There's a tic in frantic
I wrote a note at work today. Somehow it seemed easier to just rip off a sheet of lined paper, scrawl some words and addresses on it, and sign my name. The signing gave me pause. There's no automatic signature on the pages torn from a notebook. After struggling through the closing, I felt refreshed. This was the pace of work at one time. The pace of writing. The pace of mailing. The pace of waiting. I had a coworker who used to talk about the days before computers. It wasn't all typewriters and carbon paper. She said mail would come in daily some time near 11 AM. The mail would get opened, sorted, letters would get answered and sent back out into the world. Sometimes in a day. Sometimes not. They didn't follow up on the same issue three times in an hour. They were buried in paper, sure, and they had occasion to use a tickler which makes me giggle a little bit, but work was different. For five minutes, I felt that today. It relaxed me. We go so fast. We get things done; it's true. Some of them get done multiple times. We are doing more than ever before. And that's what matters... That's what matters....
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Checked into the boards by Mr. Universe
I'm not sure about heaven, but Oklahoma...
Not how I wanted to start. Sorry.
Let me start again. There's a beauty in the universe and I suspect it's hanging around everyday. It's like beauty smog and it just sort of infiltrates everything around us. We breathe it in and stare it down and sound waves ride gondolas steered by able-bodied smog Venetians through it on the way to our ear canals. Most of us get caught up in too much other stuff to notice the fog of the smog of beauty flatulence. It takes an elbow to the throat to jolt us into noticing. I've had great fortune this week to take at least three elbows to the throat.
Elbow the first: I know that babies have a high cuteness quotient, but so few of them run with my crowd so I don't usually realize the depths of that power. Last week, I met Anya for the first time. It was a pleasure. She was fascinating. She'd move her hands while dreaming and the room full of people who had not stopped staring at her would collectively smile as if we were her puppets and she controlled our mouth muscles on strings. I was not immune to her power. It was a calming sensation and it put my whole week into perspective. The false complications, the various manufactured stresses- what is all of that compared to a tiny baby? Nothing. Each of us was once that small and that helpless. Each of us started out only wanting to eat, sleep, poop, or some combination of the three. We only pretend we have passed that stage.
Ulna the second: My iPod mini is full of music. Some of it makes me want to shake my tailfeathers. Some of it makes me want to grab my banjo and slow dance with it. There's music that makes me smile, makes me rock, makes me appropriately sad, fired up, or makes me want to break out my falsetto. There is one band though that reaches down inside of me, plucks out my soul, and serves it with cream of mushroom soup as part of the growing-in-popularity hotdish. That band is Hem. This weekend I got to sit in the front row while they served my soul as a delicious meal. Somewhere in the last few years I lost track of how much meaningful music they have put out. I delighted in nearly every song as they carried me through love, loss, and that place of peace that I can only recognize when I hear it in my innards.
Codo de tercero: High on a hill in grassy field in Virginia, framed by the Autumn colors of reds, yellows, and greens, chilled slightly by October air, a group gathered to play a game that has come to mean so much to me. That game- Ultimate. My mistress, my salvation, my social network, my release, my happiness. My first game of the season. I twisted my "good" ankle just before we began to play. With my bad ankle and my quadriceps already causing concern, I feared that I was done, but the switch clicked when the game began and the pain vacated. White plastic cut through chilled air and I gave chase. We carved tracks back and forth across the grass and let youth, joy, and beauty run into the indentations our pounding cleats left. The indentations overflowed and so we leapt into the air, diving, bounding, jumping, and hollering to pursue it all. Beads of sweat formed, deer appeared to watch this display of natural beauty as the disc spun on sometimes just out of reach. Bodies extended to fly through the air, feet darted, sometimes slipping, but panting and smiling we soared to meet the high of activity.
I'm not sure about heaven, but Oklahoma...
Not how I wanted to start. Sorry.
Let me start again. There's a beauty in the universe and I suspect it's hanging around everyday. It's like beauty smog and it just sort of infiltrates everything around us. We breathe it in and stare it down and sound waves ride gondolas steered by able-bodied smog Venetians through it on the way to our ear canals. Most of us get caught up in too much other stuff to notice the fog of the smog of beauty flatulence. It takes an elbow to the throat to jolt us into noticing. I've had great fortune this week to take at least three elbows to the throat.
Elbow the first: I know that babies have a high cuteness quotient, but so few of them run with my crowd so I don't usually realize the depths of that power. Last week, I met Anya for the first time. It was a pleasure. She was fascinating. She'd move her hands while dreaming and the room full of people who had not stopped staring at her would collectively smile as if we were her puppets and she controlled our mouth muscles on strings. I was not immune to her power. It was a calming sensation and it put my whole week into perspective. The false complications, the various manufactured stresses- what is all of that compared to a tiny baby? Nothing. Each of us was once that small and that helpless. Each of us started out only wanting to eat, sleep, poop, or some combination of the three. We only pretend we have passed that stage.
Ulna the second: My iPod mini is full of music. Some of it makes me want to shake my tailfeathers. Some of it makes me want to grab my banjo and slow dance with it. There's music that makes me smile, makes me rock, makes me appropriately sad, fired up, or makes me want to break out my falsetto. There is one band though that reaches down inside of me, plucks out my soul, and serves it with cream of mushroom soup as part of the growing-in-popularity hotdish. That band is Hem. This weekend I got to sit in the front row while they served my soul as a delicious meal. Somewhere in the last few years I lost track of how much meaningful music they have put out. I delighted in nearly every song as they carried me through love, loss, and that place of peace that I can only recognize when I hear it in my innards.
Codo de tercero: High on a hill in grassy field in Virginia, framed by the Autumn colors of reds, yellows, and greens, chilled slightly by October air, a group gathered to play a game that has come to mean so much to me. That game- Ultimate. My mistress, my salvation, my social network, my release, my happiness. My first game of the season. I twisted my "good" ankle just before we began to play. With my bad ankle and my quadriceps already causing concern, I feared that I was done, but the switch clicked when the game began and the pain vacated. White plastic cut through chilled air and I gave chase. We carved tracks back and forth across the grass and let youth, joy, and beauty run into the indentations our pounding cleats left. The indentations overflowed and so we leapt into the air, diving, bounding, jumping, and hollering to pursue it all. Beads of sweat formed, deer appeared to watch this display of natural beauty as the disc spun on sometimes just out of reach. Bodies extended to fly through the air, feet darted, sometimes slipping, but panting and smiling we soared to meet the high of activity.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Excuse me, did you say Hot Dish?
I don't remember how the topic came up, and I refuse to admit that I might have been swapping recipes. Nonetheless, there was a "hot dish" (apparently that's Minnesotan for "casserole") that sounded pretty delicious and pretty easy in this conversation, which may or may not have extended beyond hot dishes. Anyway, I came home, whipped it up, slathered it with ketchup, and put it in my tummy for the last two nights. It's so good I wrote all three ingredients down on a recipe card and wrote "Hot Dish" at the top so that my grandchildren can some day enjoy a hot dish of their own.
Hamburger (or soy crumble)
Cream of Mushroom soup
Topped with Tater tots
Cooked for 45 minutes
Hot Dish. It's almost as fun to eat as it is to say.
I don't remember how the topic came up, and I refuse to admit that I might have been swapping recipes. Nonetheless, there was a "hot dish" (apparently that's Minnesotan for "casserole") that sounded pretty delicious and pretty easy in this conversation, which may or may not have extended beyond hot dishes. Anyway, I came home, whipped it up, slathered it with ketchup, and put it in my tummy for the last two nights. It's so good I wrote all three ingredients down on a recipe card and wrote "Hot Dish" at the top so that my grandchildren can some day enjoy a hot dish of their own.
Hamburger (or soy crumble)
Cream of Mushroom soup
Topped with Tater tots
Cooked for 45 minutes
Hot Dish. It's almost as fun to eat as it is to say.
Monday, October 16, 2006
The Garter family
It never feels right trying to catch a garter from a barely-known groom. It always feels like there should be some bond between this groom and the "next one." At least that's my excuse for only coming up with one garter in seven tries this year. Those in attendance might call in to question the word "tries" for several reasons. At least two of the weddings decided to forgo the dive beneath the bride's dress, so they were out. I caught the one. I don't remember how two others went down, which leaves us with just two.
In the first, my young cousin took one for the team with a stunning diving grab. I was quite proud of him for his catching ability as well as his generosity in taking the heat off those of us that have actually reached marrying age. Good man. Good show.
The second of the uncaught garters came much much closer. The garter whizzed out to my left and above my shoulder. It was catchable; I should know, I like to catch whizzing things for fun, however, it didn't seem right to steal the moment from the gentleman to my left who was not only in the direct line of flight, but was also about a head taller than me. Quickly considering these factors, it only seemed fair to let him have the prize. He must have been considering a different set of factors because he politely stepped out of the way to allow the garter to fall to the floor. Like befuddled baseball players, we looked at each other disappointedly before recovering our dignity. "Dear sir. I believe that was yours. Please do pick it up now," we both said. This back and forth went on for an awkward stretch before a young lad saved us from further discussion and plucked the garter from the ground. This seemed like an excellent compromise to all parties involved.
It never feels right trying to catch a garter from a barely-known groom. It always feels like there should be some bond between this groom and the "next one." At least that's my excuse for only coming up with one garter in seven tries this year. Those in attendance might call in to question the word "tries" for several reasons. At least two of the weddings decided to forgo the dive beneath the bride's dress, so they were out. I caught the one. I don't remember how two others went down, which leaves us with just two.
In the first, my young cousin took one for the team with a stunning diving grab. I was quite proud of him for his catching ability as well as his generosity in taking the heat off those of us that have actually reached marrying age. Good man. Good show.
The second of the uncaught garters came much much closer. The garter whizzed out to my left and above my shoulder. It was catchable; I should know, I like to catch whizzing things for fun, however, it didn't seem right to steal the moment from the gentleman to my left who was not only in the direct line of flight, but was also about a head taller than me. Quickly considering these factors, it only seemed fair to let him have the prize. He must have been considering a different set of factors because he politely stepped out of the way to allow the garter to fall to the floor. Like befuddled baseball players, we looked at each other disappointedly before recovering our dignity. "Dear sir. I believe that was yours. Please do pick it up now," we both said. This back and forth went on for an awkward stretch before a young lad saved us from further discussion and plucked the garter from the ground. This seemed like an excellent compromise to all parties involved.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
The wedding wave crashes
I thought that I'd feel a bit more jubilant now that I have my weekends wrestled back from the marriage monster. I closed out Wedding Wave 2006 with my seventh and final wedding over the weekend. My suit will head to the dry cleaners. My tuxedo will head to the tailor. (There was a crotch-ripping incident. It was a good year....) It's odd, not knowing what's next. I can only wonder when I'll be able to vogue again. I don't know whose Mom will be the next Mom I get to hug or whose Dad I'll get to struggle through a conversation with. It could be six or eight months before I see another bridesmaid. I may be calling my friends to give toasts during my meals, just to ease me back into the weddingless existence. I thought I'd be happy right now, but I'm a little lonely. It seems that... uh... there ain't no party like a 19,000 dollar party, 'cause a 19,000 dollar party don't stop. Say what? er. They do stop. And people sort of stumble off the dance floor, hug, kiss, and wish the sharp dressed man and that happy woman an enjoyable visit to somewhere romantic. The rest of us return to our lives already in progress. Maybe we caught up with some old friends, but by Tuesday four days will be just like four years. Maybe we made some new friends, but by Wednesday who knows when we'll see them again. At least we've got pictures, and also CDs, coasters, coffee, small bags of edible goodies, and our memories. Someone will drink to that. They always do.
I thought that I'd feel a bit more jubilant now that I have my weekends wrestled back from the marriage monster. I closed out Wedding Wave 2006 with my seventh and final wedding over the weekend. My suit will head to the dry cleaners. My tuxedo will head to the tailor. (There was a crotch-ripping incident. It was a good year....) It's odd, not knowing what's next. I can only wonder when I'll be able to vogue again. I don't know whose Mom will be the next Mom I get to hug or whose Dad I'll get to struggle through a conversation with. It could be six or eight months before I see another bridesmaid. I may be calling my friends to give toasts during my meals, just to ease me back into the weddingless existence. I thought I'd be happy right now, but I'm a little lonely. It seems that... uh... there ain't no party like a 19,000 dollar party, 'cause a 19,000 dollar party don't stop. Say what? er. They do stop. And people sort of stumble off the dance floor, hug, kiss, and wish the sharp dressed man and that happy woman an enjoyable visit to somewhere romantic. The rest of us return to our lives already in progress. Maybe we caught up with some old friends, but by Tuesday four days will be just like four years. Maybe we made some new friends, but by Wednesday who knows when we'll see them again. At least we've got pictures, and also CDs, coasters, coffee, small bags of edible goodies, and our memories. Someone will drink to that. They always do.
Friday, October 13, 2006
Ways to look a gift horse in the mouth without sustaining serious injury
-Sneak up on the horse while she is sleeping.
-Stand perpendicular to the horse and use peripheral vision.
-Two words: Magna Fication
-Translated as one word: Binoculars
-Become a gift horse dentist, then it will be an occupation and OSHA will print guidelines for the bulletin board which will be oh so helpful.
-Wait until the gift horse is dead.
Or follow the advice passed down by generations of folks wiser than Salman Rushdie and don't look a gift horse in the mouth.
-Sneak up on the horse while she is sleeping.
-Stand perpendicular to the horse and use peripheral vision.
-Two words: Magna Fication
-Translated as one word: Binoculars
-Become a gift horse dentist, then it will be an occupation and OSHA will print guidelines for the bulletin board which will be oh so helpful.
-Wait until the gift horse is dead.
Or follow the advice passed down by generations of folks wiser than Salman Rushdie and don't look a gift horse in the mouth.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
Plant it on my cheek
Zach Braff is all the rage. Or at least he was like 10 minutes ago. I don't know why anymore. I saw Last Kiss and I'm depressed. It's a sad movie about how life sucks. I don't like to go to movies to find out life sucks. I go other places for that; country music stations for instance. I go to movies to escape, not to be reminded that at the end of this whole show we're all just going to end up dead anyway. I mean according to this flick, life is pretty much over at 29. Come on Braff, not all of us get to mambo with Rachel Bilson. I don't know what that means exactly, but I'm pretty sure that it adds rather than detracts from my ill feelings toward Last Kiss. The movie isn't dark and meaningful. They curse a lot, so it sounds dark, but it doesn't do it for me. It has some good music, but I wonder if it has the same problem that Garden State had. In that one, I found the soundtrack more moving than the movie. I can't confirm this on the Kiss yet, 'cause I haven't heard the soundtrack separately. It's just a theory at this point. Rachel Bilson had a really short pleated skirt. This factoid also seemed worth mentioning, though unconnected to much. Although in this case the pleats improved my opinion of this movie. In fairness to the folks that like men, Braff took off his shirt. This neither added nor detracted from my experience. Overall, I have to say that I wasn't pleased with the first movie I've seen in a theater since California*. Save your money.
*I'm looking into new ways to mark time. I have not ruled out states.
Zach Braff is all the rage. Or at least he was like 10 minutes ago. I don't know why anymore. I saw Last Kiss and I'm depressed. It's a sad movie about how life sucks. I don't like to go to movies to find out life sucks. I go other places for that; country music stations for instance. I go to movies to escape, not to be reminded that at the end of this whole show we're all just going to end up dead anyway. I mean according to this flick, life is pretty much over at 29. Come on Braff, not all of us get to mambo with Rachel Bilson. I don't know what that means exactly, but I'm pretty sure that it adds rather than detracts from my ill feelings toward Last Kiss. The movie isn't dark and meaningful. They curse a lot, so it sounds dark, but it doesn't do it for me. It has some good music, but I wonder if it has the same problem that Garden State had. In that one, I found the soundtrack more moving than the movie. I can't confirm this on the Kiss yet, 'cause I haven't heard the soundtrack separately. It's just a theory at this point. Rachel Bilson had a really short pleated skirt. This factoid also seemed worth mentioning, though unconnected to much. Although in this case the pleats improved my opinion of this movie. In fairness to the folks that like men, Braff took off his shirt. This neither added nor detracted from my experience. Overall, I have to say that I wasn't pleased with the first movie I've seen in a theater since California*. Save your money.
*I'm looking into new ways to mark time. I have not ruled out states.
Friday, October 06, 2006
A Public Service Announcement for my New York readers Or is it reader, now?
The baring of one's teenage soul seems like loads of fun. Or at least worth a cringe.
Let me know if you end up on TV.
The baring of one's teenage soul seems like loads of fun. Or at least worth a cringe.
Let me know if you end up on TV.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
The ballad of disease
Here's the profanity-laced follow-up to my first *hit* single, The stability song. This one was inspired by a heart patient with pneumonia. I figure it has to brighten her mood just knowing that I won't be singing this to her.
Just because it's still dark
Doesn't make it night
Just ‘cause they removed the fat
Doesn’t make it lite.
She’s out of bed,
But fighting a foe.
You can call him Murdoch,
But I’ll call him Moe.
