This morning the pre-wife sends me an email that simply says:

I had a really weird dream about us being on our honeymoon…except that we were in London at the time. You were going to be on TV to participate in a political debate. But then when I got there a hairy Robin Williams was hosting a fashion show and a pink sheep with one eye came up to me to be petted. It’s mama sheep was in the background and I was going to pet her next but then I woke up suddenly…very sad.

I love this woman so much for dreaming about pink sheep with one eye. One word of advice though, dear: lay off the Comedy Central.

Last week, the fiancé and I realized that it was close enough to D-day that we should get our marriage license. Happy that one more thing could be squared away, we decided to head to the County Clerk for some good ol’ fashioned Kentucky fun.

See, the county clerk here is not what northerners would think. It isn’t merely a brown brick building or shoebox in a suburban strip mall. Nope. It’s actually a fake looking courthouse, complete with dirt yard, roaming swine and gun racks. They have a security guard that sits in a rocking chair, with a 12-guage in his left hand and a large straw hat. The day we visited, though, this fine gentleman did not have the requisite piece of straw hanging out of his mouth. But he did have all of his teeth, and an admittedly wicked Fu Manchu.

So anway…we parked on the front lawn next to the other pickups with hoods emblazened in rebel flags, and made our ways past the farm animals. We stepped inside, took a number and sat amongst the other locals. Eventually we were able to get our hands on the proper form, along with another couple there seeking the same. However, as she got up and left me on the totally comfortable wooden bench, a woman next to me leans over and says “are you all getting married?”

“Yes ma’am,” I replied.

“Oh congratulations!”

As I extended my thanks, this old geezer says, “wait…you gettin’ married to the blonde or the brunette?”

“The brunette,” I said motioning in the general direction of the front counter.

“The blonde in the blue?”

“No, the brunette. Pink shirt.”

“The blonde AND the brunette!?!”

“What? No,” I replied, now frustrated, “I’m pretty sure that’s not legal, even in this state, sir.” I politely got up and walked towards one of my two future brides before I got mistaken for also being engaged to the Indian guy in the corner.

For those that have never filled out this form, it’s nothing fancy. In fact, I would wager to guess that the original copy was done on an original Merrit typewriter and simply Xeroxed since 1929. The questions are cut and dry…name…date of birth…rank. Now, I did contemplate putting something totally wicked in the rank column…like Imperial Czar or Lord Dictator. But she wouldn’t let me. Guess I’ll save that for my next driver’s license.

Anyway, after swatting flies for the next hour and trying not to pet the dogs that kept wandering in and out, we got our big moment in the spotlight. Thankfully we were blessed with the very woman who holds the title of “World’s Slowest Typer.” Good thing, too, ‘cuz we sure weren’t tired of being there. Anything to prolong the experience was a Godsend.

As the Worlds Slowest Typer (TWST) proceeded to ask us the same questions that were pre-filled on the paper we had handed her, we quickly learned that we had indeed won the lottery. Not only were we privy to witnessing her impressive typing skills, but her sense of humor was uncontrollable. A regular riot. So as hour number four rolled around, we got to the section about number of previous marriages…well cue TWST’s biting humor: “Right hur I’ll put that yous had 21 prevyous marragez! ” Hilarious. We all had a good fake laugh. And then TWST asked us the winning question that I had waited my entire life to hear: “Are yous all reelated? Brother and sister at all?” “Uh, no,” we replied. The fiance shot me a glance, as my mouth surely was agape at what I had just been asked. “They have to ask that, I’m sure.” As if hearing the collective voices of every friend that has mocked me for moving to Kentucky, I simply replied, “Yea. You’re right. I do live in Kentucky, where I suppose this is commonplace. Sure.”

Thankfully we made it through to the final stage, which is proofing our actual marriage certificate. As the fiancé and I comparatively scanned the columns of data, suddenly her breath came up short. Just as my eyes locked on the sixth row (my information) I saw it. At first I thought TWST had simply gotten my age wrong. No. She had gotten it right for the fiancé. Indeed, I must have looked like the native Kentuckian in the relationship.

For a shining 10 minutes, I officially (in the eyes of the Kentucky government) had been married 19 previous times. Nineteen. I bit my cheek, deciding not to ask for a copy of the document so as to send to all of my friends for another ten years of comedy material.

As we strolled out of the clerk’s office, out past the goats and onto the dusty road, the sun was just setting. I knew, right then, that I was home. Home in Kentucky. Sweet Kentucky. At that moment, I could swear I heard Dualing Banjos playing somewhere off in the distance…

Ok, so the part about the physical office was pure BS…but I really, truly did have the honor of being accused of impending polygomy, asked if I was related to my future wife, and legally married almost twenty times. All in one day.

I love this state.

Recently blessed with moderately long commutes to work each day has left me with plenty of time to ponder. As if I needed more time to think, but at least this is as close to “quiet time” as I get—no cell phone, no email or web connection, nothing but the rising sun—and it helps.

This morning, as I performed my daily routine of shaking fists and talking to other drivers in not-so-hushed tones, I began thinking about driving…and then on to people’s styles of driving…which lead to categorization of driving styles and attempting to find patterns based on states of license, gender and car model. Needless to say, all that was really accomplished was that I got through another 40 minute commute without committing mass vehicular destruction.

But as I exited the parking garage en route to my office, I started thinking about the concept of rebellion. Written across so many faces every morning, emblazoned on bumper stickers, I see a distinct air of defiant resistance. But to what? Life? What could you possibly be so pissed about? The more I thought about modern rebellion, the more my stomach sank at the thought of where our modern civilization seems to stand today.

