Wednesday, November 26, 2008

Wedding Pips


Fans of the blog (yeah, I'm referring to all three of you) know how skittish I am about weddings. In the past, you've likely read this or this. If you haven't, you should do so and return when you're better prepared.

The most overlooked reason weddings leave a gassy feeling in my tummy is that it forces the bride and groom to commit to social hierarchies that are uncomfortable to admit.

When we were all younger, way younger, like when mustaches were more manly than ironic, we used to use our personal friendship rankings as a power play. "If you trade me those Dunkaroos for this apple, I'll be your best friend." We've all been a part of the if-you-do-_____-I'll-be-your-best-friend trade-off before. It takes balls to pull this off and little kids have balls, mostly because they haven't got brains.

Clearly they haven't got any brains because the deals went through. They happened. I didn't have Dunkaroos until I was 15 because I kept trading them away to people so they'd become my friends. They were already sitting next to me in school and at lunch and probably already liked me before the transaction, but what did I know?

If I was interested in making my own tee shirts, I'd make one that said "I was a stupider child than you were." I'm not into making my own tee shirts though, so the point is moot.

Using your friendship to manipulate certain situations ran rampant throughout my childhood. Kids my age wrote out invitations according to who was most liked. The cool kids were established by the sheer number of other kids that hung around them. If you sucked at dodgeball, but your friend was a captain, you'd always be picked third.*

* You couldn't be picked first or second because the team had to compete and the captain would get ridiculed for choosing some lame dodgeballer first. The fix would totally be in, the captain's status would plunge and both he and you would be screwed.

It should also be noted that this rule only applies to boys. Girls had no interest in competing or really, being good at anything. Girls only picked their friends and chatted while holding onto the dodgeballs. Thinking back, girls were a total waste until they hit puberty. They're fine now, but I have no regrets wanting nothing to do with them when I was eight.

When I was little, I secretly ranked my friends. I did. I had to. I was always scared I was going to actually be thrown in the hypothetical situations people dream up (drowning boat with time enough only to save one, a dive bombing airplane with only one other parachute, an invitation to a supermodel orgy for you and only one guest**). It seemed imperative that if any of these situations were to arise, that I should not waste time rashly deciding things I should have settled in my head long ago.

** That last hypothetical came a little later in life.

So, for the bulk of my life, at any given moment, I knew who my best friend on Earth was. I also knew the silver medal winner, the bronze and the guys who I didn't really care for, but whose moms were hot.

For most people, this way of thinking shifts and locks onto other things, leaving your friendships in a shapeless glob of history, geography and circumstance. This isn't to say that all friends are equal. Far from it. But the relationships become more organic and comfortable. Eventually, most of us stop associating with people whose friendship can be purchased for the price of a pack of Dunkaroos.

And right about this time is when most people get engaged.

Weddings ask us, once again, to organize where everyone stands in our individual lives. Who's my best man? Which five of my friends and relatives deserve to purchase heinous taffeta bridesmaids dresses? Who's a friend, but still owes me $100 bucks and therefore will be relegated to usher?

Weddings make everyone's social standing frighteningly clear.

And God help you if you don't have a) one (1) sibling or b) someone who saved your life in one way or another.

If my sister Emily was my brother it would be so much easier.*** She'd automatically be my best man. Why? Because we share the same blood. It's not a question of "like" it's a question of family and of "right-ness."

*** For me, not for my sister. If Emily was a boy, she'd take a lot of shit for looking and acting like such a wuss.

It's the same idea if a friend of mine pulled me from a burning wreck, lifted my near-drowned body from the bottom of a pool or spent six years as my AA sponsor. "Hey fellas, your feelings can't be hurt, George here saved my life. I literally couldn't have gotten married without him. I owed him one. I mean, c'mon, his best man speech is practiclaly already written!"

Those two options make everything easy. But I have neither option. One day - I don't know when - I'm going to have to not only choose who will be my Gladys Knight, but also the Pips. I'll also have to show everyone whom I don't like enough to be either Gldys or the Pips clear-cut evidence of this. I'm not jazzed about this process.

The funny thing is, the decision itself isn't hard. I know who it'll be. Actually, I've got both Gladys and all the Pips chosen in my head. The hard part will be revealing to the Pips that they're not Gladys Knight and revealing to the audience that they won't be one of the Pips.

I believe that most people would honestly rather not be a main part of the wedding, but I bet they'd like to be asked. I'd be happy to ask if I somehow knew they would decline. But I don't know that and I'd hate to have the fat guy I bunked with for four years of basketball camp inexplicably become my best man.

The weird thing is, weddings are supposed to be a joyous occasion and yet, to some degree someone's feelings almost certainly have to get hurt at least a little. Someone is going to think they play a bigger part in my life than they do. In fact, it's possible some people don't realize how important they actually are.

Man, I hate weddings.

Sunday, November 2, 2008

Halloweeird


W
ith Halloween firmly in our collective rearviews, I must confess that the quality and effort I saw many everyday Chicagoans put into their costumes this year really impressed me.

The best costumes are often the ones that blend most seamlessly into their environment. The first such fully-proportioned outfit belonged to some guy I saw in an alleyway near the train I take after work to get home. This guy got an early jump on the Friday night festivities by dressing in full hobo rag regalia. Not only had this middle-aged gentleman soiled and worn down his secondhand clothes, but he also managed to capture the sour odor of an average metropolitan city bum. The costume was dead-on. I found him sitting on a alley grate pretending to fall asleep. I kicked the "bum's" boot. When he "awoke" he remained in character by asking me for a dollar. Great. Just great stuff. He really went the whole way with the costume. So I played along and handed a dollar to the guy, whom I imagined was a banker or perhaps a business executive. I mean, how else could he have left the office early enough to work himself over so authentically? Irony plays a large part in the best costumes and so it would only be poetic for the man so ingeniously portraying a street tramp to be a man of business or finance.

The" bum" took things a little far for my taste by refusing to give me my dollar back now that the fun in-character exchange was over. I gave him a dollar because he was pretending to be a bum and so, ha-ha. When he didn't give the dollar back, it occurred to me that this shrewd profiteering from a Halloween costume is precisely the type of guile that allowed him to be such a successful enough businessman to take off from work early on a Friday. Fair enough, sir. You may keep my dollar.

I went on my way, took the train home and marveled at the myriad other neat Halloween costumes. Not all of them were as involved as the bum's get-up, but most had a certain charm.

The second-best set of costumes I saw belonged to an inordinately large group of chicks in front of a private high school a block from my house. A bunch of tarty girls probably conspiring to crash some nearby party were all dressed in the exact same Catholic school outfits. I was impressed with the sheer number of girls dressing as slutty school girls, if not underwhelmed by their overall imagination.

So well done to that gaggle of girls dressed in matching slutty school uniforms in front of Fenwick High. And a happy Halloween to the rest of you until next year.