The Wedding, With Pictures And Minimal Snark!

It’s picture pages day here at Coquetting Tarradiddles, and I’ve got a dozen or so wedding photos to share with the quivering horde of my readership. I’ll (try and fail to) go light on the prose and heavy on the visual aids today, so let’s get started. For the less net-savvy amongst you, remember that you can click on any picture for a larger version. The first photo up for viewing was taken after the ceremony, during the interminable period of posing that follows any wedding, where the same smile must be replicated without end as the infinite combinations of interchangeable people are interchanged and combined before the blinding strobes of incessantly exploding flashbulbs and plaintive requests to ‘hold that pose and say cheese!’ People say it’s a long journey to the altar, but this is misleading. The longest journey is, in fact, walking away from the altar, as friends and family are arranged around you in every possible order in a twisted photographic version of a jumbled Rubik’s Cube. Eventually, owing to the expense of film in the past and now, presumably, to the limited battery life of digital cameras, the voracious appetite of the photographer is sated and the wedding can proceed to the reception.

Fortunately, while myself and my groomsmen (and eventually my sister and brother-in-law, my mother and my two nephews, my godson and other assorted peoples) were busily engaged in complex negotiations with Trey involving bribery and extortion as we attempted to persuade him that wearing tuxedos is cool, Brittany and her bridesmaids were sharing the delicate and dainty confines of the bridal parlor with the photographer. So, while I was cramped into a tiny, antiseptic office space with nearly a dozen other people all occupied by a crying, half-naked toddler who seemed convinced that dress pants would burn his skin like a crucifix to a vampire, Brittany and her gal pals lounged in the luxury of soft velvet and hair product. During this time, makeup was applied, hair was styled, and various snapshots were captured by the photographer’s lens. Here is one of them:

Ah, now this is more like it! Here we have a lovely photo of my blushing bride-to-be as she enters the home stretch of all her lounging and pampering and trashy romance novel reading before the ceremony. Only moments after this photo was taken, the oppressive dictatorial rule of the church’s wedding coordinator would see Brittany and her bridesmaids out on the showroom floor and strutting down the aisle like effeminate versions of John Travolta, sans paint cans.

The organ swells, the gathered crowd stands, the doors fly open and the bride emerges. The mood is serious and reverent, all eyes focusing on her beauty and grace as she glides mysteriously down the aisle, floating between the pews and the golden hues of autumnal foliage that adorns them. In the distance, I stand in silence as a vision in white slips slowly into focus. (And I do mean slowly. My contacts were giving me no end of grief that day, as the congregation would later witness when my sensitive ocular organs were aggravated beyond tolerance by the um…dust…or whatever it was that got in my eye as we were saying our vows. Yeah, dust. That’s the ticket!) As the haze clears and the bits and bobs of detail begin to come into focus, I see my bride and I go gooshey. Fortunately for my masculinity, the photographer chose this precise moment to either neglect the pythagorean theorem or intentionally abuse it in a brief but inspired examination of the concept of depth of field. Either way, I’m blurry and Brittany is in focus, right down to her brass-knuckled Hello, Kitty tattoo. Meow!

You approach a large cake protected by the spot-welded plate armor of a thick layer of fondant that proves utterly impervious to the assaults of mortal men as you attempt to deftly cut away a small and modest wedge only to eventually resort to violently hacking away at it like an enraged Norwegian berserker armed only with a silver cake knife and a burning grudge against pastries…

You answer the same question over and over again for the culturally illiterate attendees of your reception who have no idea that your cake topper is actually an action figure playset of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and her star-crossed lover Angel that has been hot glued together and set in a position of honor on top of the bride’s cake. Of course, if any of your guests do know of Buffy and Angel, then you’ll have to answer follow-up questions concerning just how much neither you nor your bride resembles either character. For the record, Brittany is an amalgamation of 15% Willow and 15% Tara blended into 70% Anya. She’s a sweet, bookish sort of girl who says whatever’s on her mind in the most sarcastic way possible, and could turn evil and flay you alive if you piss her off. For my part, I’m about 40% Spike, 20% Xander, 20% Giles, 10% Wesley, 5% Riley and 5% Angel. I’m an irreverent and narcissistic smart ass who routinely spazes out and makes a fool of himself, but ultimately comes through in a pinch and saves the day, armed with some arcane wisdom and a bit of slapstick. Also, I brood…

