Wednesday, July 2, 2008
There are few things that erk my chassis in this great blue planet that we live on.
I encountered two of them, simulataneously, this past weekend in the family death-camp style, FLDS sanctioned, wheat field encrusted hell hole wedding held in Horton Michigan:
1). Celine Dion, (and henceforth amateur Celine Dion cover bands).
2). The American Wedding, (not the film, which is probably infinitely more entertaining, but still sucks).
Being at that wedding put me face-to-face with the American Dream, or Nightmare rather. Namely, an overemphasis on absolute perfection permeated the 'sacred' grounds. The howl of screaming children violently snuffed out by angry parents, walls of bouquets meticulously arranged by color, size, shape, scent, pollen yield ratio, and best of all, an overeager, sunglassed witch of an officiate conducting the ceremony.
And the fun hadn't even began yet.
My chromed-out rockin' bitch of a guitar casted flickers of golden light unto the wedding crowd in full, high spectra glory. I began to play the processional music, (selected by myself), to the tune of These Days by Jackson Browne. It was nice.
Then, it was duet time. My parts went quite well for only having a day of practice; the Italian was spot on, not a note missed. However, the young lady which I was singing with, (who unceremoniously directed the majority of our rehearsal time trying to "teach" me how to sing, but in reality desired my parts to sound like a throaty Kermit the Frog), must have become nervous, because she completely blew her solo part in the middle of the song. People were chuckling, and I felt a little bad for her, considering she was regaling me endlessly about her fabulous abilities and aspirations for Broadway and Disney princess bullshit.
But hey, $100 speaks for itself.