Wedding Blog, Pt. IV - One more round, Velvet Tiger

I don't always drink beer. But when I do, I do it with Michael Bittner.

So, it comes down to this. In my final adventure to completely make the best night in a couple's lives all about me, I culminate my four-part series on weddings with it's final narrative, concluding that maybe all weddings are not that bad. As explained to the three previously-wedded couples, I have successfully unfairly compared their festivities and ceremony and minimized them to a mere shindig or hoe-down status. I was invited even though the super-nuptials I partook in nearly four years ago was the best. And if they didn't like my critique, I was going to take my ball, and a slice of cake, and go home. In an exhausting seven-month run, I have tasted eight cakes, witnessed four awkward kisses ordered by officiants and blew off the World Series Game 3 (which was a pretty good game to blow off) to chronicle this institution. As I am finally done with all of this celebratory celebration, my hypothesis has been altered due to all of the experimental variables that have screwed up my control group. We jump all of these crazy hurdles for love. Not only for the love of a man or woman, but a love of family and extended family and extended family that will help life out any and every step of the way. Thanks Michael and Sarah for screwing up my original thesis that everyone's wedding other than mine is a massive time killer. Great. Just great.

If you can't tell, I am yelling at the happy couple while The Lovely smiles proudly
(Thanks to Michael & Fairy Tale Photography for the leak).

I think for the rest of the year, I am just going to fly by the seat of my pants as far as planning for what I am going to do day by day and hour by hour. Sure, I will go to work and eat breakfast and all those necessities, but in regards to the last two weddings I was invited to, the level of planning, forethought and time-brokering for mundane activities was a bit much for me. I thought Jeff's wedding was overdoing it...Michael scheduled the day of hour by hour. Who schedules their mid-afternoon cocktail? And whatever wasn't scheduled over email or Google Calendar, I felt like it was an episode of "24". Because, "we don't have time" or "we're running out of time".

As the expanding scope of the wedding continued to capture volunteers to perform side jobs before the event, I became technical support for the visual presentation at the reception hosted at the parents for the bride. Yeah, I'm complaining because I was mildly hung over from the rehearsal dinner, but it really wasn't that big of a deal. Just bring your laptop, plug it in to the big TV in the living room and run a slide show. Not bad. But as we all know with technology, the devil is in the details.

I apparently own the saddest Dell laptop ever because it only has three USB 2.0 ports and only a VGA out. I skipped past the HPs and Lenvonos that actually have supportable video capabilities. Damn my cheapness. Fortunately, there was a SD card reader on the set. Easy peasy: just move the JPEG files from the jump drive to the SD, prep the set for "infinite loop" and the video slide show of super-embarrassing pictures of the couple before they met is complete for the presentation. One problem: the universal remote does not play nice with the embedded Panasonic functions. With only about 30 minutes to spare and the father of the bride shrugging at me, I did the only thing I could think of to remedy this issue...I asked the mother of the bride for help.

Turns out wives hide things from husbands. But I didn't think it would be the TV set remote. Jill (mom of bride) procured the only device that could solve my issue in under 10 seconds. John (pop of bride) was not only impressed with the audible I called, but happy that his partner for life had his back. Crisis averted. The bride gets what she wants without a clumsy laptop teetering problematically on top of a Blu-ray player. And the small victory makes the occasion that much more special.

The Lovely and I in full wedding mode. Thanks again to Michael for the bow tie execution.

I guess this was where I turned the corner on the whole wedding thing. Maybe I should have been more involved in the three previous weddings (building an arbor that looked suspiciously like a chuppah notwithstanding). Maybe putting my heart before my head would have been the way to go with the other celebrations. Not that I didn't love all of the other participants--I do. But there was something about this wedding that holds a very special place in my heart.

