Barnes Burning

How's This For A Wedding Reading: “Livin’ On A Prayer” Read Emotionally and Reverently Like It’s The Word Of God

Wedding readings are a minefield. You’d think that choosing a reading for the most important day of your life would be a pleasure, but in practice it’s like rooting for the Kansas City Royals: you’re probably going to lose, so it’s really just a question of exactly how it’s going to happen and how painful, shameful and emasculating the defeat will be.

For married folk out there who defaulted to First Corinthians or other favorites, more power to you. Seriously. Because in my experience, as soon as you transgress the lines of standard wedding reading fare (Biblical verse, Epic Dead White Guy Poetry, mushy love poetry that will make guests blush to the point of losing bladder control) you are putting the onus on yourself as Somebody Who Knows Something. Somebody Who Knows Something thinks themselves to be intellectually rigorous and unique in a way that’s both hip and quirky. They probably wrote poetry themselves at one point. They want a wedding reading to be a joyful expression of their relationship and worldview. They’re the type of person who make a point to crumple their way through the entire dead tree version of the Sunday Times in full view of their family, friends and passersby (they’ve also been known to bring the Sunday Times to BBQs and bars when their buddies are watching football…gaggingly lame attention-getting behavior). Most obviously, Somebody Who Knows Something attended a liberal arts college in New England that was founded on a high-falutin’ concept. Do I need to tell you that they double-majored in at least two totally impractical fields of study that provide little traction in say, a marketplace economy, but nonetheless, allow them to feel smugly superior to their peers (note to self: if a ancient statue appears the on homepage of your major, you’re probably not going to be Federal Reserve Chairman, okay)?

And evidently, I am Somebody Who Knows Something because one of my first inclinations was to find a wedding reading utterly unique and fitting to our lives. By choosing to do so, I ignored the fact that the service is nothing more than a speed bump for most of your guests. They aren’t really paying attention to you up there on the altar, they’re just twiddling their thumbs, day-dreaming about how stiff the gin and vodka pours will be and whether a serious grind session with your random friend from Teach for America is in the offing.

Now that I'm outside the safe confines of The Bible and Rumi, I'm finding that I just want to mock the whole wedding reading process. People are expecting you to mail it in with one of the bland classics, so what if you turned the whole idea on its head and read something that was decidedly not appropriate for a wedding? Like the lyrics from an 80s power ballad? Or the deep musings of M.C. Hammer?

With that, I give you the lyrics from a song that I'd love to have read at our wedding. For full effect, these would have to be uttered emotionally and reverently like they're the word of God.

Livin' On A Prayer by Bon Jovi

Once upon a time not so long ago:
Tommy used to work on the docks
Union's been on strike

He's down on his luck - It's tough
So tough.
Gina works the diner all day
Working for her man

She brings home her pay for love
For love.

She says: We've got to hold on to what we've got
'Cause it doesn't make a difference if we make it or not.
We've got each other and that's a lot for love
We'll give it a shot.

We're half way there

Livin' on a prayer

Take my hand and we'll make it
I swear - Livin' on a prayer.

Tommy got his six string in hock.
Now he's holding in what he used to make it talk -
So tough
It's tough.
Gina dreams of running away
When she cries in the night
Tommy whispers: Baby
It's okay
Someday.

We've got to hold on to what we've got
We're half way there - Livin' on a prayer

We've got to hold on ready or not
You live for the fight when it's all that you've got.
We're half way there - Livin' on a prayer
We're half way there - Livin' on a prayer
We're half way there - Livin' on a prayer

Our Wedding Vow Pow Wow

As the Barnes/Saffir wedding rumbles towards liftoff on August 16th (when you’ve been planning the thing for a year and a half, all of it begins to seem like some kind of loopy fever dream), we’re getting into some of the meatier parts of the proceedings. One area that’s always a good bet for generalized hilarity are the official wedding vows. There are tons of choices when it comes to the vows: do we use cherished language from the Bible and/or the religion of our choice? Do we write our own? Or do we do some haphazard mishmash of those two options that makes us look jittery, indecisive, and non-committal as we stand at the altar?

