BuggBlog

Goin' to the altar-of-the-ancestors, and I'm gonna get ma-a-arried

That really doesn't roll off the tongue, does it?

I'm neck deep in wedding planning, something that when I was a young man I never dreamed I would find myself doing. At the moment, I'm trying to pull together our invitations. Given that Cavin is unyielding on having platinum wedding bands -- as he points out, it's one purchase we're making that's intended to last forever, as opposed to a house, a car or a plasma tv -- I'm looking for acceptable points to trim the budget a bit. Thanks to the miracles of desktop publishing, high-quality ink-jet printers and a wide selection of do-it-yourself wedding planners at Michael's crafts store, I've gotten the family invitation to the ceremony designed and I'm getting ready to move onto the more numerous invitations to the celebration/reception after ceremony.

We've decided, obviously, to split the event. The actual wedding ceremony will pretty much be a Buddhist affair -- hence the awkward title of this post -- at which we'll gather at the altar here in our home, and a representative from each of our families will say something, then we'll say something, and then we'll be married. I think. I've held fast that there must be some point in the ceremony at which the marriage becomes irrevocable. Sure, it's just a symbol, but that's all marriage ceremonies really are at heart anyway. But while I'm happy enough to take a pass on the more elaborate ceremonies of my own religious heritage, a part of me still needs someone to declare, "It's done."

Or, "God help you." Whichever fits the bill at the time.

So, now that I've got the invitations together, I suppose I should actually get together some of my family's addresses. Man, I could use  a little Martha Stewart infusion right about now.

Thanks a lot, ESPN

For various reasons, I didn't have the time to blog as I had originally intended on the two-week-long Australian Open. Luckily, there were no tummy-ache shenanigans this year, as Justine Henin-no-longer-Hardenne was off divorcing her big gay husband. But my favorite lesbian, Amelie Mauresmo, inexplicably got bounced early.

All was saved, though,in the phenomenal run of Fernando Gonzalez. I've been a fan of Gonzalez since I saw him beat Agassi a few years back at the Legg Mason here in D.C., when Gonzo was still knocking the ever-loving shit out every ball he could get his racquet on. Highly entertaining, though I'm even more entertained now that he's winning more often.

Anyway, my big problem with the tournament really comes down to ESPN2. Specifically, ESPN2's high definition channel. At first, I thought I'd found tennis nirvana when I initially tuned in for some beautiful widescreen goodness. Then I realized that the widescreen was temporary, and all the matches would be shown in tired old 4:3 ratio, with stupid logos filling up the black bars. And as if that wasn't bad enough, ESPN2, like cable news channels, puts a bright, shining logo in the lower right corner of the screen.

Now, I play a lot of video games and watch a lot of letterboxed movies, and I've never had a problem with the dreaded screen-burn that everyone warned me about when I decided to buy a plasma. That is, until I decided to watch a few hours of ESPN2-HD, which gained me a (hopefully not permanent) burned image of a corporate logo on my frankly expensive 42-inch television. A tennis friend of mine  had the same problem with his new plasma, courtesy of a high-definition sports channel that really should know that a high percentage of those tuning in own expensive and fragile screens that can be ruined by craven corporate static images.

Nice going, ESPN. Maybe next time you can downgrade the luminescence of your logo to a couple of notches below "solar flare."

The delicate dance

The production of a publication such as Metro Weekly is a delicate dance of give and take between writer, photographer and designer, in which each partner must engage in the diplomatic exchange of suggestions and rejections in order to ensure the best possible final product within an unforgiving deadline.

Which means the amazing thing is that over the course of 350 or so issues I haven't fucking killed anyone. Yet.

Or vice versa.

In the Driveway: 2007 Corvette convertible

Driving over unsalted, ice-slicked roads in a 400-horsepower, rear-wheel drive beast of a car isn't the least stressful way to spend a Sunday afternoon. Not that I don't love the Corvette -- it's one of my favorite cars -- but, man, it is not fun to get caught in a snowstorm. Of course, if I'd paid even a modicum of attention to the news this morning, I might have caught a weather report and taken the Jeep out to the tennis center, instead. As it turned out, it took me almost and hour to get home -- a drive that should have taken about 20 minutes.

But you don't buy a 'Vette in preparation for snowy weather -- you buy a 'Vette because you have a thing for powerful, front-engine, rear-drive American cars. I've written about the Corvette before, and how I think it's an excellent car. Most of the Corvettes since the '80s had left me fairly cold -- either stripped of the audacious curves that made the '70s models distinctive, or overdone in some pale imitation of Italian sheet metal. The latest version strikes an almost perfect balance between the wilder stylings of the past with the more refined look of power in the present.

I don't, however, much care for the convertible version I'm driving at the moment. Although it's quiet enough on the inside, and it maintains a healthy trunk in the back, the overall style of the body doesn't really work with the little black soft top. The hardtop version seems far more cohesive. The soft top, while it looks okay enough topless, just doesn't hold together stylistically the way the hardtop does.

One other important point: If you should be entertaining ideas of a Corvette, or any other powerful sports car, I really think you should be going with the manual. Not only does the manual just feel right, the automatic doesn't provide the visceral thrill of the manual. Call me old-fashioned.

Marriage, with benefits

So, there's a religiously sanctioned practice resurging in Iraq, temporary "enjoyment marriages."

I'm sure Dinesh D'Souza is working right now to have it imported to America.

Eventually, everyone will be on THE LIST

Although Dateline may show up at my home because I say so, I'm not a big fan of sexual offender registries, in large part because jackass prosecutors keep trying to force everyday people onto them for things like looking at legal pornography. What were supposed to be lists of sexual predators predictably quickly grow into lists of, say, gay guys who get consensual blow-jobs in wooded areas from other legal adults. But even though I oppose them in principle, I understand the logic behind them.