It was a rough time for Michael and I a handful of years back. I was getting my ass whipped trying to pay back some of my debts in Corpus while Michael was getting his ass whipped in law school. I made my semi-annual visit to Austin (when Austin actually felt like home instead of an extension of Northpark Mall). We shot a couple games of billiards at the old home of Gingerman. We were both in the dumps, but Michael was in a far darker corner of the dumpster than I was. I expressly remember him giving up on love. He was going to be content, once with his law degree, bar exam clearance and firm job, that he was just going to have some "trophies" laying around. Sure, he would like them and all, but he knew that where he was headed, not only did he not have time for love, he wasn't in the mood to try to discover it. It was one of those statements that you rock back on your heels and say, "whoa". Not only on the fact that Michael scratched on the eight ball again, but just the shear resigning of effort. He might as well mail it in. And no matter how much shit I was in, this made me feel even sadder, especially for someone that I have known since 1999.

Fast-forward 12 years later, the tendered letter of resignation was revoked. And it made me happy. It has been a long, strange trip for Michael, likewise for Sarah (though I don't know all of her narratives in between). But when you have known someone and have grown up with someone and you see all the sections of growth and maturity, it gets to you on a different emotional plane. And it made perfect sense that this was the most anticipated event of the season. And you want to be a part of it. Hell, you need to be a part of it because it parallels life (at least mine) so much that it almost makes the universe balanced.

The one thing about an actual bow-tie is the hammered look is quite respectable.

Before everyone gets ahead of themselves, this wedding did not--I repeat--NOT top the wedding where The Lovely said, "I do". But Sarah and Michael made one hell of a run at it to overtake the ranking. And I wouldn't have missed it for 20 Texas Ranger World Series.

To the happy couple, I had no idea East McKinney resembled Stockdale, TX. That was an added bonus. I am pretty sure I can speak for The Lovely when I say that we were absolutely honored by the invite, participation and exclusivity you gave both of us during this very special affair. I apologize for secretly being a punk. I hope none of my negativity reached you (I really, really hope it didn't) but this will be my last wedding in attendance for at least four years. No disrespect, but my wedding was better. But only better in the sense that I met the perfect woman and you two are perfect for each other. I don't think I could last one week married to Michael--not that there is anything wrong with that. Sarah, welcome to the Bittner-Bolton-Gonzalez-Chapman-Garner branch of the family. Anytime you both need any thing, just ring The Lovely or me. I would say good luck to both of you but I don't think you need it since you have already dodged a severe thunderstorm by stagecoach. I love you both.

Wedding Blog disclaimer -- I am done. Done, I tell you. You wanna start something, meet me outside.

Lessons Learned, my three things.
1) Go Rangers! Nap Nap Wiener.
2) Hey #OccupyDallas, I support you, but come on. Walk three more blocks down and two blocks up and you get to fuck with the real suits, not the poor bastard personal banker that gets paid less than a teacher.
3) T-minus 39 days...and boy are my legs used to this.

Finally, I can start studying. Thank God. Oh, wait...I have another mitzvah is South Florida? Where are my flash cards? Talk later.

Only requesting one type of segregation

Wow, look at that Greek God! Oh wait, that's me bearded and 15 pounds lighter. Those were the days.

In a quarterly effort of beating my body to a pulp a trying to create a new record for reciting the only memorable quote from Lethal Weapon, I decided to sign up for a half-marathon training at a local running store (redacted). I won the training during a silent auction, so I might as well use it. Besides, my whole "one-man wolfpack" routine wasn't working out other than looking for strippers and cocaine (calm down, it's a movie quote). So, it was a common-sense move for someone that wanted another crack at the White Rock track...but only half.

Picture yourself, waking up at four-fifteen in the morning every other day (Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday). In the waking moments, you stumble around in the darkness looking for all of your new and updated running accoutrement. The Garmin watch is clear across the way from the specially-designed running socks which is opposite room of the quick breakfast pellets to snack on pre-run. While the sleep is trying to escape your eyes, YOU HAVE TO DRIVE to the running store where the group meets (quick aside: I hate the fact I have to drive to run. I should just run...but it is a bit far for a warmup jog from the house...still hate that, though).

The car is in park. The inventory continues: watch, visor, car key separation, water bottle belt, Sports Beans, heart monitor, forgetting to powder your thighs and tape your nipples but you will tough it out. There is now a constant pile of a change of clothes and towels for the aftermath. As the truck doors are locked, there is a deep inhalation of a warm, almost radioactive, air rising from the roads that are about to be run. Get ready for 05:15...that's when it starts.

