Of course I made a joke when I heard the news about Michael. I sat there watching Fox News Channel at a friend's house, holding my little boy on my lap. I looked down at him and said, "It's okay, you're safe now." That one got a laugh. So did the next one: "I'm not sure if he's really dead... I mean, we are watching Fox News."
But after the jokes subsided, the reality set in. And no amount of conspiracy theorizing or joking or analyzing can take back the fact that Michael Jackson, the self-proclaimed King Of Pop and an extraordinary performer, is now dead.
I'm glad he's dead, because now he is at peace. Never had there been so restless a personality as his. I doubt he ever felt like what he'd accomplished was good enough. I'm not saying he was unhappy, although the amount of plastic surgery he foisted upon himself might point that way. I'm just saying that he wasn't at peace. Even as he died, he was on the verge of another comeback.
I mean, was Ed McMahon or Farrah Fawcett as deeply troubled and as endlessly fascinating as Michael? Believe it or not, there are people who do not know who those other two people are, or didn't know until earlier this week. But everyone knew Michael. Everyone.
And that's what I'm wrapping my head around right now. No other artist has permeated my life or the lives of so many people like he has. Even Prince, whom I prefer musically and whom I defended against Michael fans back in the '80s, does not inform my every memory as pervasively as Michael.
He was there when I was a little boy, as the Scarecrow in The Wiz. He was there when I was watching the breakdancers cop his moves in the early '80s, alongside Kurtis Blow and George Clinton. Eddie Murphy did a spot-on impersonation of him, both on SNL and in his own stand-up. He was an uncredited voice cameo on The Simpsons, and I didn't learn until decades later that he really did do the voice and it wasn't an impersonator. He gave Alfonso "Carlton on The Fresh Prince" Ribiero his big break in a Pepsi ad. His songs were the soundtrack of my childhood, and were parodied by cult heroes like "Weird" Al Yankovic. His sister was on two TV shows that I grew up on, and I had at least three vinyl copies of Thriller at one time in my life. I saw Captain EO at Disneyland in 3-D. I remember watching the full-length version of the "Thriller" video on Friday Night Videos (we didn't have MTV at my house yet). I've seen countless comics pull off his moves, from Eddie Griffin to Tommy Davidson. I remember my best friend doing Michael's dance routine at the after party of our prom night while my girlfriend and I watched and laughed. I also remember watching Michael do the Moonwalk for the first time on TV, for that Motown anniversary special. I remember in high school a guy on the bus singing "The Way You Make Me Feel" with his headphones on, singing very loud and snapping his fingers as if he was in the shower. Even as recent as Monday, I overheard someone describing the "Say Say Say" video with Paul McCartney to someone who had never seen it.
He was everywhere, and now thanks to the fact that he is dead, he will live forever in the public's mind.
My conspiracy theories are in full effect: He faked his death to get out of debt, for example. If there was ever an artist that could pull that one off, it was Michael. I mean, he's the one who started all the weird rumors about himself because he knew it would keep people talking about him for years; the oxygen chamber, the Elephant Man's bones, Bubbles the Chimp... he was the source! He was a master manipulator and probably wasn't half as weird as everyone thinks.
I also had a theory that the REAL Michael died in that aborted Pepsi commercial that burned him up, and that the Jackson family dug up and dusted off an extra Jackson brother that wasn't doing anything other than buggering little boys and living under the sink. They gave him plastic surgery and taught him how to sing and dance, but he couldn't break that one bad habit...
Sorry, I know it seems disrespectful... but Michael is now at a stature similar to Elvis, perhaps beyond. Nothing I can say or do would take away that stature. And to all the talk-show hosts and hack comics and snobby music critics, you won't have Michael Jackson to kick around anymore.
But that's the irony: He isn't going anywhere. Like I said, he's going to last forever. When I'm dead and buried, they will still be listening to him in Liberia.
As for me, I am listening to my all-time favorite MJ track, the last song off Thriller, and also the last time Michael made any sense to me. It's "The Lady In My Life" and I never EVER get tired of that song because it's one of the few Michael songs where he's begging to get some from a girl at the end. It was the finest song he ever did, if you ask me... and this is a guy who sang "I'll Be There" and "Never Can Say Goodbye"!
"And I Will Keep You Warm
Through The Shadows Of The Night
Let Me Touch You With My Love
I Can Make You Feel So Right
And Baby Through The Years
Even When We're Old And Gray
I Will Love You More Each Day
'Cause You Will Always Be
The Lady In My Life..."
That song reminds me of my wife. And as I look at my son, who is asleep, I realize that he is growing up in a world that is missing a few things, such as the World Trade Center, or cassettes and vinyl albums and VHS tapes... or like The King Of Pop.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Friday, July 11, 2008
baby
So here we are in the middle of July or somewhere roundabout, and in two months I will have been married for an entire year, and I haven't blogged in five months (which is a world record for me) and life has continued in its own slow way...
...and my wife is pregnant, and I'm going to be a father.
And there is so much to say, so very much to say.
And blogs just don't cut it anymore when it comes to my feelings.
And yet, I feel that this is something worth blogging about.
And I'm going to try and document as much as I can before the inevitable crunch of hours and weeks and months and years spent raising a child descends like cloud seeds upon what is left of my free time.
And I think that one day I'll blog regularly again but with a different goal in mind, that goal being a true need for communication born out of genuine desire to be expressive and not just some hollow trumpeting used to back up my claims to literacy and all.
And when my child can read, they might see these pages, and laugh, and cry, and wonder why.
*/*
My wife is entering into her second trimester. She is starting to show. Her womb is transforming and altering itself, tailoring itself to accommodate the impending arrival.
She has slight aches and minor pains. Her nausea is waning. She forgets things and her moods swing like a suspension bridge in a stormy wind.
I have never seen anything more beautiful than the sight of her sitting upright in bed, her mousy librarian's glasses perched upon her pointy dainty nose, her eyes aglass* with expectancy...
(*= A combination of "aglaze" and "glassy")
I rub her paunch every chance I get.
*/*
Now that my own father and I have buried the hatchet, I find that the wardrobe of fatherhood feels good and slinky when I slip its tender robes upon my rough, flabby skin.
We never argue anymore. I harbor no hatred towards him. We don't even get into religious debates the way we used to, and it is a pleasure to hear from him when he calls me up to talk.
I will never forget his sins, what he did. I cannot, I will not.
But I never thought I'd ever forgive him either, and yet that is exactly what I have done.
I can keep vigil, as a reminder to myself and to my child, a way of making sure that history does not repeat itself, that my child does not become first a victim and then the victimizer of a similar offense to what befell my father when he was only a young boy.
I can keep a diligent eye. In that respect, I won't forget.
But I forgave him finally, and that lifted the heaviest burden from my shoulders at a point when I could no longer carry it.
I don't care if you believe in God or not. The fact is, forgiveness is good for the soul.
Yes, it is.
Make sure you forgive someone before you have kids of your own.
...and my wife is pregnant, and I'm going to be a father.
And there is so much to say, so very much to say.
And blogs just don't cut it anymore when it comes to my feelings.
And yet, I feel that this is something worth blogging about.
And I'm going to try and document as much as I can before the inevitable crunch of hours and weeks and months and years spent raising a child descends like cloud seeds upon what is left of my free time.
And I think that one day I'll blog regularly again but with a different goal in mind, that goal being a true need for communication born out of genuine desire to be expressive and not just some hollow trumpeting used to back up my claims to literacy and all.
And when my child can read, they might see these pages, and laugh, and cry, and wonder why.
*/*
My wife is entering into her second trimester. She is starting to show. Her womb is transforming and altering itself, tailoring itself to accommodate the impending arrival.
She has slight aches and minor pains. Her nausea is waning. She forgets things and her moods swing like a suspension bridge in a stormy wind.
I have never seen anything more beautiful than the sight of her sitting upright in bed, her mousy librarian's glasses perched upon her pointy dainty nose, her eyes aglass* with expectancy...
(*= A combination of "aglaze" and "glassy")
I rub her paunch every chance I get.
*/*
Now that my own father and I have buried the hatchet, I find that the wardrobe of fatherhood feels good and slinky when I slip its tender robes upon my rough, flabby skin.
