I can't think of many things more vulgar than a wedding. Nor can I see any real purpose for marriage - it has to be one of the most pointless endeavors that mankind invented and continues to involve itself in unquestioningly. Unlike breeding, marriage is certainly not a natural instinct or even - arguably - a natural state.
The only reason that marriage exists is that 'love', or that initial giddiness and euphoria, is the most powerful intoxicant known to man and, as Hunter S. said in 'Fear and Loathing', "When you get locked into a serious drug binge, your tendency is to push it as far as it will go." So somebody invented 'marriage' as a way to push it further and it became a societal norm.
People in love are like drunk chicks at Mardi Gras who expose their tits to proudly show everyone how embarrassingly drunk they are. Weddings are the terri-cloth tube top of love, waiting to be yanked down in front all your closest friends who now have to act amused.
Weddings are like having to watch two people make out on a bus all day, only now you have to dress up, bring gifts and pretend you're not bored and disgusted.
I got married three days ago, March 26th, 2002.
I asked Renee if she really wanted to do it and she said she did. She knew I was already legally married to a girl I'd known 14 years prior. I'd known her for a couple weeks when I was working phone rooms in Vegas in '87. We got drunk and got married one night just cuz it sounded like a funny thing to do. A year and a half later we moved to Idaho because I thought it sounded like a funny place to move. Then she left me for my best friend which wasn't nearly as funny but at least she went away. Sometimes the people who go along with what I think is funny are just insane people.
"It won't be legal, though, will it?" she asked.
"Baby," I said ( I too often begin sentences with 'Baby" and should try to avoid that), "We'll be doing drugs in Alaska on New Years. That won't be legal either but we're still gonna be high."
I didn't need to say anything else. She gets it. That's why we're together.
The only thing more pointless than marriage is "legal' marriage. (Remember, when I write "legal" to read it with a sarcastic, mocking tone that drags it out to sound 'leeegal' with a sneer.) What is the benefit in bringing law and government into your love life? What is it any business of theirs? When have you ever had to go to a courthouse and it was good? And when a relationship goes bad (no, it couldn't possibly happen to us), do you really need a lawyer to make it official? Good fuck, think about it.
The institution of marriage is a fictional union, like joining a gang or a fraternity. It is what you want from it personally, but unlike a corporation or the military, it holds no obligations to those outside the agreement. As much as a marriage might mean to you, the simple fact is that you cannot commit to an emotion. You can't force yourself to love someone as much as you can't force yourself to be sad or afraid. "Legally" marrying someone is like signing a contract promising to be 'lucky'. Forever.
"So it's not a 'real' marriage" I am told, over and over.
A 'legal' marriage is necessary when you are marrying someone to get them citizenship. It is necessary when you are marrying an 80 year old terminal cancer patient for his money. It's certainly necessary for the Appalachian hillbilly who takes a 14-year-old wife he'd have gone to jail for fucking without the arbitrary title, one word and a 10 dollar license the difference between husband and child molester. It is necessary for tax breaks and insurance or if you just want to join a club where homos aren't allowed.
So why would I involve myself in something that I seem so violently against? Because we are in love and wanted everyone to watch us make out on a bus all day. But instead of gifts and your nicest clothes, we had comedy, booze, drugs and a mad rocking band with a fat, naked Elvis impersonator who ran most of the people out before they could even see him swill a warm glass of his own urine.
If we are going to impose on our friends, we'll try like hell to make it worth their while, not act like it's very important for them to share in a 'celebration of our love'. We are simply stealing your word and taking the piss out of it. We left most of the gunky sentiment out of it. It's boring and gross to listen to people pine on in public about what their love means to each other. If I'm going to privy to the most intimate and personal details of someones relationship, frankly I'd rather just watch you fuck.