As Samantha and I sort through these options considering how sappy and dramatic we want to be with our wedding vows and wondering how high we should set the bar for future commitments within the relationship (“I promise to cuddle for 5-10 minutes each night before making you a customized ice cream sundae with rotating flavors each day of the week” is an unreal statement of devotion, but can you really deliver on that kind of awestriking promise?), it occurred to me that the whole “till death do us part” section is totally irrational and a cop out.

I understand that the vows just codify a commitment that you're making towards your partner during this lifetime, but doesn’t that leave a whole lot of wiggle room for the relentless yawn of eternity that follows death? Even if you don’t believe in God, wouldn’t it make sense to link up with your spouse for a little longer than the next 40+ years? “Till death do us part” implies that life as a swinging single is only a few decades away….you just need to wait out the clock on your worldly existence until you get there. I can just see your typical Grade A dirtbag of a guy mired in an unhappy, middle-aged marriage pining for the gates of Heaven as some sort of ethereal, spiritual Spring Break on South Padre Island.

None of us is to mention how dour it is talking up death on your wedding day. "I'll love you until that unavoidable day of tragedy when my body and/or mind gives out....maybe tomorrow, maybe in 42 years, 4 months and 3 days, who really knows? In any case, let's just be clear that at some unknowable, frightful date in the future we'll never see or speak to each other again. Never ever ever." Cheers!

Of course making a commitment for all eternity is a heavy stuff, especially when avoiding divorce in the mortal world is only a 50/50 proposition. But I say "go big or go home." If you're not ready to throw down for some serious holy matrimony, then maybe you're not ready to play with the big boys in the marriage game. And I think we all know that Spring Break (on earth or in heaven) isn't the best place to meet your future spouse.

My Beef With Fruit

Here's my issue with fruit: in theory fruit is succulent, healthy and delectable but in reality it's annoying, erratic, and above all, really, really sticky. Let me explain.

First, we might as well admit that fruit is having a pretty good run this millennium. Basically, it's the Barack Obama of foods. Fruit is hip, trendy, loved by tastemakers of all ages, and touted by nutritionists as being a rare food group that's both healthful and yummy. Fruit is a superstar. When the groups on the Food Pyramid get together for drinks, Fruit saunters into the room with aviators and $950 designer jeans leaving the other food groups insanely jealous and hopelessly out of fashion. I can just see Grains and Meat resentfully leaning into their Budweisers as Fruit orders some slick Mojito while flirting with the sexy tigress pouring drinks behind the bar. 

Fruit isn't as dependable as a hearty rib eye with a side of garlic mashed potatoes or a flaky, fresh-baked croissant. You know what you're getting with those food items: something that's delicious ten times out of ten. With fruit, the quality of your eating experience always depends on a variety of factors that may or may not break in your favor. Is the piece of fruit sufficiently ripe? Or has it gestated too long in the wooden bowl on your kitchen table, leaving it rotten and inedible (and do we really want to be gestating stuff in the kitchen)? The most horrid aspect of fruit rot is that it often conceals its trauma under the guise of healthy-looking exterior skin. How many times have you bitten into a peach only to end up with the disagreeable condition that I like to call "Mr. Mealy Mouth?" How many times have you cracked open a banana only to find a horrid mass of blackish, rotting goo that looks like it should be stored in a lead-lined 50 gallon drum two miles below the Nevada desert? Some say that this is a normal process of nature, but I find the constant need to monitor fruit's well-being like an at-risk teenager very, very troubling.

Then there's the whole inconvenience angle. It's an understatement to say that fruit requires a lot of preparation before it's ready for consumption. You need to wash grapes and berries. Often there's a peel of some sort, a pit, or a rash of icky seeds that need to be dealt with. Picture giving a cantaloupe to someone who just arrived on planet Earth. Is this object something yummy to eat, or is it more appropriate to stash in in your bowling bag for the next trip down to the lanes? Sure, I'm happy to give you a taste...just let me cut it apart in using 12 knives, a towel, a scooper, an obscure washing ritual, a compost baggie, and an earnest prayer to my Holy Maker. Likewise for grapefruit -- hey it's really good, but to enjoy it in all its glory, you have to mince it into tiny triangles like a heart surgeon with a special pointy spoon. Don't even get me started on kiwi...an exceptional treat, if you can get past the brown fur that sticks to the meat of the fruit like stucco on a cement wall. To be honest, you'll probably only get a bite or two before slicing your thumb off, so enjoy!

