So I'm back from Kentucky, having survived the drive, the wedding, and the polite request from the Frankfort Police Department that several members of the wedding party would please get out of the Capital Plaza fountain. The wedding itself was beautiful, if not riddled with mishaps. For starters, the groom misplaced the rings, a plot twist that would be hilarious in, say, an Ashton Kutcher movie but it's not as entertaining when the bride and groom--who are keeping with the tradition that says they can't see each other pre-show--are fighting via family members over who's to blame. I suggested Gollum. No one laughed then either.
Following the ceremony, the new Mr. & Mrs. were supposed to load themselves Disney princess-style into a horse-drawn carriage to be whisked from the church to the reception. About an hour before go-time, the bride received a frantic phone call informing her that the horse in question had suffered some kind of leg-related mishap that morning and had to be put down. Nothing says that fortune has smiled upon your wedding day like having to euthanize an animal.
They arranged for alternate transportation--a motorcycle--but I can't believe that there wasn't some kind of replacement horse available. We were in Kentucky, a place where ponies are more plentiful than anything save for bourbon and illiteracy*. My hotel room had no less than four equine-themed items on proud display, including a giant portrait of a horse's head hanging directly beside my pillow, a decorating decision that made me wake up in a panic on Saturday morning, terrified that Don Corleone was trying to send me a message.
Anyway. They still got married and I hope it lasts forever or at least longer than the warranties on the appliances they received.
But enough about them.
Let's talk about me and the 15 total hours I spent in the car alone with my thoughts and a stack of shitty CDs.
I had grand intentions of live-Twitting the weekend, but my first 140-character update from US-52 sent me dangerously close to a guardrail, so instead I scrawled ball-point notes on my thigh and have tried to transcribe them for you here so IT'S LIKE YOU WERE IN THE CAR WITH ME, albeit without the overwhelming aroma of McGriddle and self-loathing.
10:21 a.m.: I just drove past two gentleman on the side of the road who were collecting the remains of what looked like a Chupacabra.
10:37 a.m.: Daddy wrestles alligators, momma works on carburators, speed monitored by aircrafterators. Meet (the Commonwealth of) Virginia.
12:25 p.m. I had a "We forgot Kevin!" moment of panic when I realized that my official wedding shoes were sitting on my kitchen table. Ignoring for a moment the unsanitary nature of placing my dyed-to-match-es where I allow my guests to eat, I was going to have to find some replacement footwear along the way. Thank gawd for the cleverly named Shoe Department in the appropriately named Mt. Hope, West Virginia.
1:48 p.m. The West Virginia state capital. Under the gold wrapper, the entire dome is made of solid milk chocolate.
2:04 p.m.: If you're schizophrenic, can you drive in the car pool lane?
2:12 p.m. Thank you, West Virginia, for making your state speed limit a generous 70 miles per hour. Thank you, West Virginia State Police for explaining that 83 does not equal 70.
2:52 p.m.: If they're ever having a competition for the worst singer of all time, all of the participants should be required to belt out Billy Joel's "Uptown Girl". Between the "woah oh oh oh ohs" and the falsetto that requires a diploma from the Frankie Valli School of Scrotal Scrunching, it has the potential to be a trainwreck of epic proportions. Confidential to Hollywood: I can has development deal?
3:11 p.m. The Four Piece Feast. Color me delighted to learn that gas stations sometimes have a clearance aisle. My above delicacies cost $1.83 which didn't quite make up for the $81 of unleaded I poured into the gas tank. Sadly, Whatchamacallit bars taste like those packets marked "Do Not Eat" sometimes found in shoe boxes.
3:33 p.m.: I passed a sign announcing that this year's Ryder Cup will be at Valhalla, in Louisville. If any of my readers have the power to get me a press pass, I promise hard hitting journalistic coverage of golf's premier international event that mainly consists of trying to lure European captain Nick Faldo to my hotel room for some, um, hard-hitting journalism.**
3:49 p.m. I like to think that the Beer Cave is the lair of Bruce Wayne's less-fortunate half-brother Ricky Lee Wayne. Like Batman, Beerman doesn't have any super powers, but he does have both a drive-through liquor store and a much larger buckle on his utility belt.
3:51 p.m.: The state bird of Kentucky is the extended middle finger.
4:07 p.m. HAHAHAHAHMOREHEADHAHAHAHAI'MSOALONE.
4:52 p.m.: You know you've been in the car too long when you hear a song on Sirius' soft rock channel and you think, "When I get to the hotel, I'm definitely going to download some matchbox 20".
I was surprised to learn that Kentuckians (Kentuckers?) had such a negative view toward their ruggedly handsome neighbor West Virginia. Any time I mentioned that I was originally from Ye Olde Mountain State, it was met by some kind of derisive comment. Look, Kentucky, you're not that much better. Sure you may edge Dubya Vee in obesity but they've got you in rickets, so grab another horse-shaped novelty item and shut your collective cakehole.
10:17 a.m. The woman sitting behind me at breakfast has been repeatedly assuring--or perhaps warning--her dining companions that she and her boyfriend are "trying for a baby". If I'd eaten another pecan spinwheel every time she used that phrase, I'd be unable to drive home without stopping at interstate weigh stations. "We're trying for a baby" is an expression that always makes me think of a carnival game that involves maneuvering a metal claw. "Our first choice is the baby, but we're also trying for that plush panda bear in the back corner."
12:57 p.m.: A pickup truck parked near the hotel had a bumper sticker that said "Don't Blame Me, I Voted for Jefferson Davis". I don't know whether this means that the driver is 147 years old or just a racist. Or, given the way it was deliberately driven onto the lawn of someone with an Obama yard sign, perhaps both.
4:12 p.m.: Overheard before the ceremony: "I sure hope we go to hell. If we don't, we're going to have to make a new set of friends."
6:01 p.m.: Every time I attend a wedding reception, I'm disappointed that the bride and her father don't dance to Pearl Jam's "Daughter".
7:35 p.m.: My perspective upon realizing that I'd just baptized the bottom hem of my dress in the toilet.
5:39 a.m.: Sausage McGriddles are McManna from Heaven. Syrup filled, artery clogging bits of manna that can eventually kill you.
6:55 a.m. Thank you, West Virginia, for suddenly and without warning lopping 10 miles off of the speed limit. Thank you, Cabell County Sheriff, for showing me the error of my ways.
9:04 a.m.: I have donated $7.50 in tolls to the State of West Virginia. Toll collectors always simultaneously make me think of an Adam Sandler routine and of the untimely demise of the main character's mother in Wally Lamb's depress-o-matic novel She's Come Undone. Sometimes my brain freaks me the fuck out.
10:26 a.m.: A bird just managed to shit through my open sunroof. I don't know whether to be disgusted or impressed. This is the same reaction I have when someone tells me that they can belch the M.A.S.H. theme song. Or that they've spent the better part of their life playing World of Warcraft.
I got home and immediately toasted the couple with my last can of Code Red, saying a silent prayer that their marriage would be forever. If not, I'll be flying to the next one.
* I kid! I kid! These are jokes!
** For more on my Faldobsession, read this. I've wanted to get my mashie near his niblick for a long time, IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.
On an unrelated note, I have so many awesome commenters with their own stellar bloggage that I need to update my 'roll to the right. So if you'd like me to link you, drop me a note at thetyping [at] gmail [dot] com.