I’ve got wedding coming out of my ears. And when I look forward to working out twice a day just as a reprieve from talking/planning/blah about wedding stuff…you know the situation is grim.

It’s such an odd dichotomy. While this wedding is something that every fiber in my body cannot wait for, at the same time it haunts every waking hour of my existence, increasing moreso with each successive day.

One thing I’ve come to realize during it all is just how much of an inner chick I have raging inside. Normally, it’s status quo for brides to be raving lunatics, scrutinizing over ever little detail (the recent term “bridezilla” still cracks me up). While neither the fiancé nor I are that type, I have definitely channeled the inner woman inside me. And I’m actually OK with that. Well, kinda.

See, in high school, I was always ribbed for being the “artsy” type. Which is funny, see, because there were a grand total of 2 art classes at our school. It’s not as if I was walking around in a beret or sporting a mohawk. Our beloved college prep school bred doctors, lawyers and investment bankers. And God forbid if you *had* to be “artistic,” it wouldn’t be too embarrassing to be an architect. ‘Cuz at least that uses math. And your grandmother wouldn’t be humiliated if you used math.

But somehow, the Cult of Science that was my friends decided that I was the arty squire, the court jester who could never apply himself seriously to science or math. Therefore, I was constantly teased about my arty views and inclinations. Thank God my friends didn’t go to college with me. They would have exploded at the notion of carrying a sketch diary with me everywhere for 4 years. God forbid.

Well anyway, it still doesn’t occur to me that often that I’m supposedly “different.” I’m just, well, me. (profound, no?) But apparently all of the florists, wedding coordinators, cake decorators and mother-in-laws in the universe have never seen a man with an aesthetic clue. Because in the past 13 months, more times than I can count, I’ve been looked at as if I had some flesh-eating disease eroding my face off, simply for having an opinion on the wedding.

We’ve developed a sort of routine now, the fiancé and I have. We go into meetings where the person in charge addresses her and her alone (or her mother, if she’s there). No eye contact is made toward me, and all pronouns used are of the female context. To them, I’m sure this is standard. They go through routine questions about the event day, in some saccharine-sweet faux motherly voice, turned exclusively to the women in the room. However, if I chime in…be it about wanting silver chargers on the tables, an odd number of votive candles, or preferring ruffled white linens on the cake table to mirror the “organic feel of the cake design,” most are rendered speechless. Most vendors think I’m kidding, until they see that I’m not laughing. I suppose they interpreted my previous silence as the admitted “being dragged along” syndrome of most males. But my comments somehow wreak havoc on the cosmically established balance of power.

And then we all blink at each other.

The fiancé then tries to ease the uncomfortable nature of the moment by offering the “oh, well he’s the artist” excuse. And as if the admittance of the retarded cousin’s condition was a relief, there’s a round of chuckles to be had and we move forward, everyone still ill at ease with what’s transpired.

As I’ve learned to see myself through other people’s eyes a bit more recently, I’ve also come to realize a few tricks of the trade. So for those men out there eventually getting married, here are a few dos-and-don’ts for your engagement experience:

• If you’re going to have an opinion on one thing, you *must* have an opinion on everything. And by everything, I mean be prepared to give a crap about whether the cocktail chairs near the smoking section have chair covers and sashes on them. All or nothing, pal.
• If you care about [insert: cake/invitations/flowers/dresses/etc], be prepared to feel completely emasculated, and you will probably see the look of doubt flash across someone’s face of, “oh no, I think he’s gay and she just doesn’t know it yet!” You’ll get over it after a few months. The pain wears off.
• There’s no humor in wedding planning. Do not joke that you’re going to get an all white tux, or a top hat, or worse yet, request all hardcore rap at the reception. Planning a wedding actually involves all persons of the female gender to have their funny bones removed, and replaced instead with the crazy bone. Don’t laugh man, it’s not funny.
• If you’re going to stand up against [fiancé/mother-in-law] for something, be prepared to be treated like a chick. Stage 1 is the cold shoulder treatment. Stage 2 is the guilt-trip from hell. Stage 3 is an attitude that rivals any diva, including Aretha. You’ve angered the gods of matrimony, and you shall pay. Prepare to be smote, fool.
• Gay men are cute. Straight men that care about the height of floral arrangements and the reflectivity of the vases that they’re placed in are not. This, however, should not come as a shock.
• Finally, if you are either stupid enough to want to be involved, or deluded enough to actually ask to be involved, be ready for your entire life to be transformed. You’ve heard stories about brides who have scrapbooks 10-feet tall that they’ve been filling since age 2 and a list of bridal shows a mile long to attend…yea, well welcome to your new life pal. Might as well get “OWNED” tattooed on your forehead, because you’ve just sold your soul and signed over the next however many months of your life to indentured servitude.