We never argue anymore. I harbor no hatred towards him. We don't even get into religious debates the way we used to, and it is a pleasure to hear from him when he calls me up to talk.
I will never forget his sins, what he did. I cannot, I will not.
But I never thought I'd ever forgive him either, and yet that is exactly what I have done.
I can keep vigil, as a reminder to myself and to my child, a way of making sure that history does not repeat itself, that my child does not become first a victim and then the victimizer of a similar offense to what befell my father when he was only a young boy.
I can keep a diligent eye. In that respect, I won't forget.
But I forgave him finally, and that lifted the heaviest burden from my shoulders at a point when I could no longer carry it.
I don't care if you believe in God or not. The fact is, forgiveness is good for the soul.
Yes, it is.
Make sure you forgive someone before you have kids of your own.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
take care
Happy New Year. Happy 2008.
It's amazing how the urge-- no, the compulsion --to write has waned in me since I got married. It is as if I never possessed it in the first place, like I have always been indifferent to any literary aspirations.
I cannot blame it on being busy or preoccupied with other things, because in the past I always managed to make time even for the most trivial blog entries or notebook scribblings. There is so much to write about in this new life I am living: My wife is quite simply the most amazing person I have ever met, and every day she and I grow together as well as individually. One day I will find the motivation to translate our relationship to the written word, but for now I am basking in the glow of our love.
Sentimental words for the likes of me, yes? I don't deny this. I am not ashamed to be in love and committed to one person. I guess it's all I ever really wanted and needed. Not that everything else I used to fill my life with was unimportant or meaningless-- rather, I feel like it all led up to our meeting. All of it-- the joy, the pain, the laughter, the adventures, the sorrow, the outrage, the lessons to be learned either easily or the hard way --was a prelude to this moment that I exist in currently.
I think of times when I had Writer's Block or I didn't have the focus to sit down and write/type something out, and they were always desperate periods in my life. They were informed by depression or sadness or anger, even frustration. I sometimes forced myself to write, to purge it all like some kind of paragraph bulimic. I find that on those forced occasions a metaphor such as bulimia is apt: I thought it was doing some good, based upon distorted preconceptions that I had about myself. Like an 80-lb waif with an eating disorder, I never seemed satisfied with my current state of affairs, no matter how emaciated and undernourished I was in reality.
But in this case, my sickness was spiritual, not physical. I did not look in a mirror and project the image of fat onto a skeletal frame; instead I looked into my soul and found malaise while ignoring the beauty that was struggling to rise to the surface.
To bring the metaphor full circle, I guess you can say that I am eating right for once in my life. My appetites are healthy and my attitude towards myself is one of respect and acceptance.
I think about the times when I vented my fury in this blog. I chastised readers for not commenting; I changed the names of real people then proceeded to detail their lives in accusatory tones; I engaged in feuds with people I had never even met in real life. It all seems pathetic and sad in hindsight, but each blog that I composed-- for better or for worse --was necessary for my mental health. I bared my soul in these blog entries. Sometimes I held back, but more often than not I let loose in a way that I had rarely done in my private writings.
Overall, I am proud of this minor achievement. I am not done with writing, nor am I done with blogging... but if there's anyone out there that still stops by here to read what I have to say, let me just state for the record that for the time being I am taking the time I normally spent slaving away at a keyboard and putting it toward another use. It's not a better use of my time, and it's not a lesser exertion of energy either. It's just something different, a change of pace if you will.
I think that I have found something more important than a blog.
Writing is still important to me, and my new wife sees nothing wrong or inappropriate about the blog or my novel (which I am also lagging on, for the same reasons that I have neglected my blog). She would never stand in the way of my pursuit of enlightenment via the written word, whether it be in print or online. But she is not as consistent with her internet browsing, so in a way I find myself blogging less because the one person I would really like to read it doesn't devote as much time as I do cruising cyberspace. And that's okay with me, because she is really the one person in my life now whose opinion matters to me the most.
So I am not calling it quits or throwing in the towel. Instead I am taking a semi-break from this. I will try to do it once a month, so as not to get rusty or find myself without an occasional outlet. I cannot predict what kind of content I will focus on in the future, whether or not it will be personal or impersonal or a mixture of both, but I can say confidently that my life right now is functioning fine... and maybe it will take time for me to get back into the swing of things.
I have been convinced for most of my life that I could not write unless there was pain or trouble in my heart, so I will look upon this new path I am on as a challenge, to see if I can write in the absence of misery and turmoil. I think I can, but it will be like starting all over from scratch. Forgive me if I get sappy or maudlin or sentimental or even mushy. I will make an effort to not sound like a lovestruck freak gloating over how he won the romance lottery.
I will end this entry with this: When I was beginning my adolescence, I started to take writing seriously but I hadn't learned anything yet. My first forays into writing were plagiarizing and embellishing on my favorite song lyrics and passing them off as love poems. But after a while, I made a promise to take a different tack when composing odes to whoever was my beloved at the time. I told myself that if I ever wrote a love song, I would refrain from using the word 'love' so as not to fall prey to cliches and pat pronouncements. I did a pretty good job of it, but now is the time to explore the public domain of pop cultural consciousness.
In other words, I think it's alright if I use the word 'love' from now on. I give myself permission to do so, and I hope that I can find a way to do it without succumbing to cheese and schmaltz.
I hope that any readers I still have will enjoy this new year as it unfolds, and if they don't have any comments to leave then that's just nifty. I can finally leave well enough alone and not make unrealistic demands. I know you all have your lives to live... and I have mine.
Take care.
It's amazing how the urge-- no, the compulsion --to write has waned in me since I got married. It is as if I never possessed it in the first place, like I have always been indifferent to any literary aspirations.
I cannot blame it on being busy or preoccupied with other things, because in the past I always managed to make time even for the most trivial blog entries or notebook scribblings. There is so much to write about in this new life I am living: My wife is quite simply the most amazing person I have ever met, and every day she and I grow together as well as individually. One day I will find the motivation to translate our relationship to the written word, but for now I am basking in the glow of our love.
Sentimental words for the likes of me, yes? I don't deny this. I am not ashamed to be in love and committed to one person. I guess it's all I ever really wanted and needed. Not that everything else I used to fill my life with was unimportant or meaningless-- rather, I feel like it all led up to our meeting. All of it-- the joy, the pain, the laughter, the adventures, the sorrow, the outrage, the lessons to be learned either easily or the hard way --was a prelude to this moment that I exist in currently.
I think of times when I had Writer's Block or I didn't have the focus to sit down and write/type something out, and they were always desperate periods in my life. They were informed by depression or sadness or anger, even frustration. I sometimes forced myself to write, to purge it all like some kind of paragraph bulimic. I find that on those forced occasions a metaphor such as bulimia is apt: I thought it was doing some good, based upon distorted preconceptions that I had about myself. Like an 80-lb waif with an eating disorder, I never seemed satisfied with my current state of affairs, no matter how emaciated and undernourished I was in reality.
But in this case, my sickness was spiritual, not physical. I did not look in a mirror and project the image of fat onto a skeletal frame; instead I looked into my soul and found malaise while ignoring the beauty that was struggling to rise to the surface.
To bring the metaphor full circle, I guess you can say that I am eating right for once in my life. My appetites are healthy and my attitude towards myself is one of respect and acceptance.
I think about the times when I vented my fury in this blog. I chastised readers for not commenting; I changed the names of real people then proceeded to detail their lives in accusatory tones; I engaged in feuds with people I had never even met in real life. It all seems pathetic and sad in hindsight, but each blog that I composed-- for better or for worse --was necessary for my mental health. I bared my soul in these blog entries. Sometimes I held back, but more often than not I let loose in a way that I had rarely done in my private writings.
Overall, I am proud of this minor achievement. I am not done with writing, nor am I done with blogging... but if there's anyone out there that still stops by here to read what I have to say, let me just state for the record that for the time being I am taking the time I normally spent slaving away at a keyboard and putting it toward another use. It's not a better use of my time, and it's not a lesser exertion of energy either. It's just something different, a change of pace if you will.
I think that I have found something more important than a blog.
Writing is still important to me, and my new wife sees nothing wrong or inappropriate about the blog or my novel (which I am also lagging on, for the same reasons that I have neglected my blog). She would never stand in the way of my pursuit of enlightenment via the written word, whether it be in print or online. But she is not as consistent with her internet browsing, so in a way I find myself blogging less because the one person I would really like to read it doesn't devote as much time as I do cruising cyberspace. And that's okay with me, because she is really the one person in my life now whose opinion matters to me the most.