The Extreme Elvis band kicked off the show at 8:15 or so, sans EE himself, and jammed for a bit before the comedy. This band absolutely rocks. I was a bit fucked up myself and trying to keep it chaotic while also attempting to make normal with the in-laws. Grandma was a no-show but the Mom/Step-Dad, Dad/Step-Mom contingents were there and seemed to be able to hang with everything ok.
I started the show, rambling on and dealing with hecklers, before bringing up the line-up of Ralphie May, Sean Rouse, Henry Phillips and Andy Andrist. They all killed anyone who was listening, which wasn't as many as the night went on and people were getting twisted. Renee's bride's maid faculty was full of liquor and ecstasy and went from loud to outright obnoxious heckling. Good thing Rogan wasn't there was all I could think, or too bad he wasn't, depending on how you look at it.
As the crowd got shitty, so did I and I really couldn't tell you half of what i did for a set. My friends Erica and Steve came out with their sound guy Kelly and filmed it documentary-style so one day I'll be able to see how sloppy it all was.
Father Luke came up after the comedy to do the ceremony and I remember it dragged on loud with hecklers and Father Luke taking his beautiful, sweet-ass time. Chaos. We were married and the hard parts were over. Joe Vernon, my number one fan won the high-hand best man poker competition with a king-high flush earlier and gave a great toast while Renee heaved her wedding bouquet at a table, knocking their drink over in their laps.
But the night was far from over. Let's face it, this night, for al the stories that will be told, was about Extreme Elvis. The seven-piece band drove down nine hours from San Francisco and absolutely ruined the place. I will always be indebted to Tommy Rocker, and hopefully not in a 'legal' way. He didn't have any idea what to expect and I didn't know how far it would go so I just opted to say nothing. By the time the shit hit the fan, I was too drunk to say anything anyway.
Most of the later recollections of the night are in still-photo memories or simply from re-tellings of more sober witnesses. I remember that around the third song, EE was already naked and pissing in a 16 ounce beer glass. He then swilled it, slobbering half of it down his sweating, death-white, bloated torso and passed it to Ann, a singer in the band. She took a swig herself and it was around then that Renee's parents decided that maybe it was time to head out. In fact I was surprised at how many of the younger, more bent members of the audience left with them. Pussies. No appreciation for art.
I also remember EE having two fingers jammed in his pock-marked ass but didn't notice when he sauntered thru the crowd afterwards fingering things on peoples tables with the same hand, at one point picking up someones cell phone and using it like a bar of soap in his steamy armpit. I heard all of that second-hand and not always in a tone of gushing adoration like I would have.
I was out saying my goodbyes to the parents when it got ugly. Evidently EE was up naked on the bar hurling cocktail olives and whatnot at the crowd. The whole band was naked when I walked back in and Tommy was shitting his pants wondering how to pull the plug on the whole thing. EE had evidently pulled Ann's tampon out with his teeth, paraded it around all blood n crusty like a dead mouse before chewing it up and spitting it out. Not the regular fare for Tommy Rockers, a usually stayed place for 30 somethings who like Jimmy Buffet and the occasional one-drink-too-many.
Here's all you need to know. Firstly, yes - it's a *real* wedding. But it's also an anti-wedding. This won't be the kind of event girls cry at.
Comedy show starts at 8. Chaos will ensue. Remember, her family is flying in from all over and they are unfamiliar with me or my act. Look for seating out of harm's way.
Email me if you have any questions - email@example.com
The rest of the story.
You may have noticed that the ending of the Costa Rica story, the night I spent at the Del Rey Hotel/Casino/Whorehouse, was a bit vague. Reason being that shortly after my return, Renee- who I'd all but cut off my ear to be with- did a 180 and said she was ready to make a serious run.
Now Renee isn't under any false illusion of my previous hedonism. In fact most of the time she's downright amused and will come back with a few sweet stories of her own but I still didn't know if being a week off a Costa Rican whore binge might taint the deck enough to blow me out of the deal.
So I left it vague and we went on madly in love.
