NO FLAMING LOVE SONG

“We don’t have a song,” Christa stated, perturbed by this fact.

“Pick one,” I offered.

“It doesn’t happen that way,” she returned.

Believing in fate means you don’t search for a song; a song finds you. We had been together for a while but had never officially adopted a song. We never looked, but we weren’t supposed to. At some point, there must be a moment when you get a song. We had moments, pre-engagement, where we talked about our wedding, and the fact that we didn’t have a song seemed to become more critical.

“”What will we dance to?” she asked.

“Something nice,” I said.

“Or maybe we won’t need to, because we shouldn’t get married, because we weren’t meant to, because we don’t have a song!” Overreaction bells go off!

Eventually, not having a song passed some inflection point, and it suddenly became a sign that perhaps we weren’t as meant to be as we thought.

Signs are interesting phenomena of wedding planning. Signs happen everywhere, all the time. Anything, when interpreted properly, is a sign. In this example, not having a song due to not ever seeking one—and having a continental divide between our preferred musical tastes—was a sign that cast doubt on our soulmate designation. I don’t know what was so important in her life that Mötley Crüe’s “Dr. Feelgood” wasn’t taken to heart.

There were times where we tried to force the issue. We would discuss songs we liked individually. She even humored me by asking what some of my favorite songs were about, lyrically speaking. I answered, “I’m not really sure, but the music has energy. Doesn’t it make you want to move, get excited, have pyrotechnics everywhere?” No matter what the argument, it was always inappropriate for our song. Even I knew we had to be able to modestly slow dance to our song. Or maybe she told me.

I listened to her songs, and they were more pleasant and nonpyrotechnic. She apparently pays attention to the words and the story they portray. Who are you with your musical message of love and hope? I can listen to a song with lyrics that either make no sense or are just bad, but if the singer makes it work with the instruments, and it makes me want to light things on fire, we have a winner. She will tolerate what seems to be music meant to make you squirm and not want to be in a confined space, in order to hear the story of everlasting love told by the singer. You can be assured our song will have a good story being told and much less emphasis on creating spontaneous arson.

Then one day, some day like any other day, we were watching the classic How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days. It had a wonderful number, at the point where Kate Hudson’s character, several days into her how-to project to land a man and chase him away in ten days with the dating blunders women make all the time, was returning from Matthew McConahey’s character’s parents’ house via ferry. She had just realized, in trying to repulse this gentlemen caller, that she may have found the real thing. They share an intimate moment with a single cola beverage, and he gives her his coat. Cue music and listen to the lyrics, as they describe finding someone who makes you feel like you’re back at home, in the comfort and warmth where you belong, after a seemingly endless wait.

We replayed it, because we thought it was nice. We both said we liked it. I asked if it was our song. She said, “I think it is.” And it was done. We had our song, and we could dance to it, at a reasonable pace. “Feels like Home,” by Chantal Kreviazuk, one of the most unpyrotechnic songs I have ever heard, but I love it.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival
 

ONE DJ, LEGALLY BOUND

At the Bloomington Bridal Show, we had made contact with a DJ who seemed to have the right balance of organization and lack of preaching to make us feel comfortable. We had checked on our date, and it was open. We had given our name and number. They only booked two weddings on any given day to make sure they weren’t ever stretched too thin to perform admirably. We took home the info and had considered ourselves at least tentatively scheduled for that day.

At a later point, while doing vendor crosscheck number fifty-two, we decided to call the DJ back and discuss any details that needed to be covered that far in advance. I think we may have been two months out. We called, and they checked their calendar. They had one slot filled by someone else—and had promised the other to a wedding planner from parts unknown they had worked with before. A somewhat understated description of our reaction would be that this was not welcome news.

Through some discussion, I learned the DJ did have our name and number written down for our weekend, but he hadn’t heard from us, so he didn’t think anything of it. At least, not enough to call and see whether that name and number meant anything. By pressing the issue, I learned that the second slot was promised but not booked, so it was simply a matter of who got the deposit check there faster. They operated on a first-paid, first-served basis. I made him disclose his whereabouts for the next hour or so and said our local legal representation would be paying him a visit.

In hindsight, I am willing to acknowledge that this so-called wedding planner in Tiny Town, Indiana may have been fictitious. I understand vendors’ selling tool of artificially inflating demand for their services. But we, nevertheless, were in a foot race. I didn’t know if we were racing that day’s postal service, the wedding planner in her car, or the fickle hands of fate to the DJ’s door. But it was a race where second place not only received no medal, but also caused another small leak in the dam holding back the doomsday flood of wedding imperfection, caused by second-rate service providers.

