The Irrevocable Shackles of Matrimony: The Wedding Album, Part 1
This weekend, my brother, the Mountain of Love, once far-famed as the Bald Mountain, married his ladylove, Ambrosia Sue. They who once were two are now one, the Mountain of Oh and Mrs. Mountain of Oh (the Mountain and Mrs. Mountain for convenience). The following is a rambling and idiosyncratic account of the matrimonial festivities.

But first: holy moley, my brother is married! My brother is married! He has a wife! A wife! That's just... huge. Nothing larger than this has ever happened in his life and as he is my favorite person in all the world this must be marked as one of the most momentous events in The Last Angry Life & Times. Wow! I was well aware this was coming, but geez! This is huge! Wow.

Hypervelocity & Locked Doors
The weekend began on an inauspicious note. Lumi and I left Grand Blanc about three hours behind my parents, who had rolled out with a goodly supply of Bell's Amber and Oberon, which one cannot acquire in accursed Ohio, at noon. Shortly before leaving the boundaries of sacred Michigan, I received a cell phine call from the Mountain inquiring as to my estimated time for arrival. Based on my geographic locale, he guesstimated that I'd arrive between 8:30 and 9:00 PM. Lumi pulled into the driveway of The Shire at 7:45 PM and I found that no one was home.

You all know that I drive at a rapid pace, but you should not be fooled. I am not the reckless youth I once was. In the '90s, my customary highway speed was 85 miles per hour, which it must be said pushed the Mousemobile damn near the end of her ability. A series of speeding tickets doused my love of speed; so, these days I park myself at exactly five miles over the posted speed limit, whatever it may be. In Ohio then, Lumi cruises along at 70; around Fort Worthless, I drove at 65.

I am not sure if I was expected to stop along the way and spend half an hour antiquing or if I had unwittingly evaded an elaborate trap meant to slow my progress, but in what world should I have been expected at 8:30? The journey from Grand Blanc to metropolitan Columbus (specific municipality: Dublin) is not terribly long; so, given my earlier conversation with the Mountain during which I had given him my location, I do not understand why his guess as to my arrival was so far off the mark. Understandably irked (and you all know what an even tempered fellow I am), I called my brother and explained to him that I was confronted by an empty Shire, with no means of gaining entrance. He was at dinner with our parents at The Guy (good company, to be sure) and offered both profuse apologies and to come home immediately and let me in. Relishing the moral high ground, or at least the appearance of same, I told him, no, no, I wouldn't think of it, enjoy your dinner as you intended, I'll be fine here reading.

The sun had set, light was failing, and all of the comfortable chairs on the porch had fallen into shadow. I sat down on the concrete steps and began reading the small bag of new comics I had with me. New comics come out on Wednesdays, but due to Labor Day last week's books had been been released on Thursday. I'd picked up my weekly fix on my way out of town and though annoyed to find myself sitting on a porch at the end of a not insubstantial drive, I was glad for the opportunity to delve into the week's meager haul. (It is a happy coincidence that I am poor at the same time both DC and Marvel are publishing so few books worth reading.)

Soon enough, the Mountain and company arrived, the Worrywart and the Goldbricker said their goodbyes and departed for their hotel, and the Mountain, The Guy, and I retired to The Shire to discuss the ever-so-busy days to come.

An Interlude
"The Shire" is the name the Mountain gave to the house in which he and his beloved reside. The house is owned by her parents, now his in-laws, and is used by Mr. and Mrs. Mountain rent-free. All in all, a sweet deal for them. The floor plan is, as was remarked several times over the weekend by multiple Blue Tree Whackers, quite similar to my mom and dad's house here in Grand Blanc. The main difference is one of scale: The Shire is tiny. When the front door is open, it cuts off access to the foyer; so, guests must enter the front hallway to allow the door to be swung shut, and only then congregate, if they wish, in the foyer to muck about with coats and such. The hallways are, to a Wilson, small enough to border on the claustrophobic. It is for this reason that the Mountain coined the name The Shire, after the realm of the Hobbits in The Lord of the Rings (he has only seen the rousing movies, never read the stiflingly dull books, and thus retained intact his affection for the story).