First of all, what was rebellion? Rebels used to be those that questioned strict authority (the establishment that seemed to blindly dictate). They were willing to lose something…be that their pride, self esteem or even personal safety. Rebels in the truest sense defined other boundaries, carving out alternate routes. They consciously ignored stereotypes, laws and power structures. And what usually came of rebellious types was rather polarizing: a society filled partially with criminals and troublemakers, and a society simultaneously enriched by, well, out-of-the-box thinking. From free-thinking professors to inventors to artists. Challenging authority is synonymous with the roots of our culture.

Somewhere along the way, though, the Media came along. I hate to mindlessly assign blame, especially to faceless groups, but I can think of no other popular catalyst that could render this effect in such a short amount of time. I would wager to guess (in my limited knowledge of pop culture) that around the times of Elvis and James Dean, the rebel image caught the intruiged glances of the moneymakers. These people were hip to the fact that there was money to be made (and hearts to be swooned) on this image. If they could package up an “attitude” and sell it commercially, it would be liquid gold! Now look at where we are today.

What was once dangerous and a serious choice is now cheap and childish. Smoking, drinking, cursing, breaking laws…now flipped around to be a “if you’re not doing this you’re a loser” situation. Revolution and resistance (politically) are armchair-style and watered down as far as possibly can be, with a vast majority of those “politically active” simply showing their spirit by snarky message on their car’s rear end. T-shirts bought at Hot Topic proclaim statements of feigned autonomy and power (“What are you looking at?” or perhaps “Party girl”). Ideas once gleaned from a scowl or (God forbid) actual actions are now innocently (and triumphantly!) printed on glittery fashion accessories. “Ground-breaking” publications that once threw the literary finger at established circles of criticism are read by soccer moms, mainly because they are chock-full of ads for things. Musicians are pimped for sales, and learned long ago to rollover and simply take cash rewards instead of fighting for creative and artistic satisfaction, producing truly new material that would help define another generation.

I could ramble on forever citing examples of how it pains me to think that rebellion might not even be possible in today’s world. A kid who misbehaves (he would say he’s ‘fighting the system’) would likely just be dubbed “moody,” anesthetized with pharmaceuticals, and allowed to sulk in his room listening to Distrubed’s new CD on the computer Mom and Dad bought him. — Arg, sorry. There I go again.

So is it even viable to be a true rebel in today’s society? We’ve seen it all…the Unibomber hermits and the shock-rocking Satanists…is there anything left that the “normal people” would consider rebellious?

Maybe the art critic (who’s name I can’t remember)—who said that modern resistance is so weak that if it were to happen at all, it would have to occur only in the abstract—got it right. Perhaps any real rebellion at this point would have to be so far extracted from everyday life, away from the billboards and commercials, away from anything we associate with culture or stereotypical rebellion, in order to be effective and pure.

Oh hell. Here I am at the office again. Time for some coffee. Now if only I could be free of this automoton’s rat race, no longer a prisoner in this mokey suit, filing like drones…

It’s true, I’ve been terribly remiss in my duties around these parts as of late. Life caught up with me, pinned me down and gave me a giant wet willy. So I had to go cry it out for a bit.

Or, I’ve just been swamped doing wedding stuff. But since Andrew told me I can’t write about that anymore, I’ve resorted to making up stories about what’s been occupying my time.

Really, not much has been able to spark my interest enough to ramble on for a few paragraphs either. Not until last night, at least. This one is courtesy of MTV.

I fully confess to indulging in some sappy, terribly fatty MTV drama once in awhile. I blame it on the fact that I never watched 90210 as a kid. But past Laguna Beach and I start to get sick. But while half listening last night, My Super Sweet 16 came on and I caught an episode.

OMG.

Ok, it’s not like I haven’t seen it before, but perhaps with all that [unmentionable event] stuff going on lately, I’m hyper-sensitive to this pervasive attitude of entitlement. But seriously folks, why are we raising a generation of kids who say crap like “I totally deserve this party that cost more than my parent’s wedding?” We are taking the worst part of Cribs (the envy-inducing, drooling at someone else’s fortune part) and mixing it with addictive soap-style drama in a dosage administered directly to teens. It’s bad enough that kids naturally at this age start testing the boundaries of what makes them adults, calling shots, etc. But show them an instruction manual on how to turn 16 and be bitchy, catty, snot-nosed a**holes who scream about “demands,” “rights,” and “what they deserve” — and you can bet your ass that other kids will start emulating it.

I’m not dumb enough to believe that MTV is brainwashing kids. But I’m also not naive enough to think that the crap they’re watching on TV isn’t going to teach them a manipulative lesson or two.

Perhaps it’s the paternal part of me. Perhaps it’s a twinge of guilt since I was raised very comfortably in suburban America. Maybe these kids are just universally a bunch of jerkwads. Whatever the case, this show makes me violent.

The attitude of “I deserve” is so foreign to me. I have absolutely no idea why some people grow up thinking they deserve nothing, and those that claim they deserve everything. Is it soley in how you’re raised? However, you would think that by the time someone has worked hard jobs to make ends meet, grown up to be a responsible adult, that they would see that life is not a pre-ordained gift line where some people just get more gifts because they’re more “deserving.”

I guess in the end, it’s just the ostentatious flaunting of it. People have always been materialistic, uppity and petty. Teenagers especially. I suppose it’s just the grandstanding of this show that highlights and almost celebrates the way these kids act that makes me physically sick to my stomach.

I’ve got no answers, but I hope this show is off-air if I ever have kids that reach 15+ years of age. But I guess that’s assuming a lot, including the fact that I haven’t mangled them for messing with my music collection. I’d give them something to ‘deserve’ then…