So I am not calling it quits or throwing in the towel. Instead I am taking a semi-break from this. I will try to do it once a month, so as not to get rusty or find myself without an occasional outlet. I cannot predict what kind of content I will focus on in the future, whether or not it will be personal or impersonal or a mixture of both, but I can say confidently that my life right now is functioning fine... and maybe it will take time for me to get back into the swing of things.
I have been convinced for most of my life that I could not write unless there was pain or trouble in my heart, so I will look upon this new path I am on as a challenge, to see if I can write in the absence of misery and turmoil. I think I can, but it will be like starting all over from scratch. Forgive me if I get sappy or maudlin or sentimental or even mushy. I will make an effort to not sound like a lovestruck freak gloating over how he won the romance lottery.
I will end this entry with this: When I was beginning my adolescence, I started to take writing seriously but I hadn't learned anything yet. My first forays into writing were plagiarizing and embellishing on my favorite song lyrics and passing them off as love poems. But after a while, I made a promise to take a different tack when composing odes to whoever was my beloved at the time. I told myself that if I ever wrote a love song, I would refrain from using the word 'love' so as not to fall prey to cliches and pat pronouncements. I did a pretty good job of it, but now is the time to explore the public domain of pop cultural consciousness.
In other words, I think it's alright if I use the word 'love' from now on. I give myself permission to do so, and I hope that I can find a way to do it without succumbing to cheese and schmaltz.
I hope that any readers I still have will enjoy this new year as it unfolds, and if they don't have any comments to leave then that's just nifty. I can finally leave well enough alone and not make unrealistic demands. I know you all have your lives to live... and I have mine.
Take care.
Monday, December 17, 2007
crash
I got into a car accident this morning as I was coming home from work.
This is the biggest accident I've ever been a part of: I was at fault, being groggy from the graveyard shift; I failed to stop and rear-ended a man and his teenage duaghter in their Mazda in front of her school. The airbags deployed, and the damage was considerable (my front bumper is caved in and his back bumper and trunk are sizably dented) but no one was hurt and we were both insured.
It happens all the time in L.A., right? But you know me-- I feel stupid for losing control and not being on the ball.
It also made me think about how much I have to live for now, and although it wasn't a life-threatening situation the sheer violence of the impact adrenalized me and had me in fear. It was terrifying. The man's daughter was hysterical. Fortunately, he was good-natured about it and I went out of my way to get all the proper info and offer my apologies for my blunder. But I couldn't stop thinking about my wife. I wanted to be with her at that moment. I needed her to comfort me.
When I got home, she was there waiting for me and I told her about my ordeal. She held me and reassured me that it was going to be alright, and she was glad I wasn't hurt, and since we were insured it would turn out fine, even in light of the inconvenience that will definitely arise from the whole insurance process.
I needed to get it out of my system, so here I am-- blogging for the first time in over a month. I haven't been tending to it because I've been so busy, and to be honest I am too exhausted to really give it my all so I will keep it brief. But I needed to get it out of me, and writing has always proven to be therapeutic for me so there you have it.
Have a Happy Holiday. When you are with your respective families and friends, remember how precious this life is, how it can all go up in smoke in the blink of an eye. Give thanks that you have a warm place to go and people to see and a computer to read this on in the dead of winter.
See ya next year,
J Drawz
This is the biggest accident I've ever been a part of: I was at fault, being groggy from the graveyard shift; I failed to stop and rear-ended a man and his teenage duaghter in their Mazda in front of her school. The airbags deployed, and the damage was considerable (my front bumper is caved in and his back bumper and trunk are sizably dented) but no one was hurt and we were both insured.
It happens all the time in L.A., right? But you know me-- I feel stupid for losing control and not being on the ball.
It also made me think about how much I have to live for now, and although it wasn't a life-threatening situation the sheer violence of the impact adrenalized me and had me in fear. It was terrifying. The man's daughter was hysterical. Fortunately, he was good-natured about it and I went out of my way to get all the proper info and offer my apologies for my blunder. But I couldn't stop thinking about my wife. I wanted to be with her at that moment. I needed her to comfort me.
When I got home, she was there waiting for me and I told her about my ordeal. She held me and reassured me that it was going to be alright, and she was glad I wasn't hurt, and since we were insured it would turn out fine, even in light of the inconvenience that will definitely arise from the whole insurance process.
I needed to get it out of my system, so here I am-- blogging for the first time in over a month. I haven't been tending to it because I've been so busy, and to be honest I am too exhausted to really give it my all so I will keep it brief. But I needed to get it out of me, and writing has always proven to be therapeutic for me so there you have it.
Have a Happy Holiday. When you are with your respective families and friends, remember how precious this life is, how it can all go up in smoke in the blink of an eye. Give thanks that you have a warm place to go and people to see and a computer to read this on in the dead of winter.
See ya next year,
J Drawz
Sunday, October 28, 2007
sweet jane
Yes, I know...
No, I don't have Writer's Block in the classic sense-- I'm not frustrated as I sit at this desk, furrowing my brow trying to drum up some verbiage for what few readers I have left. But if you define Writer's Block as being any event or situation or activity that takes up the time you would normally spend on writing, then yes-- I'm blocked up in a mighty way.
I've been busy furnishing a nest for me and my wife. It's a temporary domicile, to be sure-- basically, she's moving in with me and my current place was never more than a rest stop until either I saved up enough cash or the prices on rentals dropped. But now that I am married, who knows-- maybe my wife and I can scoop up some poor bastard's foreclosure and get ourselves a real home, complete with a mortgage and neighbors and a front lawn and a garage and property tax and the whole nine.
All we'd have to do after that is have some kids, and then that's it: we officially become old.
Knowing this, she and I agree that we need to spend a lot of time being a couple before we decide to have kids. We should enjoy being married for a while, because once we have kids it's close to two decades (at the least!) before we get that much alone time ever again.
Besides, talking about kids is getting way ahead of ourselves. Shit, we still haven't finished making the announcement!
*/*
And speaking of making the announcement...
My wife has an older sister-- 14 years older, in fact. They had different fathers but share the same mother. Since I am a full ten years my wife's senior, it now makes sense to me how she shares so many of my interests such as music groups and movies: she followed in her big sister's footsteps, influenced by her tastes and shaped by her mentality. My wife is her own person nonetheless, but her sister (whom I will name "Jane" here in this blog) had an enormous impact on my wife, to say the least.
Jane and my wife had a typical sister relationship when they were growing up, filled with your average rivalries and various ups and downs. Jane was something of a wild child, and my wife followed in her wake. However, because of the age difference and the different father figures raising each girl, it's safe to say that there were marked contrasts in their respective upbringings.
Being the youngest, my wife was a tad more spoiled than Jane. Owing also to this was their mother's accumulated maternal experience: when Jane was born, their mother was learning the ropes; when my wife was born, their mother had some background on what to do and what not to do, tempered by the wisdom that such undertakings bequeaths upon a woman who desires to decently rear a child.
In short, Jane and my wife were treated differently, even though each was equally loved by their mother.
When Jane grew up and moved out and got married and settled down with kids, she underwent a transformation. In addition to giving up on her hard-living ways and partying ethic, she began to feel pangs of guilt about what kind of role model she was to her baby sister. This is a normal phenomenon for older siblings to undergo-- my older brother, for example, often felt that he had failed me as an example to follow; it wasn't until we talked one day that I informed him that he was, in reality, the best example I could have had, despite (or lieu of) his own adolescent indulgences.
My wife and her older sister hadn't spoken to each other much in recent years, so it was definitely an issue for her to consider when it came time to tell her family what we had gone and done in Las Vegas.
The last time my wife saw her sister was when she flew out to visit my wife only a year after she'd moved to Los Angeles. Jane got off the plane, drove over to my wife's apartment, and stayed for less than three hours before they had gotten into such a row that Jane packed her bags and got on the next plane back to Indianapolis, which is where she moved when she left her home in D.C.
*/*
My wife managed to talk Jane into flying out here again without letting the cat out of the bag. Out of a misplaced semi-maternal guilt, Jane agreed to come out and see if her little sis was doing OK or if the big bad world of L.A. was eating her up alive.
