Upon hearing news that
Brother Andrew was to wed the lovely
Sommer on a boat in Tampa (in July no less), I promptly moved
Multiplicity to the top of my
Netflix queue in hopes of researching and, ultimately, genetically engineering a clone that might attend the ceremony in my stead. However, a complete lack of scientific acumen and an $11 budget meant that, two weeks later, all I had to show for my efforts was a sore wrist and a foil-lined shoebox full of my DNA rotating slowly in the microwave.
That is not to say that I wasn't looking forward to seeing my little brother tie the knot with his better half; on the contrary, I was merely hoping that such a blessed event would in no way be tarnished by my abhorrence of all things Sunshine State.
And as I have no doubt imparted to you, Dear Reader, countless times in countless watering holes across this fine country, I speak from experience. In only four short [long] months of living in Miami, I came to know the region's
noble peoples, its
diverse wildlife, and of course its
world-renowned culture. And, often in South Beach,
all three.
Admittedly, in the summer the weather can get
borderline uncomfortable.
So it was with some trepidation (and plenty of
climate-specific clothing options) that I made my way across lo these many miles to Tampa International Airport last weekend. To the eternal credit of both my brother and my parents,
the accommodations were not only tolerable, they were beyond reproach. The Fair Briana and I were afforded all the creature comforts associated with a typical beach vacation, in stark contrast to the creature comforts just outside
most Florida hotel room windows.
Admittedly, said vacation bliss was largely due to the fact that I could catch up with the
fam all whilst celebrating the burgeoning love of the happy couple. The ceremony and reception were held aboard some sort of party barge, and both were romantic and divine, and that was not only due to my proclivity for dinghy jokes. Maritime matrimony is truly the way to go, especially when there's an open bar and air conditioning and wonderful kinfolk, many of whom were positively delightful (and understanding of my refusal to dance in public... tall men shouldn't dance, ever, write that down).
Raise your hand if you know why Florida sucks.So congratulations, kids... I love you both. But irrational hatred is much more fun to write about than love, so:
Ten Observations From The Weekend:1. For all the shit I lay upon thee, Sunshine State, at least you aren't
goddammed Texas. Whenever somebody utters the phrase "It could be worse..." they are inevitably referring to something terrifying that happened to them in Texas. My stopover en route to the wedding was in Dallas, and when I stepped out of the plane I was 85% sure that the grounds crew had screwed up and just angled the
jetway back into the
port-side engine's intake. Gale force winds with a payload of airborne
magma greeted the passengers until we collapsed inside the concourse in search of a balm to sooth our newly-acquired 1st-degree burns. With three hours to kill, I passed some
time asking a
friendly local waitress about the creative ways she's thought of killing herself every time she wakes up and remembers she works at an airport in Dallas. If some guy had crept up behind me at the bar and shot me in the head, I am confident that I would have rented a car and driven across the nearest border before allowing myself to die.
2. Dear Austin, Texas: Sorry about all that. You get a pass. And of course whenever one
Ms. Frazier sets foot in the state... but I think that goes without saying.
3. From Dallas to Tampa I thought I had
miracled an empty seat next to me despite the plane being "super full" when I had asked for an exit row seat at the desk. Shortly before take-off, I saw a rather vivacious older woman coming down the aisle dressed in her
most comfortable travel outfit, and who was to spend the entire 2-hour flight cleaning and otherwise-pampering
her nails.
4. Mama Bear and I spent the first evening sipping adult beverages outside
the Fox, which was all class, evidenced by their waitresses wearing tuxedo jackets and absolutely no pants. This made my getting rejected from entering the club for dress-code reasons harder to take ("Only collared shirts, and no sneakers allowed, sir." "I see. What about pants?"). As we imbibed and watched the local patrons coming and going, we soon realized that the dress-code was not exactly intended to attract
only the most refined clientele.
5. Papa Bear and
The Suze must have lost a bet with God, because they
drove to Tampa. I've driven on
Florida roads, and please believe that doing so puts both your life and those lives of millions of
local insects at risk.
