positive paul gets pinched

the cocktail break is my favorite part of the wedding ceremony. after a service of varying length (some cultures tend to be more merciful than others (see vedic v. courtney, 2007)), party goers are treated to small foods and an open bar. this combination is never wrong, except when you accidentally bite into a fried oyster, when you expected shrimp tempura. those first few seconds of a misbite are so confusing, like forgetting why you entered a room or what you wanted to do once you got there. the cocktail hour lets everyone hob nob a bit, warming you up to the rest of the people engaged in this event. this one's a doctor, this one's a lawyer, this one's a gay anglican priest (remember, we live in san francisco). you meet people from all corners of the world, and its fun to see your newly married friends' karmic footprint exposed, fanned out in front of you, marinating in gimlets, sucking on american spirits, and engorging itself on those delicious little crab cakes.

sometimes the cocktail hour can be a source of amusement. during my sister's wedding, the fire alarm blared while i was maneuvering my 35th shrimp of the hour and everyone had to get outside. old russian jews were shaking their head, near tears because of the inevitable tragedy of a wedding ablaze. eventually the all clear was given and my brother-in-law found the fire truck a fun backdrop to a classic photo -- beers in hand, my sister carried in his arms as if walking through the threshold for the first time, smiling ear to ear with firemen posing all around. somewhere my grandmother was crying, but in the end, the maelstrom she feared never materialized.

as with all other parts of the wedding, there is a distinct potential for drama during this warm up period. so much is on the line that any miscue is magnified and before you know it, things get out of hand. we've all heard of people getting left at the altar (though none of us have seen this ourselves). what about people getting booted from weddings for discounting the previous night's dis-invitation?

positive paul had been broken up with by mary so many times that he just assumed that this last break up and dis-invitation the night before was more a suggestion than an order (he is, after all, the most positive person we know). paul, painfully positive as always, arrived at the wedding, chatty but careful. he was a strange looking man, no doubt -- thinned seattle grunge rock hair came down to the shoulder, and when he had it pulled back, there was a strange colonial air to him, especially when he wore a blazer and unbuttoned shirt as he did during the previous night's nautical adventure. maybe he fought for washington in the past life -- it's unclear. what was clear was the unfortunate resemblance of his head with that of a full sized midget -- protruding forehead, bad teeth and strong jaw. i dont want to offend my midget readers, but you get the idea. he wore big aviator sunglasses and while we were mingling described his undying devotion to wild rivers and lamented their repeating damming, a non-consentual hydroelectric buttplug which raged hotly in his eyes. as he was describing his upcoming job pursuits fighting those dams, mary approached. high heeled and serious, mary carried with her a sense of urgency that i had not seen before, though i dont know mary well. she approached deliberately, six foot three in heels, her cheeks sunk vermilion, clashing wildly with the magenta bridesmade dress. 'can i talk to you for a second' she said to paul, less of a question than a demand. paul, looking helpless, his comparative stature finally matching his facial realities, slumped at the shoulders and headed off. hannah and i looked at each other and shrugged, but we both sensed that paul, already on thin ice after many break ups and a inappropriately positive post-break up attitude, was being admonished. trust me, there is nothing worse than being admonished by a good looking woman taller than you, especially if you dont have a ride back from the presidio. time past, drinks were drunk and we continued carrying on. this one's a graphic designer, this one has a bad tattoo, this one fought in the battle of the bulge. by the end of the cocktail hour, you become astutely confused by your friends and their friends. five gin and tonics can be disorienting, but this mingling shit doenst help. as we head into the wedding reception room, mary approaches us... seeming relieved and cheery she proudly tells us that paul had been sent off! that's right, positive paul, who's good attitude had served only to annoy us up to this point -- call me a downer if you want, but there was no upside to the black plague, unless you enjoy boils and pus spilling out of your asshole... i dont -- had been tossed, red-carded and 86'd from the scene. in one swift imposition of wedding day justice, mary reclaimed her brother's wedding for herself and the strange one was sent packing.

i dont know if positive paul made another come back the next day, but it seems unlikely. sometimes the numbers are just stacked against you, and even the most cheerfully winning attitude isnt enough to bring you back into the circle of love. but still i imagine him trying, delusionaly optimistic, knocking on mary's door with flowers the next day, hoping for another shot, dismissing or selectively forgetting his recent ignominy. at some level, you gotta love the guy for trying. who knew the black plague could be so much fun.

Weekend Adventures part I: Nevada

i've always had a soft spot for reno and have long maintained that nevada is the greatest state in the union. first of all, the silver state has the highest average elevation of any other state in the country. the thin air undoubtedly affected policy there -- prostitution and gambling are legal and i'm sure marrying your hot sister is just behind. basically a bunch of migrant silver miners, high on poorly oxygenated air, found several thousand square miles of bone dry dirt and cultivated a culture of sin and solitude. outstanding! also: reno remains the only city in america where i lit myself on fire, richard pryor style, at a blackjack table no less, and survived to tell the story. i think that scene might deserve its own entry sometime.

work brought me to here and when my co-worker and I landed, we were met outside by a jeff fisher lookalike, which tickled me. while primarily known as the head coach of the tennessee titans, jeff was also a backup safety on the '85 chicago bears. just like jeff, our friend was mustached , with dark hair slicked back, some gray hair, paulie walnuts style, wearing sunglasses and furiously chewing gum. Da Bearsssss! was all i wanted to say for a straight hour, but i bit my tongue and instead sat back in the minivan and soaked in the sun drenched eastern sierra landscape. our van took us down US 395, another nevada landmark. diving deep into wide valleys, we could see miles of arid space edged by stunning peaks, their edges sharpened by the dry air. irrigation systems were working extra time to squeeze a bit of alfalfa out of the desert, alfalfa soon to fill the tummies of cows who will be t-bones and baseball gloves when they grow up. this desert, marshaled by gambling, whoremongering , sister-ogling nevadans, is the unlikely starting point for your quarter pounder with cheese.

in minden, nevada, we had meetings in a room with wall to wall windows, a 180 degree view of the high desert. there, i sat in quiet awe of the mountains spread out before me like a granite fan, while technologies were discussed around me in impossibly uninteresting detail. when it was my turn to speak, my computer failed to project on the screen, and i again I was stung by the familiar pangs of a misplaced decade. after all this time, and all this loathing, the computers finally hate me more than i hate them.

we wrapped up our business in minden and headed north where i caught a quick flight to LAX. there i would be met by my little perisan pal, and the weekend would finally get started...

shore leave

gosh its so strange to write from my own room -- like the excitement and isolation of travel cast a potent crucible where the words burn white. being home feels slow and constricted a bit, and I am finding myself dangerously tantalized by a life on the road. work has whetted my wanderlust , and I am becoming obsessed with touching geography intimately, a look and feel not quite satisfied by google earth (though it is fun to hover over half dome and try to find the closest cheese steak shop). My recent reconnection with two of my favorite musical phenomena is only more indicative of my itchy feet: gypsies and tom waits pour through my head all day. i have watched this youtube clip of shore leave at least 25 times, and its affecting my world view. tom waits knows how to bring you to a place and drown you in the provincial kitsch:


Well I was pacing myself
trying to make it all last
squeezing all the life
out of a lousy two day pass
and I had a cold one at the Dragon
with some Filipino floor show
and talked baseball with a lieutenant
over a Singapore sling
and I wondered how the same moon outside
over this Chinatown fair
could look down on Illinois
and find you there

more than the song, i am always blow away by seeing tom waits exploding on stage. he is channeling howlin wolf up there i swear to god.