As older siblings are wont to do, Jane expected to see her sister living in abject poverty, in need of guidance and way in over her head.
Meanwhile, the plan was as follows: I was to pick Jane up from LAX and bring her back to the apartment so that I could get a chance to meet her. As far as Jane knew, I was just the boyfriend-- I was not to let on that we had gotten married at all. My wife reasoned that she wanted Jane to get to know me as a person first.
As fucked up as it sounds, I had to agree with my wife: just springing the news on your family can be a horrible mistake if there are hard feelings or past grievances still being harbored. In my case, my family handled the news just fine because they were convinced that I would never marry and yet they held out hope for some sort of "miracle" to occur; it goes without saying that their prayers were answered.
Anyway, after the visit was over, when Jane was safely back at home in Indiana, my wife was going to tell her the truth... this was the part of her plan that I was skeptical about, but I understood her logic. My wife, unlike me, is not one for confrontations. She hates them, and would feel safer if she could have as much distance as possible between Jane and her, so as not to get too upset when the inevitable blow-out happened.
I drove my wife's car and parked in a spot near Jane's arriving terminal. My wife called and described Jane to me. I figured she would look something like my wife, but to my surprise Jane looked nothing like her sister: dark brown hair instead of my wife's lighter shade (my wife dyes it red so I am referring to the root color), tall and leggy, attractive but in a totally separate category than my wife's attractiveness. It was clear that, in her prime, Jane was a heartbreaker.
I met her, helped her with her bags, and drove her out to meet up with her sister. I talked with Jane along the way and found her to be engaging, smart, and witty. When we spoke of her sister there was an apparent love and care, but also present in her tone was that annoying and patronizing manner in which most older siblings refer to their younger charges, as if they and only they knew what their younger brothers or sisters were truly like and that if only they would follow the advice of Big Bro or Big Sis (because they're older, and therefore they know better, right?) then their lives would be stable and fulfilling.
I could immediately see why my wife had to do it this way, and yet I could also see Jane's point of view. I'd only known my wife for less than six months by that time but already I surmised that she could be stubborn, spiteful, hypersensitive and judgmental (just like me-- no wonder we got married!) and that it didn't mesh well with Jane's in-your-face sensibilities.
Jane was only in town for four days, from Thursday to Sunday. By Saturday night, she would find out about us prematurely.
*/*
Jane didn't flip out at first. When my wife ended up spilling the beans during an excursion to the beach to bury my wife's roommate Mitch's belated chinchilla (aptly named Mr. Chin) it was because she knew she could no longer continue the ruse and felt that Jane should know the truth about us.
Without a doubt, Jane was surprised. Shocked? I don't know, I wasn't there. All I know is that while I was working on my web comic strip at home, I got a call from my wife. I picked it up, and my wife explained to me that she told Jane about us.
"You did? How'd she take it?"
"She wants to talk to you," she said, smiling as she talked.
Jane got on the line. The three of them had been drinking, and I could tell by Jane's delivery that she was (at the very least) somewhat tipsy.
"Hey, you. What's the big deal, marrying my baby sister without getting my permission first?"
I laughed nervously. "So she told you, eh?"
"Yeah. You lied to me. Both of you did."
"She asked me to, and I do whatever she asks me to do. I didn't agree with it, but I respected her reasoning, and she's my wife so..."
"I've got a mind to knock you flat on your ass, you know." I could tell that she was half-serious, half-joking, and 100% inebriated.
"And I wouldn't blame you. I will gladly accept whatever treatment you see fit." I meant what I'd said to her-- as much as I wanted Jane to give us her blessing, she had every right to be upset.
"I'm serious," she said. "I'm still in shock. This is no way to spring it on me."
"I know, Jane. But your sister felt that it would be worse if she told you first thing off the plane. That's why she sent me by myself to pick you up. She wanted you to get to know me as a person first." I didn't mention that my wife's original plan was to wait until Jane had made it back to Indiana.
"Look, it's not that I don't like you. I do, James. I think you're a nice guy. So far throughout this trip you've been nothing but great, both to me and my sister. But this has nothing to do with you. It's a family thing. I hope you know that."
"I do. I honestly do. I am not offended in the least."
"Good. But I'm still in shock. I don't know whether to be happy or pissed."
After a few more exchanges similar to those last lines, my wife got back on the phone and asked me to meet the three of them at Barney's Beanery later on in the evening for drinks and dinner. I agreed, and hung up the phone.
I finished my web comic work and jumped in the shower. After that, as I got dressed to meet them, I wondered what the night would evolve into, because I knew even though the cat was out of the bag there was still the rest of the evening to go.
Next Week: The Second Part
No, I don't have Writer's Block in the classic sense-- I'm not frustrated as I sit at this desk, furrowing my brow trying to drum up some verbiage for what few readers I have left. But if you define Writer's Block as being any event or situation or activity that takes up the time you would normally spend on writing, then yes-- I'm blocked up in a mighty way.
I've been busy furnishing a nest for me and my wife. It's a temporary domicile, to be sure-- basically, she's moving in with me and my current place was never more than a rest stop until either I saved up enough cash or the prices on rentals dropped. But now that I am married, who knows-- maybe my wife and I can scoop up some poor bastard's foreclosure and get ourselves a real home, complete with a mortgage and neighbors and a front lawn and a garage and property tax and the whole nine.
All we'd have to do after that is have some kids, and then that's it: we officially become old.
Knowing this, she and I agree that we need to spend a lot of time being a couple before we decide to have kids. We should enjoy being married for a while, because once we have kids it's close to two decades (at the least!) before we get that much alone time ever again.
Besides, talking about kids is getting way ahead of ourselves. Shit, we still haven't finished making the announcement!
*/*
And speaking of making the announcement...
My wife has an older sister-- 14 years older, in fact. They had different fathers but share the same mother. Since I am a full ten years my wife's senior, it now makes sense to me how she shares so many of my interests such as music groups and movies: she followed in her big sister's footsteps, influenced by her tastes and shaped by her mentality. My wife is her own person nonetheless, but her sister (whom I will name "Jane" here in this blog) had an enormous impact on my wife, to say the least.
Jane and my wife had a typical sister relationship when they were growing up, filled with your average rivalries and various ups and downs. Jane was something of a wild child, and my wife followed in her wake. However, because of the age difference and the different father figures raising each girl, it's safe to say that there were marked contrasts in their respective upbringings.
Being the youngest, my wife was a tad more spoiled than Jane. Owing also to this was their mother's accumulated maternal experience: when Jane was born, their mother was learning the ropes; when my wife was born, their mother had some background on what to do and what not to do, tempered by the wisdom that such undertakings bequeaths upon a woman who desires to decently rear a child.
In short, Jane and my wife were treated differently, even though each was equally loved by their mother.
When Jane grew up and moved out and got married and settled down with kids, she underwent a transformation. In addition to giving up on her hard-living ways and partying ethic, she began to feel pangs of guilt about what kind of role model she was to her baby sister. This is a normal phenomenon for older siblings to undergo-- my older brother, for example, often felt that he had failed me as an example to follow; it wasn't until we talked one day that I informed him that he was, in reality, the best example I could have had, despite (or lieu of) his own adolescent indulgences.
My wife and her older sister hadn't spoken to each other much in recent years, so it was definitely an issue for her to consider when it came time to tell her family what we had gone and done in Las Vegas.
The last time my wife saw her sister was when she flew out to visit my wife only a year after she'd moved to Los Angeles. Jane got off the plane, drove over to my wife's apartment, and stayed for less than three hours before they had gotten into such a row that Jane packed her bags and got on the next plane back to Indianapolis, which is where she moved when she left her home in D.C.
*/*
My wife managed to talk Jane into flying out here again without letting the cat out of the bag. Out of a misplaced semi-maternal guilt, Jane agreed to come out and see if her little sis was doing OK or if the big bad world of L.A. was eating her up alive.
As older siblings are wont to do, Jane expected to see her sister living in abject poverty, in need of guidance and way in over her head.
Meanwhile, the plan was as follows: I was to pick Jane up from LAX and bring her back to the apartment so that I could get a chance to meet her. As far as Jane knew, I was just the boyfriend-- I was not to let on that we had gotten married at all. My wife reasoned that she wanted Jane to get to know me as a person first.
