Mack the Knife

I am no man’s fool.

Just ignore the motley colors and the little bells.

But I have been a fool for many women, which has been pointed out to me as an interesting flaw. At least, depending on what side of the story you’re on.

Case in point: This past weekend, I took a particularly attractive girl-friend (i.e. friend who is female, not to be confused with anything else, EVER . . . or so I was instructed to say) to breakfast. I had a ham and cheese omelet with biscuits and gravy (you may have heard my arteries slamming shut around 9a.m.). At some point, the date of my birthday came into question, and with the much-practiced delivery, as will often be heard upon the subject, I replied: “February 31st.”

Now, it’s not so much that I don’t like to get older. My palm hasn’t started flashing red, and so that’s yet to prove an issue. It’s just a matter that . . . well . . . I seem to be particularly hard to buy for. People are forever asking me what I want, and how do you say, “1956 cherry-red convertible Corvette,” without sounding greedy?

If you figure it out, let me know.

Better yet, if you wish to show your faith and devotion to me, or even that you're willing to tolerate my pressence for short periods of time, just go ahead and have it shipped to my condo.

I've thus taken to requesting, when asked, for socks. They're simple, they're hard to get wrong, almost any color will do, and you truly can never have too many socks. I seem to burn through socks pretty quick, probably because of my running, kick boxing, and propensity for making sock-puppets who have traumatic experiences with fire.

But in regards to giving out the date, and thus pushing for the obvious next question of "What do you want?" I prefer to go quietly into that good night. If at all possible I don’t bring up my birthday. I shy away from, or otherwise change the topic with all due haste.

It worked like a charm last year, in which only my parents, who are required by law, remembered.

Ahhh, the genius of silence. So pure, so golden, so . . . easy.

But I digress.

So my friend, sitting across the table from me, not entirely certain of the joke that I had just laid out, gave me a look. That happens a lot with my jokes. They are either too subtle or too stupid to be gotten. Usually, too stupid.

I, however, always laugh!

And this, for you dumb men out there (which is pretty much a redundant statement), is the wrong thing to do, no matter what.

I did laugh and then the jig was up. But even with that battle lost, the war was still on.

But how does one procure such information when the procure-ee doesn’t wish it to be procured (conjugating is fun!). I’ve been trained by the best. I can be as deaf and dumb as any man watching television. I just flip the switch and I'm good to go.

But my friend is cunning. She’s lulled me into a false sense of security by constantly playing a sweet and innocent character to the hilt. She attends church regularly, avoids drinking and smoking, and for the life of me I can’t imagine why she should eat breakfast with me. But she did, and so at the time she simply inquired into the Palm Pilot in my day-planner. Completely oblivious to the obvious (why not impress her with my state-of-the-art technology planning system?!?), I passed the planner over so she could get a better look.

And there lies the rub.

My day-planner. The same one that contains my checks, my credit cards, and all my various forms of identification including my driver's license.

If you’ve never seen a shark smile, well: “The shark has pretty teeth dear / And [she] shows 'em pearly white.”

And boy did she ever.

Now, I’m ok with losing. I’ve been a loser for years. You have to go with what you are good at.

But this wasn’t just losing. This was being outsmarted by the obvious. Something you would think my many hours at mastering Free Cell would have trained me against.

But Free Cell has no practical applications in the real world (unless aliens attack and can only be defeated via moving cards from one pile to another).

And that stings, baby.

Stings the fragile male ego of which mine has a glass jaw, a weak heart and is allergic to everything. In the end, it’s not as bad as all that.

But she followed her victory with, “So what do you want?”

“Socks, please.”

Elvis Has Left the Chapel

"I am going to quit my job, become a lawyer and do pro-bono work for the NRA."

Which just shows what strange things you will hear at a wedding (thanks, Dave).

By the way, Dave openly admits that he likes monogamy. Take note, boys, this is perhaps the smartest place to admit such a things.

In the last two weeks I have married off two of my dearest friends. It was not with some degree of trepidation that I attended these events. Not because I disagree with each person's choice as spouse and life-partner, but rather because I am single.

