Man, I have a lot of shit

Loading your possessions into french-fry boxes bound for the back of a UHaul has a funny way of making you question this whole capitalism thing. I love my things, of course, but I'll be a lot happier with they're all neatly stacked in my new Florida apartment. Or condo. Or house.

Speaking of Florida, that's where Sarah and Adam are going on their honeymoon. It was a lovely wedding with two lovely folks set in an Independence barn with stringy lights. A beautiful bride, a dancing toddler, a sort-of drunk Cutty and unadvertised open bar made for a great evening.

My take-home moment: It's just after the ceremony, when guests were filing into the adjacent barn for drinks, and the fire alarm goes off. Chef comes out with a dumb look on his face, staff are scrambling and Sunday-best-clad children have their fingers firmly pressed against their eardrums. A minute or two into the madness, I look over to the crowd and notice the groom, Mr. Adam (it's not hard, he's tall) calmly sipping a beer, having a chat and looking like the piercing wailing of the siren was music to his ears.

Great guy. And he's got a great lady. They're going to have average-sized children.

Take-home moments, honorable mention: Sarah dancing to "Footloose," meeting a truly savage Christian rock star and watching James Brown WORK HIS MAGIC.

OK. Enough blogging. Back to heavy lifting.