Sounds fun, right?

With record temperatures for the past--oh--sixty days (!), oh-dark-thirty is about the only safe time to attempt a run more than four miles. But it's not the waking or the anticipation of tearing my body down that ruins the group runs for me.

Maybe it's my background of adolescent locker rooms and two hulking brothers also into sports or just my general comfort level with my company during athletic endeavors...but there is an element to my group run that makes me dread Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday (other than the avoidance of alcohol on Monday, Wednesday and Saturday--boo!).

"You know, this is almost as hard as child birth."

"Oh my gosh, it is so hot out here. And I'm tired."

"You can tell that race doesn't cater to women. There race shirts were awful."

"My assistant is such a moron. She can't do one thing right."

"Are you on travel because I'm not on travel if you are on travel."

"Have you read 'The Help' or are you going to see the movie first?"

You guessed it. It's not the time or day or the strain of effort, it's the fact that I am running with a dozen women that just won't stop talking. Jeezie Chreezie, it is five-fucking-fifteen in the morning! What the hell is so important at 5:15 that you have to prattle on about it for four miles? I don't care about your job. I don't care about your kids. I don't care that you had to invite a person you didn't want to invite to happy hour. It is 5:15! Why are you talking? Stop talking and run!

Now, I don't mean to be misogynistic. And damnit if I'm not the first one in line to say I love women. To boot, all of these women in my running group are beautiful and athletic. Plus, I don't want to degrade a system that has been around a lot longer than my lone-wolf ass. The unnamed running store has fantastic coaches and a great system that keeps runners alive. For those facts, the store has nothing to do with my consternation of the group. I guess I just need to run faster.

The aimless chatter issue came to a head when we had to consolidate running groups due to a shortage of coaches. The addition of the dozen or so ladies that have nothing to do but to talk and run consumed the full-marathon group we latched onto. Ladies talking to new people...silence didn't stand a chance. The overwhelmed coach asked everyone to keep the volume down to no avail. Poor homeowners in affluent neighborhoods were subjected to my every-other-day hell.

In this case, I think a bit of segregation wouldn't hurt. Granted, the groups would be super small. My current group of 15 would be whittled to three (including me). And the limited conversations (you know, because we are running six friggin' miles at five in the morning) would be a bit more soluble.

"I sold my S2000 for a Mercedes Benz. I do miss that little Honda, though."

"Ah, that hill wasn't that bad, was it?"

"I just farted. Watch your 12 o'clock." (I made that one up because no one has had the balls to say that yet.)

I know this is merely an extension of what these ladies do while we are running. I complain. I gripe. I moan. But at least I'm fully awake when I do it. Don't get me wrong, the ladies in the group are very nice and I have had a couple of conversations, including football, with a couple of the runners. But man, sometimes it's nice to lose yourself in the run with the safety and protection of the group. Realizing I will only get that at the final mile when everyone is gassed is a saving grace. Let's just say group runs and solo runs have their respective pluses and minuses.

Lessons Learned, my three things.
1) It's hard not to over-think the obvious when the analysis begs for re-examination. However, sometimes the easiest answer is the best answer.
2) Don't you hate it when your state-sponsored cyber attack tools and strategy is leaked? Yeah, me too.
3) "Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results."
BONUS (while writing this post): Boy, that escalated quickly... I mean it got out of hand really fast.

So, I am going to continue to take my medicine for the next 12-13 weeks, silence or lack thereof. If you see me not finish a beer or cocktail, it's because all this running is souring my taste for getting drunk (which is really messing with the image). Need to start locking down study time and fantasy football time. How about that collision of priorities. Talk later.

No Sleep 'Til...The East Village? OR Please do not try this trip without proper supervision

Washington Square Park...fortunately pre-apocalypse (the yellow really makes me stand out).

Eight days in Washington for training...I didn't snap a single picture of the beauty of our nation's capital. Sixteen hours in New York City--Manhattan specifically--and I am a shutterbug.