I can't quite remember what number beer made me throw it out there last night at O'Brien's in Santa Monica, maybe five or eight but nowhere near the last.
"I left part of the Costa Rica story out, you know."
"Really? Tell me."
"Uh.." and I get that stupid grin on my face, "the details about the night in the whorehouse."
"Well, no kidding." she smiles. "I mean, c'mon. I just assumed."
"I fucked four of em in six hours."
She's wildly amused and can't understand why I'd think she'd be upset. I probably thought that because of every other girl I have ever dated, married, met, seen, heard or read about or seen crudely sketched on an truck stop toilet wall. That's why.
She'd asked me earlier if I'd consider it cheating if she had sex with another woman. I wanted to wait a dumbstruck beat and then silently leap out of the moving vehicle for comedic effect. Said she'd like to find another woman for both of us, asked if I ever meet any hot, smart chicks that would be into it. I tell her she'd probably do a better job picking. Now she's enthralled in my tales of Costa Rican whores. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction and I sit there full of beer and secretly probe my body for any signs of cancer.
So here - at the prodding of my beautiful Renee - is the rest of the story.
Costa Rican Whores
Anyone who says America is the greatest country in the world has never seen the work ethic of a Costa Rican whore. These girls are all customer service oriented and glad as hell to be there.
I wandered around the Del Rey Hotel on the last day of my Costa Rica trip just knowing it was only a matter of time. Problem was that with this many prostitutes, how do you choose? Like when you go to a tittie bar and ask "If you could fuck anyone of these girls, which one would you poon?" Only here you can. I'd asked a few of the guys hanging around at the bar what the rates were and it seemed to run anywhere from 50-100 dollars depending on the girl. Some of the rough ones even less, but at those prices why would you even bother with the rough ones?
There are between 40 and 80 girls working the place at any given time but there's one in particular I'm watching for. I'd been playing roulette the night before when this really American-looking blonde sat down and started working me in bad English. She was a bit Madonna looking with pink shades on and cute as fuck. I'm being real cool and I put a huge stack of chips on 23.
"Why 23?" she asks.
"You're 23 aren't you?" I'm guessing.
"Yes, I am 23" she tells me a half-second before the dealer yells out "23!".
I shrug and try to look bored as they slide what looks like a years pay in chips over to me. I move the stack from 23 to 00 and keep staring her in the eye as though I know something and I don't flinch when the dealer yells "Double Zero!".
I told them to cash me out and the girl is wide-eyed, asking me if I want to go up to my room. I told her I don't have a room and that I am with friends but I'd be back the next night. At that point I just wanted to get out while I still looked really fucking cool.
So now I am back and playing roulette again and I'm scouting the place for her quite a while before I spot her walking past. I catch her eye and when she appraoches me I grab another big stack of chips and say "23?" and set them on the number. She smiles and says that she'll be back in a minute. She turns and walks off and doesn't even here it when the dealer shouts "23!" Motherfucker. If she'd seen that she'd probably fuck me for free just thinking I'm a witch.
I wasted little time when she came back, striking a two-girl deal for 150 bucks. I shoulda picked the other girl myself rather than letting her bring her friend but I didn't want to be rude. Besides number 23 has already paid for the doings, may as well let her keep it in the family.
The deal at the hotel is that you have to pay a little under ten bucks to bring a girl to your room. They have thick-necked lackies at both the stairs and elevators to check the girls ID's and sign them in so you don't get fucked over. You can bring the same girl up again without paying but each different girl requires another 3,000 colones.
Once in the room it's all about pleasing the customer. No rush, no looking at the watch, asking you to hurry up and come. Fuck, they didn't even ask for the money up front, showered ahead of time and told me I had a really big dick like they meant it!
I didn't do anything weird, just smiled while they took turns blowing me and then pooned the Madonna chick, knowing she'd be earning her money what with a few drinks in me and a condom on, half a tab of Viagra soaring thru me. Yes they worked but never once acted like they'd rather be doing anything else. They washed up again afterwards. Even were happy to take pictures before they left.