After a few moments of speaking in a soothing voice to my beloved and laying out my plan for obtaining the coveted second slot, I got to work. We finally got to utilize some of the benefits of holding the event in Bloomington. A call was placed to my brother, the best man, as he toiled at work, trying to modernize the family law practice, situated conveniently a handful of blocks from the DJ’s office.

“Hey there, best man. Are you ready for your first task?” I asked.

“I guess so.” I sensed he was hoping this wouldn’t be an arduous task.

“This is a time-sensitive matter. Do you have thirty minutes to spare?” I tried to imply urgency.

“Sure. Right now?” He was still hoping for an escape clause.

“You’re racing a wedding planner, as we speak, and there’s no telling where she or her deposit might be. It may already be too late! This is not a drill!”

It is best to give the groomsmen competitions to invoke ardent participation, where the bride’s side can exist solely on favors and other feel-good stuff.

“OK, what am I doing? Where am I going?” I had established buy-in.

“Through personal or office resources, obtain one hundred dollars and head to this address. Find this person. Tell him this info, and then bind that bastard to it. Throw in any legal jargon you can to make him sweat, just for causing this momentary concern,” I rattled off with military precision.

“OK, I may have to call you once there.”

The hunt was clear. He verified that I’d be available for any unforeseen details, and off he went. Needless to say, we smoked that wedding planner; and if she were real, I’d go tell her all about it. Sadly, I realized that some other lovely bride and groom may have been stuck with rocking it Jesus style, but they had a wedding planner. Take the easy road, why don’t you.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival
 

THE MUSICAL BAIT AND SWITCH

As a positive result of attending the San Diego Bridal Show, we had decided to go with a solo acoustical guitarist for the ceremony music. The simple and elegant sound would further enhance the giddiness of the crowd gathered to bear witness to our ceremony. We simply needed to track one down and get a contract negotiated. We were referred to the Office of Musical Attractions at Indiana University. This is a place where all the gloriously talented music students give notice that they wish to be a musical gun for hire. I’m not sure if they all sit in little boxes waiting to be adopted, or if it is merely a bulletin board with a phone placed in front, where anyone can answer and try to match you with someone’s flyer.

We placed the call and were matched with a classical guitarist who was pursuing a Master’s in Performance Guitar, or something close to that. The price was very reasonable, as starving student-artists do have a benefit to society. We were given his contact info to get in touch with him and get a feel for what he was like.

As the communications continued, every few days, the contract arrived in the mail. We held it for a couple days and then sent it back, opting for the “bill me later” payment option. A situation where demand is much less than supply must be celebrated. I was in the driver’s seat. I will not pay you now, and you will like it.

It was the following day that we received a voice message from the Office of Musical Attractions that stated: “We’re sorry, but your guitarist has just realized that he has a scheduling conflict, with his wife having a family reunion of some sort, and he can’t get out of it. We have found someone to fill in, who I’m sure you’ll be satisfied with.”

This message did not sit well. First, our new guitarist had a name we couldn’t pronounce. Not that that reflects on his playing ability, but it certainly affects our comfort level. I called back to the office and left a message politely paraphrasing the following:

“What’s going on? The contract is in the mail back to you, with guitarist Number One’s name on it, signed and dated. You can’t be pulling this crap, and if you are, you need to spell out guitarist Number Two’s name and e-mail, because I can’t sound out what you said, and I don’t want another random pen pal from Eastern Europe.”

The next day, we received another message restating the apology, spelling the name, and saying that the replacement was a very accomplished player, whom we should be more than happy with. As it turns out, that was the caller’s last week on the job. She hosed us and skipped town.

We took the new name and went online, where the guitarist was supposed to have a website. We found it, and was it ever interesting. He had a series of photos which made him seem a bit self-absorbed. He was dressed like Michael Jackson from the “Smooth Criminal” video, had it been filmed in Havana with mirrors and a guitar. He tried to verbalize his oneness with his instrument in a monologue similar to the following:

“I open the door, and music comes in. It makes my fingers hot, and my hands sweat. I get the fever in my eyes, and I vibrate with the strings. Blood is pulsing, and its rhythm drives harder and faster. I am becoming the instrument. Its will—my own. Waves are crashing. My pants have vanished.”

That left us a little concerned. “Let’s send him an e-mail, and see what he says,” we decided.