Apparently, since my palm is about to turn red and start blinking, people feel obligated to make statements along the lines of, "Well, now we just need to find someone for you, eh?"

This presupposes several things, all of which I find irritating.

Yes, yes. I know you're all thinking: Wait, Rob irritated? What's this? What's this!?!

But it's true, from time to time, I do get irritated, especially when it comes to people making suppositions about me based on surface knowledge only.

First, it supposes that in order to have a full and rounded life, you must be married. Second, it supposes that in some way that my own efforts at finding a companion are somehow lacking. Finally, it supposes that I WANT TO BE MARRIED RIGHT NOW!

Well, boys and girls, I don't.

That's not to say that if the right girl comes along, and she lets me date her, and lets me hold her hand in public, that perhaps, someday, some where, she might even concede to marry me.

I don't know she might.

All I really offer is a quirky sense of humor and the ability to add sarcasm to otherwise innocuous situations. But she might.

And if she does, then she should take note now!

At each wedding I wore very heavy and warm clothing (note to self, do not wear heavy and warm clothing in the summer). I walked through the receiving lines (apparently this is a Utah concept and is not much known beyond the Zion Curtain) wherein I met people that I can only guess are amazing and truly interesting (they did make the "Receiving Line" cuts, which I didn't). However, I didn't get any phone numbers or emails, so I am at a loss as to who these people actually were, what amazing or interesting things they've done, or even what made them Receiving Line-worthy.

But prior to all this was the amazing amount of prep-work that goes on behind the scenes, and up to and through the actual wedding and subsequent reception. I received interesting calls for assistance from getting tuxedo jackets, to carrying center-peices, to taking photos (my thumb is more often photographed then a bride and groom's face, and yet they still ask) to sacrificing fermented grains to the gods with a bride-to-be. This last I was more then capable of aiding, as normally, giving Rob responsibility is a lot like using a cheese-grater for facial scrub: interesting at first, but mostly painful. (Eric & Win will note there's another, far more humorous version of this analogy, and you will have to contact them for such.)

So what does that mean to me and my potential bride-to-be?

It means that if I am getting married (and that would be more properly if) it will be at the Hunk-a-hunk 'O Burnin' Love Chapel in Las Vegas.

Originally, God's messenger on Earth, Elvis Preseley (or one of his appointed), would have conducted this. But apparently, in an effort to remove much of the cheese of Las Vegas, Elvis can no longer marry people. He can stand as a witness, but there will be no, "Do you promise to love him tender, love him true? nuptials.

That's not to say that there won't be a reception.

There will be. A big one. A big one! But there will be no heavy and warm clothing, no receiving line, and no cake.

Ok, wait . . . there will be cake. There has to be cake. As much as I'm not a fan of cake, cake is traditional, and once my wife realizes what she's done, I'm sure she'll want to smash something into my face. My preference will always be for something both soft and sweet.

And we can dance, if we want to. We can leave your friends behind.

The way I have it figured (and since my accounting class I now have two columns of figures that don't add up instead of just one!!), the whole point behind a wedding is to celebrate, publicaly, the mutual exchange of love vows between two people. The public assertion and agreement that these two are now "a couple" and to witness that they aren't going to be looking for love in any other places. I won't go into the anthropological reasons that this is a good thing (and there's a whole plate full of 'em), but rather just revel that a marriage is a triumph for romance (or should be).

So, in my quirky and sarcastic world, the reception should be bigger and brighter then the wedding, which should be small, intimate, and above all abridged in a Memphis accent. Being in Vegas, this shouldn't be a problem. The reception should include casual dress, mass quantities of food and alcohol, and loud blaring music. S

ound like anywhere you know if in the State of Nevada?

No hints, but it rhymes with "beg us" and "lost wages".

So, as a man I am putting my foot down on this wedding business. It's Vegas or nothing. Though nothing may eqate to, "Whatever you want dear." And I am working on the smile when I say that.

It's already quite convincing.