I don't understand the logic behind applying the same legal hammer to drug offenders. But the drug war knows no boundaries, particularly when it comes to electoral politics, so New Mexico Gov. Bill Richardson is positioning for a presidential run by proposing the creation of a registry of "drug offenders" in the state (others are pushing the same thing on the federal level). Is this the sort of crap that's supposed to make me think, "Yay Democrats!" as we head toward the not-distant-enough 2008 election season? Because nothing says "responsible social policy" like creating a government list that will block young offenders from gainful employment, affordable housing and all the other sorts of things they'll be blocked from as adults because they got caught doing a bong hit or blowing a rail in college.

People who drive me crazy (Vol. 57)

Two examples from this morning's commute:

1. People who leave about one-and-half car lengths between them and the car in front of them while at a stand-still in a left-turn lane at a busy intersection, thereby causing the left-turn lane traffic to spill into the straight-through traffic and creating a chain-reaction delay for everyone. Naturally, as soon as the left turn is made, this same person is going to ride her shit-box 1992 gold Camry about a foot-and-a-half off your back bumper while driving into a blinding sunrise. Not that I'm talking about anyone in particular, of course.

2. Rich, middle-aged assholes who buy overpriced, overpowered German sedans that with the accelerator pressed to the floor could bend the laws of space-time, and then cruise down the highway at 10 to 15 miles below the speed limit. Why not just solve your problems with a Kia and a Viagra prescription and save yourself the money you blew trying to regain your youthful priapism by sheathing yourself in Mercedes metal.

Would you kiss your endorsement contract with that mouth?

Early highlight from the Australian Open: Maria Sharapova caught on the (apparently very sensitive) on-court microphone, asking the umpire, "Are you fucking kidding me?" I think that's the tweak needed to make Sharapova's Canon TV ads tolerable. "Make every shot, a fucking power shot."

I only kid, given my own sailor's mouth on court. But the moment did take me back to the first time I ever heard the F-word on TV, when Vitus Geralaitus protested a bad call at the U.S. Open with a blistering, "That ball was a foot off the fucking line!" Maybe that's why I'm so prone to bust out a "fuck" when I do something stupid on court -- the television rotted my mind, just like my parents warned me it would.

My personal excuse to get presents

After four years with Cavin, I've now discovered the most stressful thing that can happen to a relationship.

Getting married. Or, at least, trying to.

This is a step that I've really wanted to take -- if we should more forward in the next year or so with adoption, then I really want to have us in a formal relationship, whether recognized legally or not. Also, there's an undeniable weight to having representatives from both our families come together to watch us get hitched.

But first we have to get through the process of choosing invitations without calling the whole thing off. Seriously, I'm guessing that the only reason straight couples don't break up over the wedding planning is that straight guys, as a whole, don't give a shit. Cavin and I, on the other hand, both give a shit. That translates to looking through a lot of books of sample invites. And looking. And looking.

We originally had planned on something simple, and will keep to that. We don't really have that much choice, given that the ceremony is scheduled for May 5. And every time I tell someone the date, they respond, "Oh, on Cinco de Mayo?" I suppose so, but that really shouldn't interfere with a cultural fusion of German/Irish and Vietnamese.

Oh, now I have to go talk about cakes. I kind of had to put my foot down that I want a real damn wedding cake -- it doesn't have to be huge, but it better have three tiers. And two little guys on top. It should be fun. You can't stop us, Virginia!

Spin story

I'm glad the Australian Open is starting tonight -- or tomorrow, I suppose, in Melbourne -- because I can certainly use some inspiration. Cox finally got around to adding ESPN2 to its high-definition line-up, so I can search for my inspiration without squinting to find the ball. I hope -- it's another 10 minutes or so before I find out the actual broadcast quality. I hope it's not another 4:3 broadcast that leaves me with black sidebars. All widescreen, all the time, baby, that's what I want.

Anyway, I need the inspiration because I played in my singles league today. I haven't played all that much since I injured my calf muscle in October. I'm not unpleased with the way I'm hitting in general. Problem is I'm having the classic B-player problem: I can bang away at the standard ground strokes and construct a point fairly well. It's stepping in and putting away the final shot that ties me up. Few things are more frustrating than moving an opponent around in just the way you way, getting the short and easy ball you've been trying to force, and then pushing the volley long. Or, as I was doing more often tonight, catching the top of the net with my put-away shot.

Of course, there are two big problems keeping me from moving my game up a level from B. First, I'm not consistent enough -- whether because my form breaks down or just because attention tends to waver, I can begin running cold and getting frustrated to the point where it's difficult to get my game back under control. Second, and more importantly, I'm in nowhere near good enough shape to bring me game up another level. If I manage to get off my ass and lose a few pounds and, at minimum, improve my stop-and-start endurance, I'd instantly make some progress, I think, with the first problem. My game, such as it is, is built around the baseline: a pretty heavy topspin forehand, somewhat flatter two-hand backhand, fairly big serve. I need to be able to grind out a point to win it -- I'd probably love playing on clay if I could last longer on it.

So maybe watching my personal favorites will add some motivation to my already crowded schedule. I'm keeping my fingers crossed for my perennial favorite, Marat Safin, and my most recent favorite, Marco Baghdatis. On the women's side, I'm generally for anyone other than Henin-Hardenne, but since she's out of the draw and about to revert to just "Henin" by divorcing her big *cough*gaygaygay*cough* husband, I can live with most anyone else. Except Sharapova or a Williams. Go Mirza! Go Peer! I hope I didn't jinx you!

The broadcast just started -- sweet widescreen, yes! -- and poor, poor Shenay Perry, getting Mauresmo in the first round. I would have liked to see Perry get a better deal than that.