Updates only seem to come when I’m at work bored out of my skull; this is a positive sign for neither my employment nor my dedication to personal journalism.
Had a great time at Jackie’s wedding. Had a horrible time getting there and back; Sonora is the kind of place you want to retire when you’re old, because it’s incredibly beautiful and so mind-fuckingly difficult to get around in that you never want to go anywhere more than a mile from home. I got lost both arriving and leaving, and received a traffic ticket from the only highway officer I’ve ever met (and I’ve met more than a few) who managed to be both demeaning, derogatory and downright dickish in the span of a few sentences. I confess, he may have been naturally talented; that kind of inbred discourtesy cannot be learned. He was like an autistic asshole savant, the Dustin Hoffman of fucktards.
I might have been less than courteous.
I was all riled up to spin fanciful discourses regarding social conundrums vis-à-vis the human maturation process, but I find that committing that bit of hate-filled slander to record has been remarkably calming. Don’t worry; when it comes to criticism, I always persevere.
Jackie’s wedding was a ridiculous and depressingly mundane experience, and I loved every goddamn minute of it. I arrived late and was immediately recruited into a sort of improptu volunteer workforce, an informal extension of the wedding party that in action resembled a surly Southern chain-gang more than anything else. We spent a few hours dragging the reception area into some semblance of order (under the hawk-like gaze of the blushing bride) and retired to a cramped and stuffy home a few blocks away to lick our wounds and prepare for the coming festivities. Sonora has a booming hospitality business (due in large part to the fact that if you manage to find the place, chances are you won’t be in any hurry to face the highway clusterfuck that leaving entails); thus I was forced to bed down in a tiny two bed one bath with seven other people, five of them female. The events of that balmy August evening were fairly mundane, and the night passed in a blur (though I distinctly remember vowing to chase down one of the resident canines, at one point doggedly exclaiming that I would “skin that motherfucker and wear it like a hat.”)
The next morning brought a renewed frenzy of activity, and after ransacking Jackie’s supply of sterilized poultry embryos we returned to ground zero and haphazardly threw the last bits of pomp and circumstance together. I ran back to the house to shower and groom myself to a level concomitant to my respect for this most sacred of ceremonies; arriving at the wedding site fifteen minutes early, we then proceeded to wait twenty minutes for a few straggling yokels to arrive decked out in shorts, flip-flops and weathered purple polo shirts. The wedding began only five minutes behind schedule, which I’m told is roughly equivalent to a man parting the Reed Sea in terms of modern miracles. The ceremony itself was wonderfully short, and with all the unimportant filler excised it lasted less than fifteen minutes.
The reception went swimmingly; good food and better company made for an enjoyable evening that demands more detail than I can afford to give at the moment. Office clock proclaims it’s time for lunch; I’ll see if I can post pictures and a less jumbled narrative later.
Had a great time at Jackie’s wedding. Had a horrible time getting there and back; Sonora is the kind of place you want to retire when you’re old, because it’s incredibly beautiful and so mind-fuckingly difficult to get around in that you never want to go anywhere more than a mile from home. I got lost both arriving and leaving, and received a traffic ticket from the only highway officer I’ve ever met (and I’ve met more than a few) who managed to be both demeaning, derogatory and downright dickish in the span of a few sentences. I confess, he may have been naturally talented; that kind of inbred discourtesy cannot be learned. He was like an autistic asshole savant, the Dustin Hoffman of fucktards.
I might have been less than courteous.
I was all riled up to spin fanciful discourses regarding social conundrums vis-à-vis the human maturation process, but I find that committing that bit of hate-filled slander to record has been remarkably calming. Don’t worry; when it comes to criticism, I always persevere.
Jackie’s wedding was a ridiculous and depressingly mundane experience, and I loved every goddamn minute of it. I arrived late and was immediately recruited into a sort of improptu volunteer workforce, an informal extension of the wedding party that in action resembled a surly Southern chain-gang more than anything else. We spent a few hours dragging the reception area into some semblance of order (under the hawk-like gaze of the blushing bride) and retired to a cramped and stuffy home a few blocks away to lick our wounds and prepare for the coming festivities. Sonora has a booming hospitality business (due in large part to the fact that if you manage to find the place, chances are you won’t be in any hurry to face the highway clusterfuck that leaving entails); thus I was forced to bed down in a tiny two bed one bath with seven other people, five of them female. The events of that balmy August evening were fairly mundane, and the night passed in a blur (though I distinctly remember vowing to chase down one of the resident canines, at one point doggedly exclaiming that I would “skin that motherfucker and wear it like a hat.”)
The next morning brought a renewed frenzy of activity, and after ransacking Jackie’s supply of sterilized poultry embryos we returned to ground zero and haphazardly threw the last bits of pomp and circumstance together. I ran back to the house to shower and groom myself to a level concomitant to my respect for this most sacred of ceremonies; arriving at the wedding site fifteen minutes early, we then proceeded to wait twenty minutes for a few straggling yokels to arrive decked out in shorts, flip-flops and weathered purple polo shirts. The wedding began only five minutes behind schedule, which I’m told is roughly equivalent to a man parting the Reed Sea in terms of modern miracles. The ceremony itself was wonderfully short, and with all the unimportant filler excised it lasted less than fifteen minutes.
The reception went swimmingly; good food and better company made for an enjoyable evening that demands more detail than I can afford to give at the moment. Office clock proclaims it’s time for lunch; I’ll see if I can post pictures and a less jumbled narrative later.
2:10 PM |
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