All in all, I’m trying to maintain a sense of humor (there are spare funny bones laying around these days you know). Come October 15, if there is a subtle visual continuity that flows from invitation to ceremony to reception, I’m happy. I’ve worked really hard to maintain control over the look and feel of this event, much to the dismay of others. But not my fiancé. She is not like this at all. It’s others involved that are.

I guess she just feels sorry for the retarded cousin and his autistic artistic ways.

It’s been awhile since I’ve did some music reevyoo’in. And, since nothing as of late has struck my fancy, I figured that I’d give in and pick one of this past year’s gems to look at.

Whiskeytown. For those not in the know, they are a disbanded group of musicians (hailing from North Carolina), most notable among them was Ryan Adams, self-proclaimed savior of rock. But before you go getting any of them pre-conceived notions about the sound, be well forewarned that this is indeed not rock. In any way. In fact, I cringe to say that it’s alt-country.

I first heard of alt-country when a friend referenced Wilco (much loved by many a college student). Since the second half of the word has “country” in it, my brain shut off. How unfortunate for me, as discovering Pneumonia has been such an incredible find.

I hate country. I can’t stand modern country, but have always held a special place in my heart for bluegrass. Perhaps this is why this release is even allowed into my collection. Believe you me, I feel scandalous owning something mildly resembling country.

Enough babble. The disc overall feels like a comfortable pair of jeans. Nothing surprising, nothing envigorating or energizing. It somehow has a lazy-day feeling…as if I’m sitting on the front porch in the rain on a Sunday morning. It feels good in all the right ways, and almost feels as if I’ve heard it before in some distant, subconcious soundtrack to life in general.

Stand-out tracks include “The Battle of Carol Lynn,” “Sit and Listen to the Rain,” and my all-time favorite, “Jacksonville Skyline.” Missing from the album is Adams’ braggadocio. Stripped of all pretense and ego, perhaps this is why the album has such a raw, honest feeling. Emotion seeps from every track, but in a controlled manner (read: not in an emo-annoying way). The playful, Beatles-meet-Billy Joel track, “Mirror, Mirror,” lightens the contemplative mood of the disc, but in a fitting and non-distracting way.

Discs like this always seem pointless to review, probably because they’re so close to your heart. It’s like trying to decide if your arm is good, bad or even worth keeping. It’s pointless. Both are just there and there is something fitting about it.

Simply put, Pneumonia is one of those timeless albums that betrays no decade, no musical fads, and defies genres. Hell, it made an alt-country fan out of this guy.

Thus ends this half-assed review.

Never be ashamed of your music. Music is art and entertainment, and if it entertains you…then rock out to it like there is no tomorrow. Don’t apologize to anyone for what you listen to, unless of course the volume is too loud. In that case, apologize and turn it up just a little more.

As February’s weary fingers wrapped silently against the glass, brilliant formations of crystals exploded like wildfire before them. Four teenagers sat silent in a car. One was uncomfortable, but the other three barely noticed. At the very least, I don’t remember caring much, I was deep in thought.

From the outside, the scene looked all too stereotypical. An older blue Toyota sat idling in the driveway, windows fogged beyond recognition. Bodily shapes were barely discernable through the blurry panes, while the bright winter moon shone down like a disapproving authority figure. The hour was late. They should be home by now.

But inside the car, things were not as they seemed to the prying eyes of curious parents. Though the situation had all the ingredients of usual teenage mischief, there was none here to be had. No secret swigs of forbidden substances. No nervous laughter amidst clouds of illegal smoke. No. Tonight there was something else filling this car, entrancing the four young bodies contained within it. Was it…love? Something new, something unfamiliar and yet all too welcome. Possibly love…perhaps a door being opened before them, welcoming them to a new level of enjoyment and understanding that they were unaware even existed. But again, things were not as they seemed from the outside.

The previous events of the evening proved to be fairly unremarkable. A typical weekend night in west Toledo, Ohio. The farm kids were no doubt raising hell miles away, and the throngs of kids flanking the social circles were assuredly sipping away their insecurities to the Barenaked Ladies or Dave Matthews for the millionth time. I still cringe at the painful remembrance of the “herd mentality” and my utter disdain for it. But here, that night, in the basement of some reception hall, following the Confirmation ceremonies of a friend’s younger brother…there played out the social lives of the in-betweens, the unclassifiable. I’m sure every school has them, as I can’t imagine them being unique to Toledo much less Ohio: The group that could fit in with any other level in the societal stratification of high school. Not jocks, not preps, not fakies and certainly not nerds. They were athletes, intelligent, down to earth kids with good manners. They were not leeches or parasites, they were fine on their own and often enjoyed being on the outside when they chose to be. They blended seamlessly and happily. But most importantly, they’d found each other as friends, a pleasant release from the norm.