As fucked up as it sounds, I had to agree with my wife: just springing the news on your family can be a horrible mistake if there are hard feelings or past grievances still being harbored. In my case, my family handled the news just fine because they were convinced that I would never marry and yet they held out hope for some sort of "miracle" to occur; it goes without saying that their prayers were answered.
Anyway, after the visit was over, when Jane was safely back at home in Indiana, my wife was going to tell her the truth... this was the part of her plan that I was skeptical about, but I understood her logic. My wife, unlike me, is not one for confrontations. She hates them, and would feel safer if she could have as much distance as possible between Jane and her, so as not to get too upset when the inevitable blow-out happened.
I drove my wife's car and parked in a spot near Jane's arriving terminal. My wife called and described Jane to me. I figured she would look something like my wife, but to my surprise Jane looked nothing like her sister: dark brown hair instead of my wife's lighter shade (my wife dyes it red so I am referring to the root color), tall and leggy, attractive but in a totally separate category than my wife's attractiveness. It was clear that, in her prime, Jane was a heartbreaker.
I met her, helped her with her bags, and drove her out to meet up with her sister. I talked with Jane along the way and found her to be engaging, smart, and witty. When we spoke of her sister there was an apparent love and care, but also present in her tone was that annoying and patronizing manner in which most older siblings refer to their younger charges, as if they and only they knew what their younger brothers or sisters were truly like and that if only they would follow the advice of Big Bro or Big Sis (because they're older, and therefore they know better, right?) then their lives would be stable and fulfilling.
I could immediately see why my wife had to do it this way, and yet I could also see Jane's point of view. I'd only known my wife for less than six months by that time but already I surmised that she could be stubborn, spiteful, hypersensitive and judgmental (just like me-- no wonder we got married!) and that it didn't mesh well with Jane's in-your-face sensibilities.
Jane was only in town for four days, from Thursday to Sunday. By Saturday night, she would find out about us prematurely.
*/*
Jane didn't flip out at first. When my wife ended up spilling the beans during an excursion to the beach to bury my wife's roommate Mitch's belated chinchilla (aptly named Mr. Chin) it was because she knew she could no longer continue the ruse and felt that Jane should know the truth about us.
Without a doubt, Jane was surprised. Shocked? I don't know, I wasn't there. All I know is that while I was working on my web comic strip at home, I got a call from my wife. I picked it up, and my wife explained to me that she told Jane about us.
"You did? How'd she take it?"
"She wants to talk to you," she said, smiling as she talked.
Jane got on the line. The three of them had been drinking, and I could tell by Jane's delivery that she was (at the very least) somewhat tipsy.
"Hey, you. What's the big deal, marrying my baby sister without getting my permission first?"
I laughed nervously. "So she told you, eh?"
"Yeah. You lied to me. Both of you did."
"She asked me to, and I do whatever she asks me to do. I didn't agree with it, but I respected her reasoning, and she's my wife so..."
"I've got a mind to knock you flat on your ass, you know." I could tell that she was half-serious, half-joking, and 100% inebriated.
"And I wouldn't blame you. I will gladly accept whatever treatment you see fit." I meant what I'd said to her-- as much as I wanted Jane to give us her blessing, she had every right to be upset.
"I'm serious," she said. "I'm still in shock. This is no way to spring it on me."
"I know, Jane. But your sister felt that it would be worse if she told you first thing off the plane. That's why she sent me by myself to pick you up. She wanted you to get to know me as a person first." I didn't mention that my wife's original plan was to wait until Jane had made it back to Indiana.
"Look, it's not that I don't like you. I do, James. I think you're a nice guy. So far throughout this trip you've been nothing but great, both to me and my sister. But this has nothing to do with you. It's a family thing. I hope you know that."
"I do. I honestly do. I am not offended in the least."
"Good. But I'm still in shock. I don't know whether to be happy or pissed."
After a few more exchanges similar to those last lines, my wife got back on the phone and asked me to meet the three of them at Barney's Beanery later on in the evening for drinks and dinner. I agreed, and hung up the phone.
I finished my web comic work and jumped in the shower. After that, as I got dressed to meet them, I wondered what the night would evolve into, because I knew even though the cat was out of the bag there was still the rest of the evening to go.
Next Week: The Second Part
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
wheels go 'round and 'round
Today is John Lennon's 67th birthday.
Yes, he's dead... but it's still his birthday.
Here's a You Tube clip of the song "Watching The Wheels", with home videos of the man with his wife Yoko spliced against what has to be one of the loveliest Lennon compositions he ever recorded.
You'll probably hear 5 million plays of "Imagine" today, so I figured I'd do one of the lesser requested ones. "Watching The Wheels" has its share of fans, to be sure, but when you think of how many solo hits Lennon had (plus all the stuff he did with that one group... you know, the one that starts with B) it all tends to get lost in the shuffle.
Personally, my all-time favorite from John's solo output is "#9 Dream" because it is so weird and mystical and surreal and happens to be one of the few pop songs with the word "dream" in the title that actually does sound like a dream. But "Wheels" has gotten me lately because... well, because I relate to the lyrics more now than I did when I was younger.
Settling down and getting married has done more than just mellow me out: it has practically caused me to change my outlook on life. There's a lot in my outlook that doesn't need changing, however, so I guess I am really just accepting the things I need to accept and discarding the things that I never needed.
I'm modifying my behavior rather than mellowing. I say that because I am still a crazy loon with the mind of a dirty old man and the heart of a reckless child. But I'm also more focused.
The blog has suffered, but my writing continues... this time in private, the way it used to be when I was a teenager scribbling into personal notebooks that no one ever read unless I allowed them the privilege. The novel is coming along slowly but surely. My patience for it is larger and wider, thanks to my wife's inspiration and input.
The music always bodes well. It has evened out for me-- staying with one (and only one) band makes it easier for me to do what needs to be done, and also makes it more enjoyable. I still collaborate here and there but not with the urgent desperation of other endeavors. And in a few weeks I might be ready to start setting up for my third solo acoustic set this year, which is exciting and fun for me.
My forays into graphic art are limited to the "Studio Reader Stan" web comic, but that's just fine. I am creating an animated version of the strip, so I cannot complain about anything.
Certainly, this has been a most productive and radically transitional season for me. It has also been a relatively sober period in my life, similar to my teen years when I was straight-edge and didn't need drugs to make me weird and creative. I won't lie, however: I do them when they're around... but the cool thing is that they really aren't around that much anymore. I can't remember the last time I smoked pot, and saving money to get a new place for me and the wife has all but eliminated cocaine from my everyday existence.
The Mrs. and I did take mushrooms a while back, when we went camping with my family up in Carpenteria. That was a fine weekend, because our trip was pleasant (big caps on the shrooms = less visuals, more of a body high) and we drank it in tea instead of eating the foul-tasting fungi.
I wouldn't count that as a drug experience, though. It was too nice and gentle to be considered a "trip". It was more like a vacation that turned inward for the both of us. We laughed our asses off and made love in our tent to the sounds of waves lapping against the shore.
I have many stories to tell, but for the time being they have to go into the novel. I will keep blogging but right now I need to get this book done, and I'm on a roll. I just wanted to check in and let you all know I haven't fallen off the face of the planet.
Or, to paraphrase the birthday boy, I wanted to let you all know that I'm doing fine watching shadows on the wall.
PEACE
Yes, he's dead... but it's still his birthday.
Here's a You Tube clip of the song "Watching The Wheels", with home videos of the man with his wife Yoko spliced against what has to be one of the loveliest Lennon compositions he ever recorded.
You'll probably hear 5 million plays of "Imagine" today, so I figured I'd do one of the lesser requested ones. "Watching The Wheels" has its share of fans, to be sure, but when you think of how many solo hits Lennon had (plus all the stuff he did with that one group... you know, the one that starts with B) it all tends to get lost in the shuffle.
Personally, my all-time favorite from John's solo output is "#9 Dream" because it is so weird and mystical and surreal and happens to be one of the few pop songs with the word "dream" in the title that actually does sound like a dream. But "Wheels" has gotten me lately because... well, because I relate to the lyrics more now than I did when I was younger.