Allow me to reset the story for those I have yet to bother to tell (because I am terrible with phone calls). I was enrolled with the SEC504 class in Washington, DC as a part of SANSFIRE. Six days of hard-core exploit training and tactics. It was good. I always appreciate the fact that I can get out of town and immerse myself in training and networking. As I have mentioned before, I work in a neat field of employment that never lacks in excitement and novelty. So, my last week was cool.

But sometimes, it's not about the sundae. It's about the whipped cream with the cherry on top. This dessert topping was one evil cherry and the whipped cream was produced by the devil himself.

Because DC was just not enough, we decided to venture to The City. When I mentioned 16 hours in New York City, I am being specific. It's not like The Lovely and I were awake for 16 hours that day and slept it off at a buddy's apartment in the Lower East Side. No-no! I mean, we were out of the DC area for 24 hours so we can hang out in NYC for 16 hours. Where's the other eight hours, you ask? It's called a train. And for a Texas kid like me we might as well have been traveling by unicorn because this was all foreign to me.

The arrival wasn't bad. Three and a half hours of legroom and townships buzzing by so fast your eyes had a difficult time refreshing the images (or maybe I was just sleepy and cranky due to the 0730 train on Saturday morning). I can now claim I have "seen" New Jersey. Not really sure how I can insert that into normal conversation. But technically, with help from a train, I saw Eastern Maryland, extreme Northern Delaware and Eastern New Jersey before parking it at Penn Station.

McSorley's Old Ale House--where they have both kinds of beer, light and dark ale.

We go topside. I have never seen The Lovely so percolated and geeked-out. It was like it was her Christmas morning, you know, if she believed in that kind of stuff. The smile got bigger when we were on 7th Ave and W 31st St. The hustle and exhaust of Gotham was finally a tangible description in my brain and my senses. I get why The Lovely missed this place the moment we took the correct turn away from Madison Square Garden. Sometimes you really, really, REALLY have to be there.

So, we set out. Go underground again to get to 14th Street via subway and we are back topside at Union Square Park. We were in search for Acme Bar and Grill, but alas it was "closed for renovations", which is code for "yeah, we didn't have the heart to tell you, so we are going to pussy-foot this one and sneak out in the dark of night". This would be one of three strikeouts The Lovely experienced while were were jogging through her old haunts (Mars Bar being the second, pictured below).

But not to worry, apparently this city doesn't have the three places. Reversing our trajectory, we hit McSorley's Old Ale House for a couple of half-pints and a sandwich. This place is so old (how old is it!) that Rutherford B. Hayes is still persona non grata for stiffing one of the bartenders (insert laughter here). Pretty cool for a reconstruction era joint to be still around and accepting credit cards.

Onward for more walking to Tompkins Square Park bordering on Alphabet City. We shifted once again back to 2nd Ave for some shade and a beverage at Demsey's. This is where my awareness of walking long distances and the similarities of long-distance running should (mind you, should) have kicked in. At that point, we may have logged 3-5 miles of walking, which is no big deal for native and acclimated New Yorkers. However, it still was nearly 100 degrees in The City. The formula should read:

Heat(Distance + Sweat(friction coefficient))Fatigue = Deterioration of Shorts.

Yeah, I should have "prepared" better than I did. More on that later.

Mars Bar--now closed, mainly because of general poor hygiene. Apparently slackers and goths are pissed.

Refreshed, we crossed Houston (HAUW-ston) Street to check out why Julian Casablancas sang a song about Ludlow Street. Confused, we double-backed to Houston now working our way through Bowery to the Puck Building. The Puck Building used to house Pratt Manhattan campus and was true stomping ground of The Lovely. We could not go without having a pint at her after-class/before-class bar. Pretty damn cool.

We whip in back up Lafayette Street and W 3rd Street to walk through the amoeba-like campus of NYU. It's like every other building has a purple flag on it. C'mon guys, Imperialism is over. Then through Washington Square Park we traveled. Remember that formula I just made up a couple of paragraphs ago? Yeah, my inner legs were burning through my boxers. If milk was a bad choice on a hot day, my lack of preparation for miles of walking on the same hot day was a worse choice. There's no way you can fake discomfort when you have to walk everywhere. So, I did what any other man in my position would do...I walked to the closest familiar bar with The Lovely and tried to gently "medicate" the pain.

