Life has a funny, funny way of sneaking up on you

"Rain on your wedding day." It's not ironic at all, I don't care what Alanis Morissette says.

It's not raining now, but it wants to be. I looked outside this morning and saw gray everywhere -- in the sky, on the sidewalk, in the sad eyes of the old man who lives in the building opposite mine. This is a gray day, at least at 8:30 in the morning, and little can be done to change that, it seems. I mean, I can't control the weather. I would if I could, man.

But it doesn't matter, the weather -- they were smart enough to hold this thing indoors, which says quite a bit for their intelligence and quite little for their faith in Texas weather. Or maybe they just didn't want to do it outside. You know, heat and stuff. It is Texas in June; on a normal day, it'd be 95 degrees by now, and stay there until after seven. I guess that all falls into faith in Texas weather, though, doesn't it?

Stephen is getting married today.

It's funny: a few months ago, I was filling out job applications, and having to list references. Steve is always the first one, for a number of reasons, but when I got to the "Years Known" blank, it stunned me that I had to write two digits: 10.

Jesus. There's no way we've known each other for ten fucking years, is there? 'Cause I still remember 1997, and it wasn't ten years ago. Two, maybe, but that's all. Not ten. No way.

Yes way. When I wasn't looking, a decade went by. Whoosh.

You'll forgive me for getting sentimental. It doesn't take much to get me sentimental, and the wedding of my oldest friend is a gimme.

But weddings get an interesting reaction out of me anyway. I mean, there's a Hopeless Romantic buried way, way deep down in my head, down underneath the Evil Genius, and the Inconsolable Pessimist, and the Intractable Cynic, and the Formidable Star Trek Geek. Underneath all that is the poor mistreated Hopeless Romantic, who wants to believe in soul mates and finding your one true love and all of that.

The rest of my brain likes to push this guy into the corner and throw him in a garbage can, but today is his day. 'Cause Steve's wedding is today, man.

So today is a good day, precipitation and Canadian pop singers be damned.

And I cannot begin to tell you how weird it's going to be watching this take place. Because I still remember 1997 Steve. And the idea of 1997 Steve getting married is hilarious, let me tell you.

He once constructed a massive chain of straws that let him drink from a McDonald's cup that was in another room.

He once instructed me -- nay, pleaded with me -- to hit him over the head with a big metal popcorn tin, in front of people, to prove it didn't hurt.

He once built a wrestling ring in his backyard out of tires, mattress padding, and a big blue tarp. Then he willing let me -- me -- kick the crap out of him for thirty minutes while someone else videotaped it. Ya know, 'cause it was fun. (I still have the video, too.)

We used to drive around aimlessly for hours at a time, singing in perfect harmony to our Metallica CDs. We had our parts divided up exactly, and didn't even have to say anything to one another as each song began. We just knew.

Those days, of course, are long past. It's not 1997 anymore, and apparently hasn't been for ten years (though I have my doubts). I don't understand why I'm writing this with such a sense of finality, such a feeling of ending, because I don't feel that way. I'm not sad -- I'm damn near gleeful, which you know doesn't happen often.

But I told you -- I get sentimental at the drop of a hat. So I should cut this off, before I get around to telling you more goofy stories.

(Though here's one, won't take long: In 2000, we drove up to Dallas to see Metallica. And we knew, we just knew something goofy was going to happen with the show, 'cause it's just our luck, and what do you know -- the day before the show, James Hetfield injures his back and won't be there. Great. But the show goes on, so we continue on, but get there and find there are no hotels in the area. None. The only room we can find is the Executive Suite at some EconoLodge on the outskirts of town. It's way too expensive, almost more than the tickets to the show [which were pretty pricey], but it's the only one there is, so we take it. We go in, and it's huge, like the size of my apartment. We're in awe. We go to the show, which was awesome even without Hetfield, and went to Denny's afterward. Now, when we get back to the hotel, it's going on one in the morning, and we're so wired from caffeine, the thrill of seeing Metallica for the first time, and the proximity high we got from the stoners sitting in front of us that we're practically bouncing off the walls. So we stay up, drinking Dr Pepper and iced tea [take a drink of one, then a drink of the other -- don't fucking ask, okay?] and playing cards for the pennies we found in Steve's truck. And in the middle of it all, we're laughing, we're giggling so hard that we can't stop, giggling so hard it hurts, and Steve suddenly shouts "Wait!" I stop laughing, and look at him. He solemnly points at the tiny, Big Gulp-sized trash can. "Look at this: this huuuuge room...and an itty-bitty trash can." We start laughing again, so hard we can't stand, and just when it calms down a little Steve stumbles into the bathroom and I hear him yell, "There's one in here, too!" And we started howling with laughter again, and didn't stop for a long time. I don't think we've ever stopped.

I guess you had to be there.)

I could sit here all day reminiscing, but then I'd miss the wedding. So I stop here.

Congratulations, Steve.

And I have to post this video, or he'd never forgive me. Would you, Steve?

Tweasuh yow wove.