It’s Saturday, and my friends are getting married in, like, six minutes, and my little ghetto car is sitting in traffic on the Schuylkill Expressway somewhere between Gladwyne and Conshohocken. It’s pouring rain, and there are police cars speeding up the shoulder, presumably headed to the scene of some gridlock-causing accident.
What to do, what to do. Put the radio in scan mode. Jay-Z. Frankly, I’m a little tired of that guy’s 99 problems. Evanescence. Note to self: use material from old journals to write lyrics, make killing. Hey, it’s that Suds in the Bucket song. NPR navel-gazing fare. Bon Jovi’s Livin’ on a Prayer. Flashback to a junior high dance where all the boys ignored me. Miss Misery–finally, something good, but the song is ending. Another note to self: look up Elliot Smith on iTunes after the wedding. No, wait. There will be alcohol at the reception; refrain from iTunes until tomorrow.
Ok, here’s a cassette. Dang. It’s the same mix tape that’s been in my car for the last five years. What to do, what to do. Pick up invitation and directions and try think of possible sneaky back road. The marriage of E and G on Sunday, August Twenty Second, Two Thousand and Four. Sunday, August Twenty Second.
So my friends are getting married in, like, twenty four hours and six minutes.