6. In what is widely regarded as my least well-thought-out idea (2
nd place: buying all
my jeans online), I decided a while back to dedicate myself to American Airlines in an attempt to some day actually use frequent flier mileage. I even have a credit card that earns miles with every purchase, but I must be doing something wrong because at the time of this writing I have enough saved up for a free flight provided it both takes off from and lands at the same gate. But I am dedicated, even though flying American means not walking past the age of 40 as my knee cartilage is systematically raped by whoever sits in front of me. Every flight is a battle of wills as some [without fail, huge] person
gently reclines into my splintering shins and I unwillingly teabag the
SkyMall. Over the course of the trip, I will attempt to bruise the kidneys of the affronting party through a series of subtle adjustments into/around his/her gastrointestinal tract, though this tends to provoke a series of retaliatory bounces that only fans the flame of my wrath (in the form of quiet whimpering). There are of course
some techniques I've developed over the years in an attempt to save
what's left of my patellas, though most of them would require expensive surgery or a wacky incident involving a cursed voodoo artifact that leaves me trapped inside the body of a much smaller person.
7. Congratulations, you are the only person who actually read this far.
8. An Open Letter to the Guy One Row Up and Across the Aisle From Me on the Flight From Tampa to Dallas:
No fucking way are you reading that
Hustler on this airplane. And oh look; it's still in the plastic, so, I guess that means that you're the guy buying porn in the airport. Please, do explain the thought process to me. Go ahead and click the COMMENT button down there and fill me in. Perhaps something unforeseen happened to you in the cab on the way over here and you thought, "Shoot... I can't believe I left all my porn at home, right when I need it the most." In a way I'm envious, I suppose; such complete disregard for how those around you (including the elderly woman sitting right fucking next to you, quivering) must be liberating. But what concerns me most is that, if you are
batshit insane enough to read that
Hustler on the plane, you might be
batshit insane enough to "use" that
Hustler on
the plane.
9. Yet one has to admit: Hustler is a great name for a porn mag.
10. The second time around at the Dallas Airport was better (i.e. shorter) but I did witness a couple walking to their flight that warranted a double take. The guy, a younger Asian gentleman, was wearing the
traditional garb one associates with the Far East. But his girlfriend, bedecked in
traditional American garb save for a rice hat that I assume was
the Family Size model, was just some white girl. Now, perhaps I'm jumping to conclusions, but I'm guessing she doesn't opt for that hat when she's going out for A&W cheeseburgers with her friends between
sexting sessions. If I'm the dude in that situation, I have to believe I'm a little offended that she's using me as an excuse to don a bamboo flying saucer on her head. Of course, if the Fair Briana came home tonight and announced that she discovered Native American ancestry in her family tree, I'd probably
use it.
BONUS. The last leg of my journey was spent sitting next to a very nice
ex-Halliburton executive who actually had the guts to order a white
russian on a plane and used the phrase "sphincter-
clencher" twice.
Raise your hand if you know why Florida sucks.
7. Congratulations, you are the only person who actually read this far.
"That sound you hear is my face."
John's tire was the only flat surprise of the weekend.
Perhaps an "action shot" would better serve Mr. Mossi.
No Glove No Love skipper Nate Gallant expects
As per the time-honored Code of Men, I did the standard half glance over and half nod, which is a gesture meant to convey "Hey there... I hope you have an enjoyable time pissing next to me for the next 15 seconds but don't get any ideas" through one manly bit of body language.
"Hey! Aren't you Howie Long?"
6) Who/What/WTF: The afore-mentioned giant penguin, who was looking at an aquarium and, in a comedic moment I can not hope to do justice in writing, gave a passing female shopper a condescending look. What planted the seed: I walked by a credit union on Shattuck Avenue and took a few seconds to figure out what their logo was supposed to be.
the attempt on his life) had a huge display of eggs for sale. They were labeled Mackerel, Herring, "Fish", and Baby Penguin [?!]. What planted the seed: this one's a two-fer. The eggs themselves were a conversation point over brunch at La Note, where we took great pleasure in ordering, and subsequently consuming, our "oeufs." The contents of the dream oeufs were courtesy our pre-dinner run to the the local soon-to-be-its-own-zip-code Safeway, where I inexplicably felt compelled to buy fish sauce despite reading the list of ingredients.
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