Downstairs again I'm surprised at the lack of any hideous guilt feelings that you get when you fuck an American hooker. I hit the tables some more and run into a guy I'd met earlier at the bar. He was from Boston and had had four hookers the night before, his first night in town. I was glad I was ending my trip here and not starting it. This poor fuck was here for 16 days.
I drank for another while just taking it all in before I decided I was ready to hit another one. There was one who had been sitting in the corner of the bar with some 60 year old dude forever and I couldn't quite catch her eye but she looked hot in the shadows. A bit later I caught her near the entry to the bar and said hello. This one spoke almost zero English so I cut to the chase.
"60 dollars" I say, figuring that if she'd just had to tolerate some retired fertilizer distributor pounding one out on her in a cloud of Aqua Velva she'd be happy to take a low offer just to have someone without wrinkles on their back. I was right and she didn't even bother to haggle.
I made quick work of it and while she was hot with a nice set of fake tits, she wasn't quite so amused with me taking her picture as you can probably see in her face.
Now I am getting pretty liqoured up on the Pilsens and my shit-eating smile is hurting my face. I wander some more, running into girls I have turned down repeatedly with one lame excuse or another.
"Why you won't take me to your room?" they bust my balls, playfully.
"You don't understand - I've alreay had three tonite - I couldn't possibly."
Or could I?
There was another that I kept seeing, very young and always with the same group of girls that looked more like 21 year old girls on their first trip to Vegas than trench-warfare whores in a depressed economy.
This one I like especially cuz she had a lot of midriff showing, enough so that I could tell she hadn't had any young come out of her or, if so, then very small or stillborn. The other ones, while cute all had a bit of the mother gut and, with the exception of the one with the implants, tits that had one too many meal taken out of em.
I tell her 60 dollars, she tells me 80. Who's got time in life to fight over 20 dollars. She's signing in and I ask to make sure she has rubbers and she doesn't so the door flunkie tells me he has them for sale for 1,000 colones, about three bucks. I realize then that all my money is up in my safe and the girl puts up the money and smiles a cute, sideways smile.
She was very sweet, Colombian like the last one had been and seemed like she would have curled up and spent the night if she didn't have to go suck anybody's dick that asked her. Tough racket for a tender young girl, that whoring. Especially now after me dumping two loads and drinking half a cooler full of beer. I was pounding away like I was safety-checking her pelvic bone for structural damage and I could tell at some points by her face that it was getting a bit wearing on her pinker parts. I eeked out the last of the moisture in my body with an imaginary high-pitched cartoon ping and lay down exhausted.
At this point any American whore is half-dressed and checking to see if there's any way she can snag your wallet while you're fumbling for your jockey-boxers. Not these girls. She gets lotion out of the bathroom, rolls me on my stomach and gives me a massage, trying to make small talk with what little English she knows.
I forget to have her hold my CD's when I take her picture and it's the last of the film. Appropriate enough as I am about all out myself. I walk her to the door and she's embarrased when she asks me for the 1,000 colones for the rubber. I give her 2,000 because I have that kinda scratch.
I got 4 hours to sleep before my flight. I spent around 300 dollars and I feel like the red-dicked King of the World
A week later I'm at the airport in Salt Lake City airport waiting Renee to step off the plane, guts full of squirm. She says she's ready to go full time.We drove that Sunday down to Vegas for the Superbowl at Tommy Rocker's. My Patriots, a 14 point dog win in possibly the best Superbowl ever played. We stay a couple days after on a bit of a runner as one tends to do in Vegas. At some point in the haze she suggests, only half-jokingly that maybe we should get a hooker so she could watch me fuck her. We went to a tittie bar instead and while I watched her off in a couch getting lap dances, I quietly slipped my hand under my shirt and probed my torso for any signs of cancer.