Somebody's Getting Married

A teaser for the full-length wedding video I'm almost finished cutting...

Real World

By Bruce Springsteen

Mister Trouble come walkin' this way
Year gone by feels like one long day
But I'm alive and I'm feelin' all right
Well I run that hard road outta heartbreak city
Built a roadside carnival out of hurt and self-pity
It was all wrong well now I'm moving on

Ain't no church bells ringing
Ain't no flags unfurled
It's just me and you and the love we're bringing
Into the real world
Into the real world

I built a shrine in my heart it wasn't pretty to see
Made out of fool's gold memory and tears cried
Now I'm headin' over the rise
I'm searchin' for one clear moment of love and truth
I still got a little faith
But what I need is some proof tonight
I'm lookin' for it in your eyes

Ain't no church bells ringing
Ain't no flags unfurled
Just me and you and the faith we're bringing
Into the real world
Into the real world

Well tonight I just wanna shout
I feel my soul waist deep and sinkin'
Into this black river of doubt
I just wanna rise and walk along the riverside
And when the morning comes baby I don't wanna hide
I'll stand right at your side with my arms open wide

I wanna find some answers I wanna ask for some help
I'm tired of running scared
Baby let's get our bags packed
We'll take it here to hell and heaven and back
And if love is hopeless hopeless at best
Come on put on your party dress it's ours tonight
And we're goin' with the tumblin' dice

Ain't no church bells ringing
Ain't no flags unfurled
It's just me and you and the hope we're bringing
Into the real world
Well into the real world
Oh into the real world

I Do

As read Aug. 30, 2009:

I sat down to write these vows last October. Congress had just passed a $700 billion Wall Street bailout, and as I typed, the Dow Jones sunk 800 points. We were in the home stretch of a presidential campaign getting nastier by the second. Wars raged and newspapers vanished. The future seemed as cloudy and confused as ever.

And here we are today. I had no way of knowing what the world would look like. I just knew I wanted to look at it with you.

We got engaged 563 days ago. It feels like yesterday. I knew then as I know now that marriage is not some simple ceremony to cement our commitment and celebrate our love. We have lived these 563 days much like we will live every day afterward. Getting married is an expression of commitment, yes. But it is also the only time in my entire life you’ll ever likely see me express something else: faith.

Not faith in a supreme being or politicians or the fortunes of a football team. But simple, pure, unending faith in you. Faith in us.

I vow to follow all the usual rules of marriage. I promise to love you, protect you, honor you, hear you, make you laugh and embrace the times you must laugh at me.

I also promise to pronounce your name properly and try my best to keep the popcorn off the top shelf where you can’t reach it.

But above all, I vow to never lose faith in the bond that has grown between us. To respect its strength and sanctity.

I vow to be the best husband I can be. To cultivate hope, soften pain, ease fears, and build with you a home immune from the insanity of this world. I vow to never leave your side as we walk forward from here to forever.

Sort of social. Demented and sad, but social.

It's a cliche, but John Hughes sort of defined high school existence for a generation of kids who dreamed of getting out of there even before they got there. Celebrate the guy who gave the world Farmer Ted.

And for some reason, among the hoards of tribute videos, I have a soft spot for this mother dragooning her children into performing in her reenactment of a movie they're too young to see.

Holy Matrimony!

No, I don't think we'll be doing anything like this next month. But you've gotta give these guys credit for the right attitude and effort. And for having at least three members of the wedding party who look like Seth Rogen.

Summing Up

Ed McMahon (old and sick), Farrah Fawcett (middle aged and cancerous), Michael Jackson (middle aged, generally weird and addicted) and now Steve McNnair (young, fit and possibly unlucky in love).

None of this has anything to do with anything else. It just seems helpful at times to take stock of what is happening in the world.

And by that, I mean a world in which Iran attempts to stifle a populist revolt against Islamist fascism, North Korea threatens to fire missiles at Hawaii, and U.S. governors are Terminators issuing IOUs for a bankrupt state, beauty pageant (and vice presidential) runners-up quitting so as not to act like a quitter, and philanderers embroiled in Argentinian romances with soul mates.