The fun part was that we had a 6pm reservation for dinner and drinks with Goose and Emily...seven blocks away. I guess you could describe my gait as injured thoroughbred meets guy who looks like he needs to find a toilet as soon as possible. What can you do? We finished our beers at Reservoir and hiked it once again.

So, when you Google the phrase "Please Don't Tell NYC", you land on certain related entries pointing to the same thing. I don't feel comfortable talking about a speakeasy that we may or may not have had reservations for a booth. But if it's on Google, isn't the cat already out of the bag? That's like talking about Fight Club. Anyway, if you want to ask me about it offline, you may have to waterboard me because they said "please".

A badger wearing a bowtie. I'm not supposed to say where I'm at.

As the twosome became a foursome with Goose, Emily and The Lovely, then the tour was really on. The ladies, obviously New York veterans, we playing "Is This Bar Open?" while Goose and I were creating our own conspiracies. The evening run was on after the speakeasy as we hit Veselka Restaurant, Decibel, Big Bar and Tile Bar. The final six-hour blitz was damn-near epic. Sure, my wounded horse walk-step was damaging, but no one cares how you look or walk in large metropolitan areas, especially if you are not in their way.

Two AM came way too soon. And off we were catching a cab back to Penn Station. Limping, sweat encrusted and maybe a little drunk, we push forward back to DC. I can state that I know how a zombie feels and I would never want to be one. But three huge objectives were established: I got to see (a portion) of New York, I know what a train looks like and The Lovely got what she has been wanting for the last five years. As all married men know, when she's happy... No, that's silly. This blitz was for the both of us. We needed to experience The City. So we did. I wouldn't change a single minute. But we should sleep over next time.

Lessons Learned, my three things (DC to NY to DC edition).
1) Don't assume that the 0300 train from NYC to DC will be empty. It isn't. With all the sprawled bodies that have been passengers since Vermont at 9PM, a couple would be lucky to find two seats together.
2) I understand lots of famous people call New York home, but how is it that I could only cross paths with Todd Barry? Eh, I will take what I can get, even if The Lovely finds him "random".
3) I was fearing the smell of the hot old city but it was really not that bad. It can't be any worse than a hot younger city where people still don't pick up after their pets. I'm talking to you, Dallas!

As I try to get my head on straight from time zone changes, training and re-acclimation of 100-plus temperatures, I will try to focus for the new cert attempt before falling prey to yet another football season. I need a small victory before other smaller soul-crushing defeats. Talk later.

The Importance of Saying, "You're Fired"

Yup, it's time for that mid-summer stretch.

This might be the most insensitive post I have composed in a while with the poor timing of the title and the national economic woes reported last week. But I am going to allow it. It's really not about people getting fired because there is only a small percentage in the world that actually have the balls to say that.

The angle I am pointing to is more on the service economy that we currently live in. It's a consistent complaint from POTUS to the old crazy guy standing on the corner of Lane and Jackson. We don't make anything anymore, but we sure as hell can find someone to help you find it.

My primary exhibit in my case regards health care. No, no, I am not stirring that hornet's nest. I have had the worst bout of "what the hell is wrong with my left eye" for about...oh, a year and a half. It started with my first trip to Boston when my left eye flared into one of Kypton's red suns while our CIO was chatting up my team. And it hasn't let up. I went to my optometrist with lacking results. So, naturally, I bump it up to a specialists. My new GP gave me the recommendation and I moved on that data. Now, I should have been a bit skeptical because it was a doc only three floors below his office is one of these lovely North Texas medical super-centers where you can break your hip and have a stroke and get them fix in the same building.

Anywho, I am not going to release this ophthalmologist's name. If you want my personal evaluation, I can discuss this offline. So, I go in. I say I have a stye, some extra eye mucus build-up on and around my eye when I wake up and my left eye shifts from pink to red constantly. What I thought was temporarily odd was they went through a full eye exam. I didn't object because I was a new patient and I guess they needed a baseline. Okay, let's do that. But when I wrapped up with the exam and got to qualify time with the real doc (not the techs, which I will address other issues with shortly) and ask why is wrong with my eye, I get the following answer:

"I don't know."