Settling down and getting married has done more than just mellow me out: it has practically caused me to change my outlook on life. There's a lot in my outlook that doesn't need changing, however, so I guess I am really just accepting the things I need to accept and discarding the things that I never needed.
I'm modifying my behavior rather than mellowing. I say that because I am still a crazy loon with the mind of a dirty old man and the heart of a reckless child. But I'm also more focused.
The blog has suffered, but my writing continues... this time in private, the way it used to be when I was a teenager scribbling into personal notebooks that no one ever read unless I allowed them the privilege. The novel is coming along slowly but surely. My patience for it is larger and wider, thanks to my wife's inspiration and input.
The music always bodes well. It has evened out for me-- staying with one (and only one) band makes it easier for me to do what needs to be done, and also makes it more enjoyable. I still collaborate here and there but not with the urgent desperation of other endeavors. And in a few weeks I might be ready to start setting up for my third solo acoustic set this year, which is exciting and fun for me.
My forays into graphic art are limited to the "Studio Reader Stan" web comic, but that's just fine. I am creating an animated version of the strip, so I cannot complain about anything.
Certainly, this has been a most productive and radically transitional season for me. It has also been a relatively sober period in my life, similar to my teen years when I was straight-edge and didn't need drugs to make me weird and creative. I won't lie, however: I do them when they're around... but the cool thing is that they really aren't around that much anymore. I can't remember the last time I smoked pot, and saving money to get a new place for me and the wife has all but eliminated cocaine from my everyday existence.
The Mrs. and I did take mushrooms a while back, when we went camping with my family up in Carpenteria. That was a fine weekend, because our trip was pleasant (big caps on the shrooms = less visuals, more of a body high) and we drank it in tea instead of eating the foul-tasting fungi.
I wouldn't count that as a drug experience, though. It was too nice and gentle to be considered a "trip". It was more like a vacation that turned inward for the both of us. We laughed our asses off and made love in our tent to the sounds of waves lapping against the shore.
I have many stories to tell, but for the time being they have to go into the novel. I will keep blogging but right now I need to get this book done, and I'm on a roll. I just wanted to check in and let you all know I haven't fallen off the face of the planet.
Or, to paraphrase the birthday boy, I wanted to let you all know that I'm doing fine watching shadows on the wall.
PEACE
Friday, September 21, 2007
husband and wife
The last night of the month of August: a humid heat in the triple digits that trickled into the night and gave no quarter or shelter or relief. The night was supposed to be airy and cool but that was not the case as I played a show with my band and watched from the intensely-lit stage as my girl sat and sipped her drink and waited for me to be done.
She waited because she knew what was going to happen after the show. She knew the journey we were about to embark upon and she was as excited as I was, maybe even more so. But I was dealing with suppressed emotions that had no outlet.
The show went over well, and when it was done she and I made our escape amid suspicious eyes and furrowed brows. Some of them knew instinctively what we had planned to do, even if we had not been explicit about it.
It wasn't until she and I were at my place, almost ready to hit the desert road out to Las Vegas, that I finally broke down and cried as I held her, explaining that these were not doubts that I was feeling, but rather the overwhelming joy of finally having found the one person I seemed to have been waiting all of my life to meet, through the darkness and the pain and the elation and joy of my entire existence... it was impossible to believe that there standing before me was the woman I was going to spend the rest of my days loving, but I had no choice but to accept that fact, even as my wounded self-esteem resisted the happiness that caused tears to well up in my eyes and my voice to tremble under the weight of this decision.
She patted my hair and told me that if I didn't want to go through with it she would be OK, but I insisted that it wasn't a big deal-- it was just me resorting to an old coping mechanism, the involuntary impulse to hide my emotions until they cannot be held any longer and then deluge from me like a levee breaking open and flooding my heart.
By the time we were an hour outside of Los Angeles, my mood was considerably improved. I held her hand as we drove our machine over clean asphalt laser beams.
*/*
Before the sunrise, we entered the garish Nevada city of lights, the unofficial capital of casino towns. With no sun to greet us, we stopped to get a bite to eat at an IHOP (Denny's was open but they were re-stocking and told us it would take 20 minutes before we could order).
The waiter told us that the chapels didn't operate under 24 hour schedules anymore, mainly due to the Las Vegas courthouse's new hours. Since the courthouse now closed earlier, there was no need for the chapels to work around the clock. We would have to wait until 8am if we wanted to do anything, he told me.
So we hit the Strip and smoked our cigarettes with style and flung them out of the windows almost simultaneously... which attracted the attention of a state trooper car that I had not seen following me. He pulled us over and walked over to my side of the car.
"Good morning."
I tired to smile. "Good morning, officer."
"Driver's license?"
"Yes." I pulled my license out of my wallet and let the wallet fall down between the seat and the center console, fearing that he would somehow come across the small amount of cocaine I had stashed in between my ATM cards.
He looked at my license, then said, "I pulled you over for littering."
"Yes, I know."
His nostrils flared, having smelled something coming from the car.
"Where are you coming from?"
"Los Angeles."
"Have you had anything to drink while you've been driving?"
"No sir."
"Please step out of the car."
After some questions, it became clear that the two cops thought that I was drunk, because of the strong smell of an open container of rum that my girl was carrying. The first cop was talking to me, trying to determine if I was tipsy, while the second cop walked over to my girl and grilled her on her bottle.
"Ma'am, we smell alcohol coming from the vehicle. Has he been drinking?"
"No sir, I have." She smiled, her red heart-shaped Lolita sunglasses framing her girlish cheekbones.
"What are you guys doing up so early?"
"We drove from L.A. all night. We're getting married."
"Married, eh?" The second cop smiled. "Well, congratulations!"
"Thank you."
"So, is he the love of your life?"
"Yes he is, sir!"
"Nice."
Meanwhile, I was talking to the first cop about our business at such an ungodly hour of the day.
"We're here to get hitched, then turn right around and head home. We didn't even reserve a room."
"All the chapels are going the other way. Why were you driving north on the Strip?"
"The IHOP waiter said there might be another chapel in the north part of town, near Russell."
"I'm not sure if there is one... let me ask my partner."
Just at that moment, the second cop walked up to us.
"Man, how much did she have to drink?" He laughed.
"Yeah, she puts 'em away alright." Then I proceeded to lie for no reason. "It's her car, so she was driving up until we hit Prima Donna, then she had a drink and I decided to take over."
"And you had nothing at all?"
"Correct. I'm allergic to alcohol anyway."
"Well, I can tell you haven't been drinking. After I asked you to exit the vehicle I was sniffing around to see if it was on your breath, but you're checking out fine. Sorry to inconvenience you and your girl."
"No problem, officer. You're just doing your job."
"Hey, is there a chapel up near Russell?" The first cop asked his partner.
"I think there is... but it's the only one around those parts. The majority of them are near Old Town, Fremont Street."
"You think the one near Russell is open right now?" I asked.
"Maybe. They don't really do that 24 hour thing anymore, but you can try it out."
"Why not? We got a lot of time to kill," I said, smiling.
The cops didn't ticket us, and as we drove away the cruiser followed us up the Strip. At one point I became disoriented and ran a red arrow light (not a red stop light) and then I hit the brake while in the middle of the right turn intersection.
Assuming that they were going to give us more trouble, I winced visibly. My girl was laughing at the whole absurd incident as it played itself out in front of her.
We both heard the troopers over their loudspeaker: "Make a left!"
All the other cars in traffic, stopped at the lights in back of us, were befuddled and confused.
By the time the troopers passed us and I gathered my bearings again, she and I were laughing at our luck. We both spoke aloud about how this must be a sign that our marriage was meant to be.
*/*
As the time was nearing, she and I stopped at a chapel and asked a woman who was tending to the plants when they would be open for business. She asked us if we had gotten our marriage license yet. I pleaded ignorance, and she promptly gave us directions to where the courthouse was located. She also warned us to stay away from one particular chapel with a shady reputation.
We drove to the courthouse and waited outside along with at least five other couples who were in a rush to get their nuptials taken care of as early as possible. My girl and I smoked more cigarettes, and kissed and held hands and giggled with excitement.
The moment was almost upon us.
As we waited, a man handed out flyers advertising the notorious chapel that we had been warned about prior to our courthouse visit. Prices on their wedding ceremonies had been marked down drastically. I folded the flyer and slipped it into my back pocket.
