Here it is, only 9:30 p.m. and I’ve finished everything on my to-do list for the evening. It feels like it’s been months since I’ve had this luxury, and perhaps it has. Planning a wedding, as I’m sure any veteran of the affair will say, is a bitch. To plan one long distance is doubly so. We spent most evenings for the first part of the year with a list of vendors to call and decisions to make. It was to be a simple affair—and largely it was, though it came in about 60% over our original and naively optimistic budget—but it was nonetheless sisyphusean in scope.

But there it is. Done. And everything happened exactly as we planned. More or less. Except for the DJ, who deviated from our painstakingly selected playlist. I use deviated in the most generous sense, because really, he barely touched our playlist. In fact, had we made a list of songs that definitely, definitely, under no circumstances would we want played at our wedding—well, those are the ones he put on the turntable. If you made a top 10 list of the worst, most clichéd songs to play at wedding receptions, you’ve probably got the second half of our reception covered. Bust a Move, for God’s sake. One More Night by Phil effing Collins. MC effing Hammer. My God. I feel like I should send out postcards to all the guests emphasizing that I did NOT tell the DJ to play Phil Collins, just to save whatever face I can.

But Jesus Bas, the flamenco guitar player, was exquisite. He strummed all Spanish sweetness during the ceremony and then hammered it home slightly electrified during the cocktail hour. He somehow worked it out with pedals to sing his own backing harmonies. It wasn’t the too-familiar-these-days guy with the sampling delay petal playing along with himself as a metronome. This guy was actually doing harmonies, and I (who used to co-own a recording studio, remember) have no idea how he pulled it off.

So here we are now, back from the honeymoon. We’re tanned, well-rested, and well-fed. In fact, I came back with an interesting and wholly inexplicable case of stripes, which at first I attributed to a possible tropical fungal infestation or insect by-product. My friend Chris postulated that they were caused by subdermal Carribean microleeches. It turns out (should I admit this?) that they were in fact due to a slight mishap with some lime juice and the sun, though I worry that those unfamiliar with my nocturnal habits might think they’re claw marks from my battles with were-beasts.

With all this time to kill nowadays (at least until my linear algebra class start on Monday), expect more updates than you know what to do with.

Nice to see that you're back in the blogging saddle again. Don't worry we won't hold the Phil Collins against you. I didn't see any shortage of people dancing so I wouldn't worry to overly much about it. The shortest member of our contingent would like to thank your DJ for bringing colored lights ;-)