Thursday, October 19, 2006


Seventeen. Seventeen. That's how many folks are attending the Pittsburgh wedding. Seventeen out of eighty invitees. Hilarious.

The back story here is long and laborious. But the short of the long of it is as so: Troy Arnold (the groom) is, quite possibly, the biggest buffoon on the planet. Not in a bad way, mind you. In fact, his persona is damn near possible to describe. Basically, though means well and has a good heart, he annoys the piss out of 99.9% of the people he comes in contact with, but he has no clue about it. Delusions of grandeur. Exactly. He also thinks he looks like Eddie Vedder and loves the number 29 - utterly inexplicable.

We met him originally down in Tuscon freshman year. And we knew right then and there that he would be with us forever, whether we like it or not.

I called him last night to get the download on the wedding, he was down and out and ready to reevaluate all his 'friendships'. Ready to 'crawl in a hole for three months' once the reception comes to a close. He is sure to lose a ton of money at the post-reception rave since no one will show up. (According to him, if a similar 'rave' was held in Europe, 3000 people would attend, but Americans, according to him, are a bunch of idiots.) And yes, it is a rave. Non-stop DJ music and candy-flipping. We are thirty years old, Troy. Once you hit 30, you are not allowed to attend thumping raves with laser light shows and do drugs anymore. It's in the rule book.

Not to mention that I don't do drugs anymore. Do you know how poorly DJ Shadow goes with beer? It is like putting a turtle in a cage match with a leopard. Ugh.

All that said, I am looking forwrad to it, mostly to see what the fuck Pittsburgh is like on Halloween weekend as well as to see Rob and Dave, old high school and post-college friends, again. Dave and I are actually on the same flight. Pre-wheels-up bloody marys anyone? I'll have to dry clean my suit next week. REMINDER.

Contrary to what was written a few days ago, I am actually contemplating bringing an over night bag. A toothbrush, some jeans, a sweater. Flying home hungover in last night's vodka soiled suit is also something one is not allowed to do once they hit 30.

Re: Surburban disenchantment briefly mentioned yesterday.

Been feeling a little under the weather lately. It, of course, might simply be because of the weather this week. Dark, rainy, low, damp. But I also think it runs a little deeper than that. Yesterday I mentioned the joy one finds in being a part of something bigger, and I just do not have that right now. I have my wife, my pup, my home, all of which I love to death, but living out in the burbs has left me without a feeling of a neighborhood, of a time. And for that reason, I have had this overwhelming desire to go to a bar in uptown (why uptown? could not tell you) and drink heavily, on a weeknight. Spend a dank Tuesday night holed drinking beer and getting progressively louder in my laughter. Watching the cars rolls past the wetness the lights reflecting the ears chilled. Pedestrians clinging. Sounds glorious in theory, but in practice it would just leave me with a hundred clams lighter in the wallet and more than likely with a pounding hangover. Anything worse than a Wednesday hangover? No.

But the feeling is still there. Something bigger, sick of the small life. Maybe I just need to get out on the road. THAT is one aspect of my life that there is nothing small. Large looming trade shows in large looming distant cities. Jumbo jets screaming down runways pitching through night skies. Coming home again.

Atlanta, January.