There's a show on TV in which fat people dance in whore attire and another in which someone who calls himself a doctor eats tainted vegetables to produce parasitic worms from his poo.

Gays are getting married, a black guy is in the White House and I've had a poison ivy rash on my leg for almost two months now. Interesting times, indeed.

But when did Mad Magazine start scripting our current events?

The Kid Is Not My Son

More than one person has remarked to me since yesterday: What's the big deal about Michael Jackson?

A fair question. He has been an irrelevant freak for so long, it's hard to recall what was so special about him in the first place. My bride-to-be had never even seen the videos for "Thriller" or "Beat It" until I showed them to her a few months back on YouTube.

Check out his legendary performance from the Motown 25th anniversary special. Yes, there was a time when these moves were fresh and unique. Yes, there was a time when he looked mostly human even if his talent made him appear from another world. Yes, he can hold a room entranced even while lip-syncing. When he moonwalks toward the end, part of the audience appears to spit out their eyeballs.

But even if you're not taken in by his voice, his dance moves or his undeniable stage presence, the numbers don't lie. The man reached a popularity untouched by anyone since Elvis and The Beatles.

I was never really a huge Jackson fan. I can recall someone at camp playing the "Thriller" album over and over again in the summer of 1983. Granted, I didn't have much taste in music then, but it didn't do anything for me. And there was even a point in 1984 when I was watching a Prince video on MTV (remember when they played videos?) and couldn't understand why Michael Jackson was so hairy.

And he was always so weird. The chimp, Elizabeth Taylor, the hyperbaric chamber, Neverland, the glove, the gay-military outfits, the Elephant Man's bones, Lisa Marie, the accusations of pedophilia, the high-pitched girly voice, the seeming desire to become white, the plastic surgury that eventually lopped off his nose.

At the heart of it appeared to be an arrested development triggered by an abusive taskmaster of a father who made his children into superstars only to watch them go supernova and burst into pieces. Andrew Sullivan has a pyschological/cultural take as worthy as any.

Michael Jackson was an international sensation, as recognized around the world as the NY Yankees' logo, McDonald's or -- once upon a time -- Muhammad Ali. On a list of the most prominent world figures whose death might spark as much interest, I can think of only Ali, the Pope (though perhaps not the current one), Obama and Paul McCartney. Frank Sinatra and Johnny Carson were pretty big, but mostly in the U.S.

But the question of why should we care is different from why we should take note.

We should not care as though we have lost a loved one. Michael Jackson was a celebrity entertainer, not our parent or child. But in the way our culture created him, chewed him up and spat him out, perhaps he's a symbol for a sick world. It appears Jackson wanted to remain a child. I'm not exusing him for the choices he made in his own life. And I ain't saying it's my responsibility, but someone really should take better care of such people.

Phishing Down By The River

Haven't blogged in a while. Don't suppose this counts for much, but I just wanted to reassert my love for YouTube. Which provides for 19 quality minutes such as this:

State of The State

By TPerl

In case you missed it, MTV is finally allowing The State DVD to be released.

July 14th.

You may now commence ball-dipping.

A Disgrace To The Name

By Arielle

James Harrison - you know, the 242-pounder who somehow managed to trudge a slow 100 yards to score a touchdown in the Super Bowl before collapsing - is skipping the Steelers' White House visit this week. 

Prior obligation? Loyalty to McCain? On the no-fly list and concerned about the rising price of gas?

Nah. 

He just thinks the president doesn't want to see him bad enough.

"This is how I feel - if you want to see the Pittsburgh Steelers, invite us when we don't win the Super Bowl. As far as I'm concerned, he [Obama] would've invited Arizona if they had won," Harrison told a Pittsburgh TV station. 

This is probably too dumb to even bother blogging about. But just for kicks...

Harrison seems to be under the impression that the president customarily invites his favorite football team to the White House. Or that Barack Obama and his predecessors (Harrison also skipped the team's 2006 meeting with George W. Bush) had nothing better to do than shuffle through their NFL trading cards to decide which spandex-clad giant they'd most like to hang out with in the rose garden, then command that it be so. Or that Obama invited the Steelers for any substantive reason besides they fact that they. won. the. Super. Bowl.

