Look, up in the sky. It’s a bird, it’s a plane”

By the time you read this, you will have already moved on from the Saga of Falcon Heene. Do you even remember him? You probably Tweeted your hearts out when you saw it on the news; posted numerous links about him on your Facebook. Now he’s just a fading memory. What did he do again? How could you be expected to remember back that far? Those feeds refresh so quickly.
Heene was the 6-year-old boy who reportedly gave his parents quite a fright. He and his brother were playing outside their folks’ Colorado home when Heene hopped into a homemade helium balloon. Shortly thereafter, the balloon mysteriously broke its tether and apparently sent Heene on a two-hour ride before the balloon crashed to the ground. However, when local authorities came upon the disheveled aircraft, the young boy was nowhere to be found.

What a bizarre and seemingly tragic story. You probably had to be the first in your group of friends to post something about it. If you didn’t get the word out there, who would? Sure, thousands of kids go missing every day—tragedies all—but how many of them float off into thin air on a balloon? That’s like some Henry Gale, Wizard of Oz kind of shit.

I don’t blame you. We have all these tools with which we can communicate an obscene amount of information. Unfortunately, those tools haven’t necessarily created more information. It’s just a higher volume of the same shit. Another blip on the radar this past week was the passing of wrestling icon Captain Lou Albano. It has been well documented that 2009 has seen a deluge of celebrity deaths—well documented because we all can’t stop Tweeting about it. I grew up watching the then-WWF and the myriad other wrestling leagues that abound through the ’80s. He was a figure I was familiar with. I suppose I never would’ve known that he had died if it weren’t for my Facebook friends, but honestly, seeing the news of his death was the first time I thought of Captain Lou since puberty. And it’s not like he’s been in the public eye all these years. Still, my feeds on Tumblr, Twitter and Facebook were rife with R.I.P.s for the dearly departed.

Not from me, though. I’m not sure if that makes me a bad person or not. It’s not that I’m incapable of sympathy. I think my ability to relate to—and feel guilty for—the suffering of others (thanks to my catholic upbringing) is one of my most noble personal traits. But it’s just tiring, having to comment on everything that happens.

Forgive me if, when the story broke, I didn’t care about balloon boy either. I won’t lie and say it was because I had more pressing concerns on my mind: world hunger, war, the economy. I’m usually preoccupied with whether or not that carne asada burrito I ate this afternoon, coupled with the beers I’m drinking now will make my bulbous profile look even more Rubenesque. Also, I worry that if I were to comment about either of these incidents, my lateness to the party will only fetch comments, “Like, OMG, you’re still talking about that? That was forever ago.” You’re probably thinking that right now, if you’re reading this. (On a side note, did you know that when preparing—and I use the term loosely—to write this column, typing just “ball” on my Google search bar yielded “balloon boy” as the number one result? Like, even higher than “balls.” That’s crazy.)

As it turned out, “balloon boy” wasn’t in the balloon at all. In fact, the whole thing was a hoax. He was actually hiding at the behest of his publicity-hungry father in a cardboard box in his parent’s attic. The good news is, Heene’s alive and well, so I guess I won’t see any “R.I.P. Falcon”s traipse across my various feeds, at least not for a good long while.

Weddings are great for many reasons: 1) people are in good spirits; 2) there are lots of single woman who want to be loved for one day only; 3) the booze flows freely; and 4) you get to watch old people dance to ’80s rap music (I always request Young MC’s “Bust A Move”). However, the main reason why I like weddings is because someone invariably gets too drunk and does something that you can laugh at for the rest of your life.

This is a story of indiscretion and exhibitionism. My cousin was getting married in Colorado. My whole family flew out to make the event. This was probably the first time my family was together where we were all above the legal drinking age (I think it’s 12 in Colorado). The wedding took place in the beautiful town of Longmont (yeah, I don’t know either) at some sort of Moose Lodge or Veterans Hall.

This being Colorado, only Coors and Coors Light were on tap (taste the Rockies!). These delicious options were accompanied by mini bottles of Sutterville wine”¦ mmm shitty. Being that my brother and I are alcohol snobs, we decided that instead of drinking beer flavored water, we would go get something good. This was a bit of a problem for the people staffing the event and, upon returning, we were told that outside drinks were not allowed. Undeterred, we decided to sneak them in inside our suit pockets.

We clanged our way and found a suitable hiding place. The plan was to take them into the bathroom and dump them into red cups. This was a great idea since beer weakens the bladder anyway. It was really a kill-two-birds-with-one-stone situation. As the day progressed, so did my BAC. Soon enough, I was dancing with my tie around my forehead to Billy Idol’s “White Wedding” (again my request”¦ I keep it real!). My brother was dancing with a blonde MILF who had earlier been dancing with another gentleman with a porn star mustache. She kept showing us her “Oh” face, and was immediately labeled “Freaky-Deaky” by my brother and I.

After the song ended, Freaky-Deaky went over to the bar to refill her liquid courage. She quickly found her porn star dance partner. She approached him from behind and put her arms around him. From my vantage point at our table, I could see them both well. It was so sweet and innocent”¦ two lovers in a quiet embrace. Then it happened”¦

Freaky-Deaky must have felt that this was as good a place as any to reach into the man’s pants and do the damn thing! I mean, why not, right? The handful of 8-year-old children in the room would learn this stuff from the Teletubbies, Bratz or some hidden picture on the cover of a Disney movie anyway (Little Mermaid, anyone?). At this point I was figuratively and literally on the floor, laughing my ass off and walking in circles on my side.

While my eyes were blurry with tears, the lovely couple managed to sneak away. I regained my composure and realized that it was time for a refill. I entered the stall and did my best fake cough to cover the opening of my contraband. I must have startled someone in the stall next to me because I heard a scuffle. I looked under the stall and realized there were an extra set of hooves in there, and two were in heels. At my level of intoxication, I felt it necessary to take a peek. So, I stood on the toilet to look over the wall and witness the bumping of uglies. I saw them in all their glory and subsequently laughed so hard that I fell off the toilet. They hadn’t seen me, so I ran out of the bathroom to tell my family. When they came out, all of us in the know had another laugh. It was one of those moments that really brought the family together.

Later while talking to my cousin, the woman approached and thanked her for inviting her. She said that she had a great time. I literally had to bite my lip to keep from bursting at the seams. As I held back my laughter, my cousin introduced us by saying, “Have you met my boss?” Classy. So, next time you are invited to a wedding, make sure you go and don’t forget to bring a camera (and maybe some condoms).