He’s pneumonia
A mean ol’ lung infection
He's pneumonia
Nobody’s candidate for re-election
He’s banned from the A-team
And cut from JV
If he were walking
I'd kick his knee
That surly bastard
Attacking the impaired
Come on, Moe, bring it.
Are you scared?
He's pneumonia
Doesn't rhyme with Jack Sh**
He's pneumonia
Y’know she’ll get over it.
The immune system sounds the bell
does its Truman
And gives him hell
Pneumonia goes down
With a right to the jaw
The crowd cheers wildly
And sings this song
He's pneumonia
Doesn’t rhyme with Jack Sh**
He's pneumonia
Y’know she’ll get over it.
Immune system dances
Cha-cha in the street
Pneumonia shrinks away
He's been beat.
Just because it’s pink
Doesn’t make it dusk
Just because it's perfume
Doesn't make it musk
She's out of bed
And besting her foe
This song should've ended
A long time ago
Pneumonia!
Bloody hell.
Pneumonia.
Go on, get well.
Here's the profanity-laced follow-up to my first *hit* single, The stability song. This one was inspired by a heart patient with pneumonia. I figure it has to brighten her mood just knowing that I won't be singing this to her.
Just because it's still dark
Doesn't make it night
Just ‘cause they removed the fat
Doesn’t make it lite.
She’s out of bed,
But fighting a foe.
You can call him Murdoch,
But I’ll call him Moe.
He’s pneumonia
A mean ol’ lung infection
He's pneumonia
Nobody’s candidate for re-election
He’s banned from the A-team
And cut from JV
If he were walking
I'd kick his knee
That surly bastard
Attacking the impaired
Come on, Moe, bring it.
Are you scared?
He's pneumonia
Doesn't rhyme with Jack Sh**
He's pneumonia
Y’know she’ll get over it.
The immune system sounds the bell
does its Truman
And gives him hell
Pneumonia goes down
With a right to the jaw
The crowd cheers wildly
And sings this song
He's pneumonia
Doesn’t rhyme with Jack Sh**
He's pneumonia
Y’know she’ll get over it.
Immune system dances
Cha-cha in the street
Pneumonia shrinks away
He's been beat.
Just because it’s pink
Doesn’t make it dusk
Just because it's perfume
Doesn't make it musk
She's out of bed
And besting her foe
This song should've ended
A long time ago
Pneumonia!
Bloody hell.
Pneumonia.
Go on, get well.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
The Juan Valdez where everyone thinks they know your name
There is a Juan Valdez coffee shop on the corner of 6th and Fun Street. It opened six months ago. Across the street is a Starbucks. The green wheel of coffee shop dominance spins in at least three Fun Street locales. Juan had to know this when he opened his shop. Still, he pulled his red awnings down and opened his sterile white walls to the world. Lines snake out the door of the Starbucks. There are no lines at Juan's. For a time, Juan didn't seem to have niche. Then, one day, looking in the window below an awning I saw someone I knew perched at a table. It wasn't just someone I knew, it was my friend Amy from elementary school. I did a double take and she was gone. A blonde girl with remotely similar features stared past me. Turning the corner, I looked in another window and saw Mike. I haven't seen Mike since I left Winter Park four years ago. I squinted and Mike morphed into an unknown scruffy coffee drinker.
Wondering who I'd see on the inside, I took my seat at the window and chewed on a Juan Valdez tuna salad sandwich. There's a reason Juan is not known for his tuna. I was reading the paper as I munched, when an attractive woman burst through the door, turned the corner, and cried out "Nick..." and then trailed off into, "Oh. I thought you were someone else."
These events have lead me to believe that Juan Valdez was not so foolish as to challenge Starbucks. I believe Juan Valdez is not on the corner of 6th and Fun. Instead, he's set up shop smack dab in the intersection of reminiscence and familiar faces.
There is a Juan Valdez coffee shop on the corner of 6th and Fun Street. It opened six months ago. Across the street is a Starbucks. The green wheel of coffee shop dominance spins in at least three Fun Street locales. Juan had to know this when he opened his shop. Still, he pulled his red awnings down and opened his sterile white walls to the world. Lines snake out the door of the Starbucks. There are no lines at Juan's. For a time, Juan didn't seem to have niche. Then, one day, looking in the window below an awning I saw someone I knew perched at a table. It wasn't just someone I knew, it was my friend Amy from elementary school. I did a double take and she was gone. A blonde girl with remotely similar features stared past me. Turning the corner, I looked in another window and saw Mike. I haven't seen Mike since I left Winter Park four years ago. I squinted and Mike morphed into an unknown scruffy coffee drinker.