Even the piece of fruit tenderly brought to perfect ripeness presents myriad difficulty. Bite into any healthy, workaday peach and more likely than not a stream of sticky juice is going to cascade down your mouth and/or shirt sleeves. In isolated conditions, say in a laboratory vacuum, you'd be able to experience the admittedly exceptional taste afforded by a fresh peach without this inconvenience. But in the world we live in, a bite into a peach equals leaky byproduct that will stick to your skin like plumber's epoxy.

Perhaps there is hope for fruit. I hear that smart-guy scientists are working on genetic engineering feats that we can't even conceive of. And there are enough entrepreneurs out there willing to do anything for a buck that any useful idea is sure to make it to market. So here's a suggestion: instead of the next Google or Facebook, what the world really needs is an orange peel that doesn't get stuck underneath your fingernails.

Love Bytes: Living and Loving on Facebook

First in an occasional series for those who live and love online. Feel free to hit me up with questions of your own!

If You've Got Love In Your Sights / Watch Out, Love Bites
- Def Leppard

Dear Love Bytes,

How long should I wait until I officially break up with my boyfriend on Facebook? We broke up in the real world this week, but I'm not looking forward to announcing it to my network. How do I play it cool? I'd like to casually and discretely announce that I'm "open for business" while avoiding an avalanche of curious/annoying wall posts that will populate everyone's news feed in an exponential orgy of shame and gossip.

Let me add that my embarrassment quotient is especially high because we were one of those gag-worthy couples who spammed the universe with 5000 self-portraits (taken by pointing the camera back at arms length) from our trip to Tahiti, where apparently we did nothing other than cuddle in a straw hut and giggle our Paid Time Off away like Romeo and Juliet on a laughing gas binge.

It goes without saying that we own a Labradoodle together, but at least he can't observe Mommy and Daddy's online disintegration via a godd@#n Facebook profile.

Sincerely,
Fearing Facebook

Dear Fearing Facebook,

As you've discovered, social networks represent a zero sum game when it comes to love. You're either blissfully happy or a pitiful Britney Spears-in-training. As soon as you virtually declare your mutual commitment to your beloved, you best be playin' for keeps unless you can handle the consequences of breaking that union...namely, the crimson broken-heart-of-death that cascades through news feeds like a blinking memo of abject failure and despair. You can pretend to be hip and put-together about your downfall, but what really matters is the sentiment percolating in the hearts and minds of your Facebook compatriots: that Ms. "We're More In Love Than Any Of Y'All" got turned back at the goalline of Eternal and Everlasting Love. It was 4th and 1, and the Breakup Beast mauled you 35 yards behind the line of scrimmage and is now dancing over your crumpled romance like Ray Lewis. And guess what? Everyone's sitting in the stands having a good laugh at your expense.

Just remember...Love Bytes.

I'm Mad As Heck At The New Food Pyramid, And I'm Not Going To Take It Anymore

Did you know that the Food Pyramid of our youth has been obliterated? Apparently it's been this way since 2005, a fact I must have missed while I was getting my PhD in nutrition. Foodies like my fiancée Samantha, who owns a kid's cooking business, probably like the changes since they allow for more personalization and modern nutritional insight. But I'd just like to point out that the pyramids of Ancient Egypt were built using old fashioned blocks (ditto for Lego pyramids I used to build on the living room floor) -- a fact that the new Food Pyramid blithely ignores.

The biggest problem is that they've changed all the food groups. In the past, heroic food groups like Meat and Grains were awarded expansive blocks wherein they could display their delicious bounties: waving amber wheat stalks, slabs of bacon, a meaty cut of pork. Now all that's gone, replaced by a geeky online system that customizes a pyramid for everybody based on a host of factors specific to the individual. The awestriking has been replaced by algorithms. That's about as heroic as Bill Gates vs. Steve Jobs in an arm-wrestling match.

Isn't this the kind of change that should have gone to a national referendum? It's a disgrace, we shouldn't have to take this kind of intrusion into our lives. The resulting block-less shape isn't an honest pyramid, it's a triangle searching for identity. Meat doesn't even have its own category, it now shares real estate with the laughingstock Beans group (suffering from ever-present "magical fruit" taunts) and has equal stature as new categories such as Discretionary Calories and Physical Activity. Excuse me, but unless I unknowingly gave myself a lobotomy with a meat cleaver, I don't think those two categories have anything to do with actual, you know, food or the consumption of same.