I don't care if you are a horse doctor, hearing "I don't know" from anyone called "doctor" is not a very good answer. So, the doc gives me the exact same prescription as my optometrist. To me, on a definitional level, there is something very wrong with an ophthalmologist and an optometrist performing the exact same remedy. But whatever, this person is a professional and I will go with their recommendation.

A week and a half passed. I magically receive new contacts and get a follow up. Right eye: 20/20. Left eye: 20/fucked up. I have no idea what is going on because my stye wasn't addressed, I still wake up with build-in from Slimer of Ghostbusters fame and, now, I can't see clearly. In my year and a half the vision in my left eye deteriorated. Lovely. So, let's do another eye exam--because that's exactly why I came to the office in the first place???--and see what we see...again. Go figure my prescription would change because they used my glasses as a vision baseline as the baseline has obviously changed. To sum up, second trip to the doc: second different prescription, no solution for my red eye ("I think it's just irritated"), my stye or my gross eye extract.

Two and a half weeks pass. I receive my second set of contacts. Once again, epic fail. 20/20 on the right but the 20/25 on the left causes even more eye fatigue and irritation. Left eye is still red. Stye is still there. I have to wake up flaking off more grossness from my eyes. The doc offers one more solution: hard gas perm contacts. Well, those would be great if I didn't have eyes that were still changing. But I was desperate.

Fourth trip: this one was the kicker. For those blessed with 20/20 vision and that never have to deal with hard lenses, let me see if I can describe the sensation. Have you ever installed plexi-glass panels in preparation for a hockey game? Yeah, it's like that, but put the plexi-glass in your eye. And let that installation swim in your eye for 10-12 hours a day. Go figure my red left eye would turn florescent red. And yes, I still have the stye and I still wake up with garbage caking my eyelids and lashes.

But that wasn't the best part...the best part was when one of the techs gave me soft lens solution instead of hard lens lubricant drops. You work at an ophthalmologist! How the hell do you not know the difference. Throughout the repeated trips, the techs were either ignorant of the hardware, ignorant of the patient or stretched thin because they were the only two that knew what was going on in the place. I spent 90% of my time with the techs than the actual doctor-doctor. This is the same with most medical experiences since 1978. But damn, come on now!

Why am I beating up a doctor's office that is prominently featured in D Magazines Best Docs in Dallas (still not releasing the name)? Because. If I was a five year-old or stuck in college I would not have done what I did a couple of weeks ago. I fired that doctor.

As an adult, I have to remember that my choices are not only tempered by education and influence, but EXPERIENCE. If I had a poor experience at a restaurant, I have a rule that I give that place one more shot (with exceptions). Everything else, I have to man-up, go with what I know and make a decision. I almost forgot that in dealing with my fired doctor. If I am merely going by a CV or resume from a recommendation from another doctor, I would still be stuck in that cold waiting room looking at a Sports Illustrated from 2009 and ushered by some tech that might screw something big up the next time.

We have to remember this because we have this power in our daily lives. Don't like what you are reading? Fire them. Don't like the news you are watching? Fire them. Don't like how your representatives are representing you? Fire them (next time the chance comes around). Don't like the people you are associating yourself with? Fire them. And if someone doubles-back and takes it personally, then they need to grow up.

Just think if I had this power when I was twelve. No, don't think that. Because you can't fire people until you have the education, influence and experience to back up your choice. Simple as that. It was about time I fired this doc. Another couple of weeks, my left eye would have been mistaken for stigmata.

Lessons Learned, my three things.
1) Looks like the collective caught a big fish. I'm sure we will know all the details in about a month or so.
2) There is nothing wrong with the word "bum". Jesus, can we ease up on the PC for two seconds?
3) Doesn't matter how free is, there is always a cost involved.

As much as I would like to get back to the "NFL is dead" series, I have some much important work to do and some hard core playing to do as well. I smell back-to-back posts (that will be separated by two months, but I will try to be better than that). DC and NYC await. Film...when I get it. Talk later.

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.