hosed on the flight costs. To alleviate said financial beating, The Lovely stayed back in The D to look after our Tasmanian Devils while I report the scene.

And what a scene it was.

The spot was gorgeous. The town (can’t really call it a city) is right off Lake Michigan with golf courses, wineries and harbors peppered throughout. Everything was within a mile of base camp and there was literally no way of getting lost. So, my unwitting fear of foreign lands was quickly quelled. Too bad I couldn’t rent a Vespa for the weekend. It was aimed to be quite picturesque: ceremony on the beach, reception in the ballroom, post-party wherever you can stumble. Awesome, right? Right?

To the uninitiated, the devil is never in the general plan. The devil is in the details.

Victory cigars! Celebrating like they won something. Yay, winning!

So, Friday afternoon I touched down, sans The Lovely, with Bryan and Jenny and the wedding photog Janessa picking me up from the airport. After the free ride, I was finally afforded the pleasure of meeting Jenny’s parents Ray and Sue…while weaving around three active ironing boards. Mom-of-bride and two other ladies were ironing gentle fabrics that would be adorning the seat backs of the reception hall chairs (hot pink and blaze orange if anyone was curious of the color scheme, plus sea green). This was my first interaction with a furrowed brow.

Bah, no worries. Last minute heroics happen all the time at weddings. That’s what makes each wedding truly unique. So, of course I blew it off with par for the course.

Five o’clock hits (Eastern effing Daylight Time) and we are standing barefoot in the strip of beach outside the hotel and we are doing the walkthrough. Easy peasy. Wanna do it again just to make sure we’ve got it? Sure! We’ve got time. Run it again, no issues. Rehearsal dinner’s at seven…perfect. Go to a kickass brew pub for some din-din. Get some gifts, drink more beer, fill up on food. Good stuff.

So, the devil tapped James and me on the shoulder and gave us another pair of details…(Bill Lumbergh voice) Ummm, yeah, I’m going to need you to finish 60 wedding programs with bows and colored ribbons before you do anything else tonight, mmmkay? And while you’re at it, we are going to need help tomorrow morning building the arbor on the beach and decorating the seat and aisles for the ceremony, mmmkay? Thanks.

No, it's not the latest boy band. But if it is, I call dibs on the "angry but with a sensitive side" boy band member.

There is no room for complaining during a wedding, especially if it’s the night before…but goddamn! Really? We have to finish wedding programs and help out Bob Villa with “This Old Arbor”? It would be tantamount if I went to Scott, Michael and Matt to say: “So did you guys have plenty to eat and drink? Excellent. Okay, let’s get crackin’. The Chuppah isn’t going to build itself.”

Call me a punk, but I merely assumed that my only responsibilities were 1) make Bryan’s life easier, 2) hang out and give advice when needed and 3) run interference with the bride to prevent any pre-ceremony sightings. That’s it. Granted, they don’t make a contract for these types of things, but that was what I thought I was there for…along with moral support since there was only about eight Texans in the whole wedding party.

But there we were. Bryan, James and I were making bows out of ribbon of hot pink and blaze orange on programs while a small parade of people jumped in and out of our hotel room. Not the “last night of freedom” I was thinking for my man, Bry-Bry. We gutted it out and made one more run at the bars downtown.

The next day, there was an itinerary that was apparently created and floating somewhere around the hotel for the participants…but it never got to room 330, where the groom and two groomsmen were trying to get wrinkles out of 100% cotton. So, of course the ceremony was late. Once the boutonnieres were installed and the ladies in pink were sequenced with the men in green, the temperature climbed to 85 degrees. The men were savvy enough to remember their sunglasses but the women too easily forfeited them as a wardrobe faux pas. So much for sun protection, the men lost that battle pretty quickly.

The sand was hot, the shirts were quickly swashed with sweat, James and I thought it was a terrible idea to go commando, my eyes were melting in my shitty new contacts and, to cap it, the flower girl had a straight up, “I don’t wanna do this” meltdown of a meltdown halting the ceremony at least another two minutes.

But none of it mattered when Jenny walked down the aisle.

It still didn’t matter afterwards when James and I showed up too early to the reception, or when the guests were fed out-of-order, or if I had to shell out 60 bucks to a cash bar on hotel well Scotch (bastards!), or if I had no one to dance with, or if I felt like one of the last fighters in the Alamo, or if everyone sounded like Sarah Palin, or if the event felt like a fire drill, or if I broke James with a Busch-league move on a scavenger hunt I would lose anyway, or if I was not having fun, or the cake was dry, or if I was missing my best friend at an event that I really, really wanted her to go, or if we missed last call at “Club Skittles”.

None of it mattered when Bryan said “you fit me like a stickshift” and Jenny said “I do”.

To the happy couple, Michigan was more beautiful than I thought. I absolutely appreciate the invite. For your first wedding on a shoestring budget, this was pretty damn beautiful. I apologize for being a punk but I was not the biggest fan of being “that other guy from Texas”. Eh, that’s okay. Everyone will figure out who I am eventually. No disrespect, but my wedding was cooler. Literally, it was an indoor wedding and no one sweat thought their clothes, especially the linen pants. Just like the wedding, it takes a village. Anytime you need some advice, just let me know. Good luck to the both of you.

Wedding Blog series disclaimer - I am going to be an absolute jerk about your wedding because my wedding was the best. See paragraph one, again.

Lessons Learned, my three things.
1) I hate voting for the guy that’s about to lose. It’s like Nader all over again.
2) If no one else wants to do “Hack of the Day”, I might have to do it myself.
3) It is surreal when a Spurs fan roots for the Mavs. Now I know how Katie Couric feels. Wait, wha?

We are coming in hot with the next installment as big brother @Garner_99 has his weddin’ day. If it wasn’t bad enough that I had to deal with some crazy accents, I am going to have to do it again. Three teasers: brown tuxes, dessert reception and luchador masks. Uh oh. Talk later.