Nice Nuptials!

Well, tomorrow afternoon, the old lady and I are off to Pontiac to attend the wedding of our friends R and M. It's the first wedding we've been to since I have no fucking idea. And we're going sans spawn, so we might actually have a good time.

Usually, when I'm at a wedding, I'm in the band. Back in Chicago, I had this 70s band that played all the fucking time in the early-90s to the early 00s. We started out when the whole 70s revival thing was getting started and, for a while there, we were making some serious cashish. One New Years Eve we made $12,000 -- cash -- for four dudes playing shitty versions of shitty 70s tunes. In the history of the band, we only practiced two times. Literally. It was insane.

Then, the people who used to come see us started getting married and settling down, so we segued from bar band to wedding band. The thing is, we were really not that great of a wedding band. Actually we sucked... yet we were great. Usually, for the first 1/2 hour or so, people just kind of stared at us and drank. The parents and grandparents would come up and ask if we knew any Sinatra or if we did the goddamn Chicken Dance, and it was extremely uncomfortable. Then the booze would kick in and, before you knew it, Cousin Melvin and Great-Grandma Ethel were cutting a rug to "Kung-Fu Fighting." Then they'd give us a shitload of cash. It was quite the gig.

I'm actually going back to Chicago in October to play another wedding. We should be even more shitty than usual, not having played together for over a year, but it'll be fun. And they'll still pay us a ridiculous amount of money. Crazy fuckers.

But tomorrow I get to simply attend -- I can drink from the bar, I don't have to eat in the kitchen with the rest of the help, and the big kicker, I don't have to wear a 70s tuxedo and that fucking giant black afro. Though my real hair, of late, is moving dangerously close into giant-black-afro territory. I'll have to tame it a bit with some extra mousse. Hey, it's a big day for Crabbydad when I have to leave the basement and get all gussied up in my Sunday-go-to-meetin' clothes.

We're leaving Mr. Z and Miss O with some poor babysitter -- should be a real treat for her. Because the spawn go to bed so early, whenever we usually get a sitter (which is... never) the kids are already in bed when the sitter arrives. Tomorrow, the unwitting young coed has the pleasure of hanging out with the two rugrats from 3:30 in the afternoon until... well, until we decide to drive our drunk asses home, that's when. And we're paying this chick 10 clams an hour, so you can bet your boots we're staying and enjoying ourselves until they fucking kick us out, goddammit.

Who knows what the fuck we'll find when we stumble home -- the house will be on fire, the babysitter will be unconscious, Miss O will be driving the car around the block and Mr. Z will be running in a circle on the front lawn bawling because all his shirts have burned up, he'll never ride a manatee and Pluto will never again be a planet.

But I'll have drained an open bar, supped on some rubbery, over-cooked vegetarian entree, and danced with my "special lady," so it won't bother me one bit.

Until I have to fork over a fucking hondo to the sitter.