You answer another question over and over again as even less people have any idea what Monkey Island is, or why on Earth your groom’s cake is covered with sugar-icing “water” and gum-paste Caribbean “foliage”. Long story short, the scene on the groom’s cake recreates the setting of my proposal to Brittany, in that the proposal was set on the fictional Scabb Island located in a fictional version of the Caribbean as depicted in the fictional computer game The Secret Of Monkey Island 2: LeChuck’s Revenge and played on Brittany’s pink Nintendo DS via a customized game cartridge and a copy of SCUMMVM. If you’re still confused, it’s probably for the best. Or, you could just click here.

As everything winds down, you dance and toast and eventually walk out into a floating sea of soap bubble wisps, because apparently rice kills birds and birdseed can’t be left on the ground and has to be swept up. It seems to me that birds are very stupid things, otherwise they would eat the avian-appropriate seeds and avoid the lethality of rice, thus negating the need for hundreds of soapy fingers and the asthmatic wheeze of senior citizens and/or smokers attempting to blow a perfect floaty bubble from tiny plastic wands dipped in tule-covered bottles.

Goodbyes are waved, kisses are given, and the newlyweds drive off towards matrimonial bliss as dozens of obnoxiously loud aluminum cans scrape the pavement behind them, waking the dead and aggravating the neighbors. All in all, it’s a pretty fun event. Old friends journey far to attend and regale your new spouse with embarrassing stories from your past, while different family members surprise and impress you by attending. Gifts are received and put to immediate use, and the happy couple gets to drive away and avoid the messy hassle of cleaning up.

Want some books? 'Course ya do!

NOTE:  I know times are hard and yeah, I need to make a living too, but if you want to read any of my books but can't afford to buy them right now, hit me up.

I'll take care of it.

Humor | Nonfiction
Available now from the following retailers

Have you ever lived through an experience that was so humiliating that you wanted to die, but when you tell it to all your friends, they can't stop laughing?

Have you ever made a decision that seemed like a good idea at the time, but you're still living with the hilarious consequences years later?

If so, then grab a snack, get comfortable, and prepare to have all of your own poor life choices seem just a little bit more bearable.

You're welcome.

Short Stories
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The nine stories of rage and sadness collected here range from the most intimate of human experiences to the wildest realms of magic and fantasy. The first story is a violent gut-punch to the soul, and the rest of them just hit harder from there.

Those who tough it out will find a book filled with as much hope as despair, a constant contradiction pulling you from one extreme to another.

Life might knock us down, over and over, and will the beat the ever-loving snot out of us from the time we're old enough to give it attitude until the day we finally let it win and stop getting up.

Always get back up.

Gaming | Nonfiction
Available now from the following retailers

This isn't just a book. It's a portal to other worlds where there be magic and dragons and hilarious pirates. Okay, not really. But this book is about those portals, except they're called video games.

The Life Bytes series of books take a deep dive into one man's personal journey through childhood into kinda/sorta being a responsible, competent adult as told through the magical lens of whatever video games he was playing at the time.

Part One starts way back in 1975 and meanders down various digital pathways until, oh, around about 1993 or so.

If you're feeling nostalgic for the early days of gaming or if you just want to understand why the gamer in your life loves this hobby so much, take a seat in your favorite comfy chair and crack this bad boy open.

I'll try to not be boring.

Horror
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What you are about to read is not a story. There is no beginning, middle, or end.

What follows is nothing more than a series of journal entries involving shadow people, sleep paralysis, and crippling fear. It’s not pretty, it doesn’t follow story logic, and nothing works out well in the end.

You've been warned.