Wondering who I'd see on the inside, I took my seat at the window and chewed on a Juan Valdez tuna salad sandwich. There's a reason Juan is not known for his tuna. I was reading the paper as I munched, when an attractive woman burst through the door, turned the corner, and cried out "Nick..." and then trailed off into, "Oh. I thought you were someone else."
These events have lead me to believe that Juan Valdez was not so foolish as to challenge Starbucks. I believe Juan Valdez is not on the corner of 6th and Fun. Instead, he's set up shop smack dab in the intersection of reminiscence and familiar faces.
Monday, October 02, 2006
I think I was blind before I went to your wedding*
The Internets are already burning up with tales of the Voltron-like union of Kristin and Justin, but in an attempt to make up for my dismal blogging September I thought I would add my own account.
I admit to wondering how a wedding in a high school auditorium was not going to feel a bit too much like "awards night." I stopped wondering when I heard the rumor that Chuck had designed a set. I've seen the man's entertainment center, I knew he was capable of class. So I took to wondering what sort of song and dance number we'd get to see. Kristin and Justin did not can-can, but they put on quite a show. The stage was set simply and beautifully. The programs on notepaper were perfect. Every detail from the hot pink ties to the music had Kristin and Justin's personality in it. Lucky for all of us, they each have fantastic personalities. My favorite ceremony moment was hearing excerpts from their personal letters. Both are such wonderful writers with such distinct voices, to hear those voices wrapped up in a growing love was a special treat. Arguably a better treat than the the 1 million different varieties of cake offered at the reception. Although, in fairness, the Butter Pecan did rock my world. Do you know what else rocked my world? Paul. He was a beautiful dance partner. The most beautiful dance partner I had all night besides Julie, Anne, Kristin, that one girl, J-dub, and of course, Clare. Beautiful in his own way. And, a genius. Paul came up with the routine that would carry us to third place in the dance contest. Jumping jacks are sweeping the countryside like giant electric brooms. You'll see.
The thing about this wedding and the thing that I'm not sure I can really put into words is the love. There is joy in seeing two great people come together and it helps so much when you know each one is great. What makes it even better is getting to witness such an event surrounded by bunches of other great people. It doesn't hurt at all when those bunches can cut a freakin' rug.
I'm glad I didn't die before I got to party.
*With all due respect to Bright Eyes and the song that I've listened to 8 times today and sung constantly since leaving the Midwest.
The Internets are already burning up with tales of the Voltron-like union of Kristin and Justin, but in an attempt to make up for my dismal blogging September I thought I would add my own account.
I admit to wondering how a wedding in a high school auditorium was not going to feel a bit too much like "awards night." I stopped wondering when I heard the rumor that Chuck had designed a set. I've seen the man's entertainment center, I knew he was capable of class. So I took to wondering what sort of song and dance number we'd get to see. Kristin and Justin did not can-can, but they put on quite a show. The stage was set simply and beautifully. The programs on notepaper were perfect. Every detail from the hot pink ties to the music had Kristin and Justin's personality in it. Lucky for all of us, they each have fantastic personalities. My favorite ceremony moment was hearing excerpts from their personal letters. Both are such wonderful writers with such distinct voices, to hear those voices wrapped up in a growing love was a special treat. Arguably a better treat than the the 1 million different varieties of cake offered at the reception. Although, in fairness, the Butter Pecan did rock my world. Do you know what else rocked my world? Paul. He was a beautiful dance partner. The most beautiful dance partner I had all night besides Julie, Anne, Kristin, that one girl, J-dub, and of course, Clare. Beautiful in his own way. And, a genius. Paul came up with the routine that would carry us to third place in the dance contest. Jumping jacks are sweeping the countryside like giant electric brooms. You'll see.
The thing about this wedding and the thing that I'm not sure I can really put into words is the love. There is joy in seeing two great people come together and it helps so much when you know each one is great. What makes it even better is getting to witness such an event surrounded by bunches of other great people. It doesn't hurt at all when those bunches can cut a freakin' rug.
I'm glad I didn't die before I got to party.
*With all due respect to Bright Eyes and the song that I've listened to 8 times today and sung constantly since leaving the Midwest.
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