Five minutes before 8, the African-American courthouse security guard came out front. He turned to all of us and made an announcement:
"Sorry folks, the courthouse ain't giving out licenses today. Building's closed for the Labor Day weekend."
Our collective jaws dropped as we heard the news. I was about to say something when the guard suddenly reversed himself.
"Psyche!" He began to laugh, as did everyone else, along with relieved sighs. The guard then proceeded to poke fun at the man standing nearest to him.
"Damn, man, you shoulda seen the look on your face..."
My girl, laughing riotously, commented that it was a good thing he was kidding, otherwise he'd have to run away or else face the wrath of half a dozen unhappy couples, to which he replied:
"Hey, I'm black. Ain't none of y'all catchin' a brother. In fact, I saw an episode of COPS the other night where this cat straight up eluded the police, the dogs, even the infra-red. No shit. That motherfucker was home so fast he was able to check his ass out on TV the same night! He was probably sitting there, eating dinner, sayin' 'Look, mama, that's me. And there I go...'"
Needless to say, the ice was broken, Within fifteen minutes of entering the courthouse, we had our marriage license in hand. Now all we needed was a chapel.
*/*
She and I starting walking down the street, unsure of which chapel to go to, when suddenly a limousine pulled up beside us and a Hispanic man stepped out from behind the driver's seat.
His name was Ernesto and he had a tattoo tear on his face. He asked us if we had just gotten our license. I tried to ignore him because I thought he was affiliated with the man who was handing out flyers for the shady chapel.
"Naw, man. This one's different. Here, check it out."
He opened up a brochure. The cheapest deal offered a drive-through ceremony, including pictures and free rides to and from the chapel, for an unbeatably low price.
"Sorry, man," I said, "but she don't want a drive-through wedding."
"Okay, I'll waive that. You'll get everything else though. The ride is free. I'll take you right now, and drop you right back here where I found you. And you don't gotta tip me or anyone except the pastor. For real."
"Whatta you say, babe?" I asked my soon-to-be wife.
"If you wanna do it, then let's do it."
"Okay, man, take us there."
The limo ride took only a few minutes. We arrived at the chapel and walked inside, where an elderly woman greeted us and began processing our nuptials, but not without first scolding Ernesto for poaching us from off the street.
"I thought you were just going to the store," she intoned. Ernesto said nothing as he walked into the back room.
She turned to us and introduced herself as Louise. She processed our fees and had us fill out forms and watched as we signed them, then she signed a few herself; she proceeded to inform us that the pastor and the photographer were running late, seeing as we were her first customers of the day.
My girl went into the restroom to prep herself for the final step we were about to take. I made small talk with Louise, regaling her with the story of our trip to Las Vegas and all the crazy happenings that went on since we blew into town. I also asked her about the shady chapel down the street, the one we'd been warned about; she made no bones about that chapel's bizarre operational policies and unkempt health conditions, adding that she knew the proprietor of that chapel and therefore knew the level of corruption and greed that was possible.
When my girl returned from the restroom, Louise asked us if we had any wedding bands.
"No, we didn't buy a ring yet," my girl replied.
"No rings? What about flowers?"
I turned to my girl and asked, "Do you want flowers, babe?"
"It's not necessary," she said.
Louise then picked out a white rose and gave it to my girl. "Here, it's on the house," she said.
Half an hour passed, and our pastor arrived. She was a good-looking young blonde with a spray-on tan and immaculate teeth, the kind of girl I might've leered at once upon a time. She escorted us into the large room and began to conduct the service from the altar.
She asked me and my girl to face each other as we repeated the vows. I was choked up with emotion once again, just like the night before in my room, only this time I was able to keep the tears from streaming down my face as I promised to honor, love, cherish and obey my girl until the day I die.
Never have there been words so potent and strong as those vows. As many times as I have heard them in my life, and as many times as I have ridiculed them or spoofed them or satirized them, I could not help but suddenly understand their power and impact as I stared into the ebony wonder of my girl's eyes and swore to her with all my heart that my aim was true and that she was mine forever and that I was hers forever... and I meant it.
I meant every word, and she did too.
We kissed, and then the photographer finally showed up and posed us this way and that, and a nervous energy flushed through my bloodstream as I realized what I had just done.
It was the one thing I had always sworn I would never do, and yet there I was, married on a bleary Vegas morning after a sleepless night spent driving through the desert.
*/*
I held her hand almost the entire way as we drove back to Los Angeles.
Towards the end of the trip she fell asleep, still wearing the white dress she donned for her special day.
I was still in shock, in utter disbelief. The entire drive was unreal. I was at peace, at one with my soul, with my heart, with my mind.
Nothing seemed impossible anymore. Everything in my line of vision appeared bright and new and shiny. There were no more questions, only answers to queries I had long pondered.
I wondered how much our lives were going to change after the honeymoon was over and reality set in... and then it dawned on me that this was reality, and that it wasn't going to set in because it was already settled. The moment we made up our minds to be husband and wife, it was settled. Like the dust on the interstate after our machine zoomed over the surface of hot Nevadan blacktop, it was settled. Like my stomach after an arrow of an evening spent careening toward Sin City and ending at a breakfast franchise over some eggs and coffee, it was settled.
There was nothing else to say.
She and I got married on September 1st, 2007 at approximately 9am.
That day was the beginning of the rest of our lives, and I will never ever forget it for as long as we both exist.
She waited because she knew what was going to happen after the show. She knew the journey we were about to embark upon and she was as excited as I was, maybe even more so. But I was dealing with suppressed emotions that had no outlet.
The show went over well, and when it was done she and I made our escape amid suspicious eyes and furrowed brows. Some of them knew instinctively what we had planned to do, even if we had not been explicit about it.
It wasn't until she and I were at my place, almost ready to hit the desert road out to Las Vegas, that I finally broke down and cried as I held her, explaining that these were not doubts that I was feeling, but rather the overwhelming joy of finally having found the one person I seemed to have been waiting all of my life to meet, through the darkness and the pain and the elation and joy of my entire existence... it was impossible to believe that there standing before me was the woman I was going to spend the rest of my days loving, but I had no choice but to accept that fact, even as my wounded self-esteem resisted the happiness that caused tears to well up in my eyes and my voice to tremble under the weight of this decision.
She patted my hair and told me that if I didn't want to go through with it she would be OK, but I insisted that it wasn't a big deal-- it was just me resorting to an old coping mechanism, the involuntary impulse to hide my emotions until they cannot be held any longer and then deluge from me like a levee breaking open and flooding my heart.
By the time we were an hour outside of Los Angeles, my mood was considerably improved. I held her hand as we drove our machine over clean asphalt laser beams.
*/*
Before the sunrise, we entered the garish Nevada city of lights, the unofficial capital of casino towns. With no sun to greet us, we stopped to get a bite to eat at an IHOP (Denny's was open but they were re-stocking and told us it would take 20 minutes before we could order).
The waiter told us that the chapels didn't operate under 24 hour schedules anymore, mainly due to the Las Vegas courthouse's new hours. Since the courthouse now closed earlier, there was no need for the chapels to work around the clock. We would have to wait until 8am if we wanted to do anything, he told me.
So we hit the Strip and smoked our cigarettes with style and flung them out of the windows almost simultaneously... which attracted the attention of a state trooper car that I had not seen following me. He pulled us over and walked over to my side of the car.
"Good morning."
I tired to smile. "Good morning, officer."
"Driver's license?"
"Yes." I pulled my license out of my wallet and let the wallet fall down between the seat and the center console, fearing that he would somehow come across the small amount of cocaine I had stashed in between my ATM cards.
He looked at my license, then said, "I pulled you over for littering."
"Yes, I know."
His nostrils flared, having smelled something coming from the car.
"Where are you coming from?"
"Los Angeles."
"Have you had anything to drink while you've been driving?"
"No sir."
"Please step out of the car."
After some questions, it became clear that the two cops thought that I was drunk, because of the strong smell of an open container of rum that my girl was carrying. The first cop was talking to me, trying to determine if I was tipsy, while the second cop walked over to my girl and grilled her on her bottle.
"Ma'am, we smell alcohol coming from the vehicle. Has he been drinking?"