I choose to base my understanding of the Pyramid on how I encountered it in my youth: laminated and unchanged for time immemorial (like the Declaration of Independence) as it resided in a cluttered corner of my gym teacher's bulletin board. We hold these truths to be self-evident...that i can eat a wicked huge amount of corn byproduct and spare ribs because the beloved old school Food Pyramid chart said so.

I'm Getting Married And I'm Keeping My Last Name

I'm getting married in a month. As you can imagine, things are getting a little hectic in the Barnes household. First of all, I'm not sure I'm even allowed to refer as our pad as "the Barnes household" yet. Samantha is taking my last name...but does that mean I can start referring to us under my surname? Is that a caveman move? Am I preventing her last name from playing out the string in all it's glory?

I guess the other extreme to this is represented by some dudes who are actually taking their wives' last name. Look fellows, I'm not going to get all John Wayne on your masculinity, but when you give up your name, I'm afraid it's a slippery slope. Next to go: the skin-tight, threadbare Wade Boggs tee-shirt you've been hiding from your wife, the Any Given Sunday Doctrine (which reads in part that "the Husband hath been granted dispensation to lounge around the house in a rumpled sweat-suit on any given Sunday where images from the NFL flicker on his television...") and certain rights and privileges as they pertain to your online browsing behavior. Let's just say there's some crazy tracking software on the market these days.

Basically, if you're a guy and give up your last name, you might as well put on a maid outfit, take up needlepoint, and start calling your wife "Madam." Think about it like a game of Risk...now isn't the time to start giving away territory on the domestic front!

The Unfriendly Skies

In the past two months, I've taken three red-eye flights to Boston from Los Angeles. I probably don't need to tell you this, but flying these days is about as pleasant as jabbing a railroad spike through the tender webbing between your fingers. Each of these trips was centered around seeing family and friends, so I really shouldn't complain. But it's worth noting that getting stabbed with a shard of rusty metal would induce an acute, temporary burst of pain whereas flying produces a drawn-out panorama of physical and psychological misery that may or may not end, depending on how long the puppeteers/Masters of The Universe in the air traffic control tower decide to double-park your plane on the runway.

In the course of all this, I noticed that it's become customary to say "have a safe flight" to someone before they head off to the airport. Undoubtedly, this is a cousin of the common refrain of "drive safely" we chirp to each other before jumping in the car.

The purpose of reminding someone to "drive safely" is twofold: 

1. To encourage the person to operate their vehicle in a careful, deliberate, and defensive manner so their journey passes without incident. Akin to a coach patting his point guard on the butt, giving him a final reminder before he takes the court.
2. To genuinely demonstrate that you care about the person and have them in your thoughts...even if you don't think of them once after issuing the plea, instead spending the afternoon splayed out on the couch watching football while ramming an entire drum of pretzels into your gut.

So what of the post 9/11 era tradition of telling each other to "have a safe flight?" What exactly do we mean by this? No doubt our intentions are genuine (especially with respect to #2 above) but how much of one's flight safety can a normal citizen actually control? Seriously. Do I look like the Secretary of Homeland Security? Did I miss something? Have I been up all night studying threat patterns and piecing together threads of terrorist chatter culled from top secret NSA audio logs? Am I a registered U.S. Marshall toting an attaché case full of titanium nightsticks and industrial grade plastic blades that I'll use to beat back the screaming radicals as they attempt to commandeer the cockpit? Am I, like, an intergalactic superhero with cartoonish powers that will allow me to snuff out any evil-doers who had the misfortune (after I'm done with them) to board this flight with us? Am I piloting the freaking plane?

Here are the things I control during my flight: The eight cubic inches in front of my belly and, for 45 minutes after boarding, my bladder (after 45 minutes, I'll lose control of this as well). I don't think it takes a Nobel Laurette to see that I'm pretty powerless when it comes to quelling the global scourges of terrorism, air rage, pilot error, and mechanical failure. So can we lay off the insincere figures of speech a bit?

If you really care about me and my travails in the unfriendly skies, how about using some of your miles to upgrade me to first class?