Mrs. Mountain's family, though, are all short of stature and took great umbrage to the name, thinking that the Mountain was mocking them as Hobbits, rather than pocking fun at the house itself. Even had he named The Shire as a reference to his family-in-law instead of the house, I fail to see the problem. You see, they're all short and they're all terribly sensitive about being short. That is, at the risk of being impolitic, retarded. I am fat. Strangers and near-strangers call me "big guy" all the time, becaus that is our culture's "polite" slang for fat men. Were you to call me fat to my face, I would sarcastically praise you for your command of the obvious. I'm fat? What tipped you off, Sherlock? They're short. They've had decades to get used to the idea of being short; so, if they have not and are still touchy about it, that sounds a lot like their problem and not at all like mine. In other words, tough cookies, shortstack.

The Mountain, since he lives by the largess of these people, has taken to using the utterly unimaginative name they prefer, the name of the street upon which it sits, but despite my disdain for The Lords of the Rings I shall now and forever use the name The Shire. Spite!

And now back to our narrative...

Airport Shuffle
In semi-adherence to antiquated custom, a custom of which I am quite fond, Ambrosia Sue spent the last few nights before the wedding at her parents' house in Anonymous, OH (The Brick) while the Mountain of Love stayed at The Shire in Dublin. Despite this, the Mountain informed The Guy and I that he had been summoned the The Brick and was soon to depart. We were each given keys to The Shire and the flight information necessary to rendezvous with several additional groomsmen as they arrived at Port Columbus International Airport. (Port Columbus? What port? It's in the geographic middle of Ohio, not near any significant body of water! Bog, Ohioans are dense. Also, Port... Airport? Idiots.)

As midnight approached, The Guy and I saddled up Lumi and began to traverse the semi-circle around Columbus that would take us to the airport and our appointment with destiny... in this instance represented by Seth (proposed Secret Base codename: La Forza del Destino, but referred to as Seth until the matter has been given sufficient consideration). The Eisenhower Interstate System is a true marvel of modern civil engineering that not even the cretinous denizens of Ohio can ruin, though mightily have they tried. The loop around Columbus is I-270. The problem with I-270 is that it's name shifts as often as does the wind. At seemingly random points, 270 West become 270 North. At one point, you enter the freeway with the option of taking 270 East or 270 West. Upon your return to the same point from the opposite direction, a logical part of any local journey, however, you will be offered the choice of 270 East or 270 North. Wait, what? The beauty of our interstate system is that you do not need specific directions to cross huge swaths of this blessed country, all you need to know is the general direction in which you wish to travel and the ability to read the friendly and easily interpreted overhead signs. Not so in Ohio. It's a wretched and shabby place. Despite Ohio's best efforts to waylay us, we reached the airport and, harnessing the power of cellular telephone communications, we rendezvoused with Seth and whisked him and his possessions back to The Shire without incident.

There, we faced the specter of K. Steeze and The Professor's arrival at the moronically named Columbus airport in just a scant four hours. So, we stole what sleep we could, woke long before the accursed Sun rose in the east, and my partner and I again embarked for the airport, this time in his unnamed chariot. We had each slumbered for around four hours. I can function quite well on four hours, but a couple of hours are required before I am fully awake; the secret of morning swim practice back in high school is that I was still half to two-thirds asleep whilst pounding out the morning's yards. Bleary-eyed, The Guy and I retraced our steps of the night before, parking ourselves in a more advantageous spot than during Seth's pick-up. While we had waited for Seth, we had used a tall guy and his lovely blonde girlfriend, both seemingly in their early to mid-20s, as landmarks to help guide Seth to Lumi. As we waited for Steeze and The Professor, we lamented the absence of blonde bombshells at such an early hour. Nevertheless, we amused ourselves with phone tag: I called The Professor while The Guy called Steeze, at virtually the same moment that Steeze was calling me and The Professor was calling The Guy. Soon mobile-to-mobile contact was established and we talked the boy's all the way to The Guy's car, though technically it belongs to his wife-to-be, The Gal. L.A. residents in hand, or at least in car, we all talked over each other like teenage girls and joked and laughed all the back to The Shire, where adventure and excitement awaited.