"No sir, I have." She smiled, her red heart-shaped Lolita sunglasses framing her girlish cheekbones.
"What are you guys doing up so early?"
"We drove from L.A. all night. We're getting married."
"Married, eh?" The second cop smiled. "Well, congratulations!"
"Thank you."
"So, is he the love of your life?"
"Yes he is, sir!"
"Nice."
Meanwhile, I was talking to the first cop about our business at such an ungodly hour of the day.
"We're here to get hitched, then turn right around and head home. We didn't even reserve a room."
"All the chapels are going the other way. Why were you driving north on the Strip?"
"The IHOP waiter said there might be another chapel in the north part of town, near Russell."
"I'm not sure if there is one... let me ask my partner."
Just at that moment, the second cop walked up to us.
"Man, how much did she have to drink?" He laughed.
"Yeah, she puts 'em away alright." Then I proceeded to lie for no reason. "It's her car, so she was driving up until we hit Prima Donna, then she had a drink and I decided to take over."
"And you had nothing at all?"
"Correct. I'm allergic to alcohol anyway."
"Well, I can tell you haven't been drinking. After I asked you to exit the vehicle I was sniffing around to see if it was on your breath, but you're checking out fine. Sorry to inconvenience you and your girl."
"No problem, officer. You're just doing your job."
"Hey, is there a chapel up near Russell?" The first cop asked his partner.
"I think there is... but it's the only one around those parts. The majority of them are near Old Town, Fremont Street."
"You think the one near Russell is open right now?" I asked.
"Maybe. They don't really do that 24 hour thing anymore, but you can try it out."
"Why not? We got a lot of time to kill," I said, smiling.
The cops didn't ticket us, and as we drove away the cruiser followed us up the Strip. At one point I became disoriented and ran a red arrow light (not a red stop light) and then I hit the brake while in the middle of the right turn intersection.
Assuming that they were going to give us more trouble, I winced visibly. My girl was laughing at the whole absurd incident as it played itself out in front of her.
We both heard the troopers over their loudspeaker: "Make a left!"
All the other cars in traffic, stopped at the lights in back of us, were befuddled and confused.
By the time the troopers passed us and I gathered my bearings again, she and I were laughing at our luck. We both spoke aloud about how this must be a sign that our marriage was meant to be.
*/*
As the time was nearing, she and I stopped at a chapel and asked a woman who was tending to the plants when they would be open for business. She asked us if we had gotten our marriage license yet. I pleaded ignorance, and she promptly gave us directions to where the courthouse was located. She also warned us to stay away from one particular chapel with a shady reputation.
We drove to the courthouse and waited outside along with at least five other couples who were in a rush to get their nuptials taken care of as early as possible. My girl and I smoked more cigarettes, and kissed and held hands and giggled with excitement.
The moment was almost upon us.
As we waited, a man handed out flyers advertising the notorious chapel that we had been warned about prior to our courthouse visit. Prices on their wedding ceremonies had been marked down drastically. I folded the flyer and slipped it into my back pocket.
Five minutes before 8, the African-American courthouse security guard came out front. He turned to all of us and made an announcement:
"Sorry folks, the courthouse ain't giving out licenses today. Building's closed for the Labor Day weekend."
Our collective jaws dropped as we heard the news. I was about to say something when the guard suddenly reversed himself.
"Psyche!" He began to laugh, as did everyone else, along with relieved sighs. The guard then proceeded to poke fun at the man standing nearest to him.
"Damn, man, you shoulda seen the look on your face..."
My girl, laughing riotously, commented that it was a good thing he was kidding, otherwise he'd have to run away or else face the wrath of half a dozen unhappy couples, to which he replied:
"Hey, I'm black. Ain't none of y'all catchin' a brother. In fact, I saw an episode of COPS the other night where this cat straight up eluded the police, the dogs, even the infra-red. No shit. That motherfucker was home so fast he was able to check his ass out on TV the same night! He was probably sitting there, eating dinner, sayin' 'Look, mama, that's me. And there I go...'"
Needless to say, the ice was broken, Within fifteen minutes of entering the courthouse, we had our marriage license in hand. Now all we needed was a chapel.
*/*
She and I starting walking down the street, unsure of which chapel to go to, when suddenly a limousine pulled up beside us and a Hispanic man stepped out from behind the driver's seat.
His name was Ernesto and he had a tattoo tear on his face. He asked us if we had just gotten our license. I tried to ignore him because I thought he was affiliated with the man who was handing out flyers for the shady chapel.
"Naw, man. This one's different. Here, check it out."
He opened up a brochure. The cheapest deal offered a drive-through ceremony, including pictures and free rides to and from the chapel, for an unbeatably low price.
"Sorry, man," I said, "but she don't want a drive-through wedding."
"Okay, I'll waive that. You'll get everything else though. The ride is free. I'll take you right now, and drop you right back here where I found you. And you don't gotta tip me or anyone except the pastor. For real."
"Whatta you say, babe?" I asked my soon-to-be wife.
"If you wanna do it, then let's do it."
"Okay, man, take us there."
The limo ride took only a few minutes. We arrived at the chapel and walked inside, where an elderly woman greeted us and began processing our nuptials, but not without first scolding Ernesto for poaching us from off the street.
"I thought you were just going to the store," she intoned. Ernesto said nothing as he walked into the back room.
She turned to us and introduced herself as Louise. She processed our fees and had us fill out forms and watched as we signed them, then she signed a few herself; she proceeded to inform us that the pastor and the photographer were running late, seeing as we were her first customers of the day.
My girl went into the restroom to prep herself for the final step we were about to take. I made small talk with Louise, regaling her with the story of our trip to Las Vegas and all the crazy happenings that went on since we blew into town. I also asked her about the shady chapel down the street, the one we'd been warned about; she made no bones about that chapel's bizarre operational policies and unkempt health conditions, adding that she knew the proprietor of that chapel and therefore knew the level of corruption and greed that was possible.
When my girl returned from the restroom, Louise asked us if we had any wedding bands.
"No, we didn't buy a ring yet," my girl replied.
"No rings? What about flowers?"
I turned to my girl and asked, "Do you want flowers, babe?"
"It's not necessary," she said.
Louise then picked out a white rose and gave it to my girl. "Here, it's on the house," she said.
Half an hour passed, and our pastor arrived. She was a good-looking young blonde with a spray-on tan and immaculate teeth, the kind of girl I might've leered at once upon a time. She escorted us into the large room and began to conduct the service from the altar.
She asked me and my girl to face each other as we repeated the vows. I was choked up with emotion once again, just like the night before in my room, only this time I was able to keep the tears from streaming down my face as I promised to honor, love, cherish and obey my girl until the day I die.
Never have there been words so potent and strong as those vows. As many times as I have heard them in my life, and as many times as I have ridiculed them or spoofed them or satirized them, I could not help but suddenly understand their power and impact as I stared into the ebony wonder of my girl's eyes and swore to her with all my heart that my aim was true and that she was mine forever and that I was hers forever... and I meant it.
I meant every word, and she did too.
We kissed, and then the photographer finally showed up and posed us this way and that, and a nervous energy flushed through my bloodstream as I realized what I had just done.
It was the one thing I had always sworn I would never do, and yet there I was, married on a bleary Vegas morning after a sleepless night spent driving through the desert.
*/*
I held her hand almost the entire way as we drove back to Los Angeles.
Towards the end of the trip she fell asleep, still wearing the white dress she donned for her special day.
I was still in shock, in utter disbelief. The entire drive was unreal. I was at peace, at one with my soul, with my heart, with my mind.
Nothing seemed impossible anymore. Everything in my line of vision appeared bright and new and shiny. There were no more questions, only answers to queries I had long pondered.
I wondered how much our lives were going to change after the honeymoon was over and reality set in... and then it dawned on me that this was reality, and that it wasn't going to set in because it was already settled. The moment we made up our minds to be husband and wife, it was settled. Like the dust on the interstate after our machine zoomed over the surface of hot Nevadan blacktop, it was settled. Like my stomach after an arrow of an evening spent careening toward Sin City and ending at a breakfast franchise over some eggs and coffee, it was settled.
There was nothing else to say.
She and I got married on September 1st, 2007 at approximately 9am.
That day was the beginning of the rest of our lives, and I will never ever forget it for as long as we both exist.
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