Seriously. On Harrison's logic, Nicolas Sarkozy should reject his next White House invitation on the grounds that, had Segolene Royal won the election, Obama would be inviting her instead. 

But in case you were worried that Obama would be missing out because of this non-snub, Harrison's pre-Super Bowl brush with fame occurred after he was arrested for allegedly slapping his girlfriend during an argument about their son's baptism. The charges were later dropped after he took an anger management class.

Truly. The loss will be Barack's.

Favre Christ's Sake

Quick thoughts on the reincarnated speculation Brett Favre will once again un-retire and try to play football.

When Favre played for the Packers, I always rooted for him. Right up to the very last interception he threw against the Giants.

When Favre played for the Jets, I rooted for him. But only because, as a Jets fan, I had to. (See: Rick Mirer, Bubby Brister, Ray Lucas, Frank Reich, Browning Nagle, Neil O'Donnel, etc.)

If Favre comes back to play for the Vikings or some other team, I will root against him. With rabid glee.

And if he stays retired, struggling with the finality of his decision while mowing his Mississippi lawn with a tractor, I swear to God, I will root for the weeds.

And Knowing Is Half The Battle

For those of you who grew up watching G.I. Joe, here's a more mature take on the franchise from Adult Swim. People actually get shot. No convenient parachutes from exploding helicopters. And it still hits the nostalgia sweet spot. I don't know what to make of this summer's life-action movie, but this came out of nowhere and entertained me.

And enjoy the spoof public service announcements above. Pork chop sandwiches!

100 Ways To Procrastinate

A compilation of "The 100 Most Iconic Internet Videos."

Go ahead. You know you have nothing to do today.

When Will The World End?

I remember learning about the five Ws in elementary school. These were the question words. All of the world's answers lay just beyond their asking.

In our global, digitally connected society, that has never been more true.

Still, I never really think of asking Google direct questions. Mostly I use keywords. The idea of typing “Why does my ass hurt?” doesn't seem, to me, as productive or as elegant as simply typing “hemorrhoids” or “sex play riding crop injury.”

But all you need to do these days is type a word or two into the Google search box, and by perusing the automated suggestions you can get a pretty good idea of what's on people's minds.

Some are scientific: Why is the sky blue? What does my name mean?

Some are political: Who should I vote for? Where do I vote?

Some are paranoid: Where was Obama born? Why do men cheat?

(Be careful typing in something like “why do black.” At least if anyone is watching you. Or you have a sense of shame.)

And my favorites are philosophical, enigmatic, and – if you don't recognize the pop cultural significance of the phrase – absurd: Where the hell is Matt? Who moved my cheese? When will I grow up? Why do men have nipples? Why do dogs eat poop? Why did I get married? Where are they now?

Indeed. Questions for the ages.

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Google's suggestions for life's burning questions in April 2009:

Who wants to be a millionaire

Who is

Who wants to be a millionaire online game

Who killed the electric car

Who is big poppa on real housewives of altanta

Who wants to be a millionaire game

Who is winning the election

Who should I vote for

Who moved my cheese

Who is my congressman

What not to wear

What is my ip

What does my name mean

What time is the inauguration

What is my ip address

What time is it

What i like about you

What is a good credit score

What is twitter

When i grow up lyrics

When is easter 2009

When is the superbowl

When does twighlight come out on dvd

When is the superbowl in 2009

When is superbowl 2009

When will i die

When is thanksgiving

When will i grow up

When will the world end

Where do I vote

Where does the vice president live

Where was Obama born

Where the wild things are

Where are they now

Where is Santa

Where do I go to vote

Where the hell is Matt

Where are you Christmas lyrics

Where am I registered to vote

Why is the sky blue

Why do cats purr

Why do men cheat

Why so serious

Why did the chicken cross the road

Why do men have nipples

Why lyrics

Why did i get married

Why do dogs eat poop

Why georgia lyrics

How to tie a tie

How i met your mother

How to kiss

How to get pregnant

How stuff works

How to cook a turkey

How to

How to lose weight

How to draw

How to knit

Raise The Bridge!

Roger Ebert fucks with O'Reilly. A fun little take-down.

For some wonderful nostalgia of a dying newspaper, don't miss his latest blog post.