My thoughts on these matters raced in a random pattern, one topic leading to the next in a mental pantomime of the spreading frost lines before me. I sat blinking, the cold, calculated music rhythmically thumping from the radio. “This music…this music defines my teenage years,” I thought in some sort of usual, dramatic, narrative fashion, a la The Wonder Years. Though a broader palette overall, *this* particular music captured the social angst inside far more surgically than Bad Religion or Minor Threat ever could. The feedback and distortion from Mr. Brett’s guitars were too typical, too indicative of commercialized revolt. As cogs and gears click into place, synapses firing and sense being made in my head, I’m overwhelmed by the quote by some art guy about “true revolution existing only in the abstract.” That was it. This music was different from all the rest, and yet there was a sense of joy and excitement that somehow spilled forth from this genre that my mother thought was modern rubbish. It was new, and it was abstract. And at that moment, we all sat silently as if observing a new species of animal at a zoo, in wonder, in awe.

As the gearshift thump-clanked into reverse, red break lights blearily awoke for duty. The passenger door opened, followed eagerly by one in the rear. Left hanging in the cold evening air was something…something inexpressible. Years later, I now cannot take for granted that what passed between us that day was an equal experience shared by all. I know one among us was more than likely thinking about a warm bed instead of how this music helped define who they were.

The night that I fell in love with electronic music I was with three incredible friends. Bound by the radio-signaled sounds from a Detroit club in the distance, I discovered a balance of controlled creative expression, not human yet somehow touching the soul moreso than any modern new-rock alternative band was able. It felt different. It made me feel different. It made me feel part of something new and exhilarating.

Though a few years have passed, and I’ve similarly fell in love for the first time all over again with blues, with the sultry voice of Nina Simone, with the scratchy fever of James Brown and soul music, I still remember that night. In one single, atypical evening I shared a silent moment with good friends, and took my first feeble step towards a lifelong romance with music.

Ok, so living in Kentucky isn’t all that terrible. After dinner on Saturday night, with the fiancé off to a night on the town with friends, I went for a drive. With some new tunes in the car, windows down at sunset, I stumbled across a few affable fellows by the side of the road. So I decided to stop and chat for awhile.

It is probably a bad sign that when good things happen, I’m already waiting for the follow-up sucker punch. This weekend was no exception, and that saddens me. So with not much else to write about, nothing insightful to wax philosophical, I humbly reflect on my weekend.

I’m not completely sure why I’ve programmed myself to robotically anticipate the downswing of luck, to wince each time I have an enjoyable day…but it’s something that’s been a part of my life for years now. My general rule of thumb is if I’ve had a really good day, I expect the next two to three following days to be dreadful. Ever the optimist who’s teenage years embittered him, I still feel like a sulky, elegiac youth.

This weekend was thoroughly enjoyable. Though items on the ever-growing To Do List didn’t see completion (or even an attempted execution, to be honest), there was some serious relaxation to be had. And technically, I suppose that there’s some merit in that.

Some great Indian food on Friday and a trip to the best CD store in the world led to an even more enjoyable barbeque at a friend’s house the next evening. Low-key company, complete with affable canines, and an evening at the park was exactly what I needed. In the middle of tossing about the Frisbee, waiting for the fireworks to start, I realized just how stressed I’ve been. It’s rare when I can actively contemplate my stress level these days, since I’ve apparently found a way to block this out of my conscious memory. With the cool evening air, a beautiful sunset and being barefoot in the grass, I think I was able to partially recharge.

I also stepped out of my typical lifestyle routine and watched not one, but two movies. In the same day. I know my friends at home are probably weak from the astonishment, as I’m known for, well, *never* wanting to watch movies. But I saw two, and they were both admittedly enjoyable. Madagascar was playful and fun, though truthfully not up to par with any Pixar production. Hitch was also surprisingly agreeable. I normally run in fear of romantic comedies/date movies/recycled script lines…but the closing credits found me appreciative of a refreshing story, solid acting and actual depth.

As I began the routine drive in to work this morning, going over the events of the past three days, I began to hope that this is the week that breaks the cycle. Hopefully I will not experience the dreaded backlash of a good weekend…as three good days has to equal a month of recompense.

If this is what life in Louisville is like, then I’m sold.