The concern continued, when we received our first correspondence back from the artist known as Number Two. He used the word “plane,” instead of “plan.” I shrugged the first one off, as I talked myself through it. He is an artist. He types what he feels. Sometimes he hits an extra key that is nowhere near the “n.” Then it happened again. Then he “planed,” instead of “planned.” His entire English dictionary was printed a line off or something. We could tell he could play. His musical samples and resume told us that. We had to hope he could understand that it was our day and our music. We hoped he didn’t add random letters to what he read or played as well, so he wouldn’t think we were inviting him to play at our bedding: “Perhaps something for the lady to get her in the mood, so you may bed her. Although, I am already here; and again, my pants have vanished.”

The whole situation was like switching to Diet Coke. It left a bad taste that you had to adjust to.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival

Fashion Run Away Show

The advertised highlight of every bridal show is the fashion show, where numerous local merchants provide the latest in bridal fashions for a “runway show of your dreams” (husky, lispy whisper works best here). Depending on the size of the bridal show, there may be a stage, or there may be some masking tape on the floor outlining where a stage would be. The fanciful shows have live musical accompaniment, usually provided by someone trying to sell their organist abilities for your wedding. There will be a program outlining what the fashions are and who provided them and, perhaps, an announcer for wedding parties who can’t read or can’t peel their eyes from the stage.

At the bridal fashion show, you are getting the preregistration dismissals from America’s Next Top Model. It may be the daughter of one of the florists, who was second runner-up at the Ornamental Squash Festival last year—or simply someone’s cousin who was owed a favor and thinks his daughter is destined to be a model. This destiny may not be due to an exquisite body or proportion. It may, instead, result from a lack of any other discernable skills.

The second thing you need to know is that, wherever the models came from, the entire rest of the family came with them. And they will be occupying the good seats, beginning about an hour before the show starts, with video cameras to record the beginning of their baby’s fame. If you’ve seen the child-pageant moms’ show, you have some idea of what I’m talking about. The mom had some residual dream or desire for great fame and fortune, but didn’t quite have the goods, so as soon as her daughter was born, that flame was rekindled. My baby girl has my eyes and her father’s second-string high-school- tailback legs. How could she not be a model?

There is a lot of cheering over the course of the show, which you eventually realize is family support and not excitement generated by the fashions themselves. It’s like Vacation, when Uncle Eddy touts his daughter’s French-kissing ability, learned in-house. Courtesy tells you to acknowledge the effort, but the bile that has just come up indicates that, perhaps, orally is not the best way.

So, once you find your bad seats and lower your expectations, it really is entertaining reality TV, with no real bridal benefits. Why not get up and leave? Because we are suckers for a prize giveaway. If you are not already glued to your seat in amazement, the show organizers add even more Elmer’s by giving away prizes to those who can stomach the entire presentation. In this instance, the models themselves tossed balls, with numbers corresponding to prizes, into the remaining audience.

Please remember that, although the models have inherited a tailback’s legs, they did not inherit a quarterback’s arm. Second, realize that their entire families are sitting in front. Not to say that we got hosed, but when a toss is accompanied by a “Here, Mom,” you feel a bit slighted. I imagine some families might have doubled their estates by the time the show’s weekend run was over.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival

No Manhood Necessary

“Hey there, it looks like you need a break,” said the woman in the lab coat.

“Yes, I do.”

I am very certain that the fact you said that means I will not be receiving said break at this moment. But I do trust a lab coat, and your pamphlets are pretty.

“The best advice I can give any bride, or groom for that matter, is to take some time to relax,” the lab coat continued.

“As soon as we get out of here, I imagine relaxation will follow,” I countered.

“That is why we are offering a special six-month membership in the Massage of the Month Club,” she pushed.

“We’re going to be late for the fashion show.” I attempted the courtesy exit.

“There is no obligation to receive your massage once you’ve paid for it.” She was a selling machine.

“I just learned of a death in the family.” I attempted to beg.

“What fiancée wouldn’t cherish the gift of a soothing massage to calm her nerves?” She tried to make me the hero.

“I swallowed the toothpick with my last cake sample and am bleeding internally. I only have seconds to live.” I pleaded for my life.

“We can do a three-month package, if you’re afraid of commitment, and she prefers smaller packages.” She had hit me below the belt.

“Now you’ve insulted me to the point that I’m enamored with you. Does that lab coat ever get hot…doctor?”
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival