I actually swear in this one.

Last weekend definitely left its mark on me.

After getting off work early on Friday, I went home so I could look presentable for the public. The suit I bought for Chris' wedding was the best investment I've (grudgingly) ever made. Not only was it tailored to withstand at least another five years of sweeping fashion trends, I actually look rather dashing. Trust me, writing that last bit was harder than you think.

Whenever I'm wearing the suit I do feel like a different person, like I should be conducting Important Business or Shaking Hands or Listening Carefully.

The ceremony was outdoors, with two rows of seats facing a large tree. The makeshift aisle was sprinkled with red and white flower petals, which was really well done. I'll say this about keeping the ceremony short: if you plan on getting married in the future, do yourselves and your loved ones a favour and make sure everyone's not seated for more than fifteen minutes. Thank you.

The reception was very luxurious. A . . . four-course meal? I really don't remember. However, there was champagne with the dinner and an open bar that virtually poured a stream of wine down my parched gullet. In the drunken, hazy blur I could make out the richly decorated environs: the place was draped in thick, white apolostery, curtains and table decor, all under a massive tent under the stars. The entire scene was softly lit, lending the space a delicate texture. I had a chance to meet a fine couple who I've supposedly met years ago and, with much regret and confusion and acute chest pain, apparently forgotten over time. In short, they were charming and cured my hiccups. Later we ended up at one of the bridesmaid's condo . . . and, well, the evening kind of vanishes into an inky cloud at that point.

The groom is from France and has a passion for football. So, on Saturday I met the party for a match. The teams included people from England, France and one from Italy. I could feel the cigarettes, booze and rich food kicking and groaning as I chased after the ball in the afternoon sun. Yes, we lost. That tends to happen when you go up against Europeans who've been playing since they were four years old. I had such a great time playing though, that losing really didn't matter.

Later we saw the final fireworks show we have here in Vancouver. Please, don't ask me anything about the damn thing. I have no clue what this noise is all about. From what I can gather, thousands of drunken suburbanites overtake the streets to shout obsenities at the "fags" and watch lights in the sky. We attended a party at the top of a high-rise apartment overlooking the waterfront, where the boats launch the fireworks. The view was lovely, but the noise and the height made me anxious and exhausted, so I had to retreat to the ground floor to straighten out my nerves.

Later, as Lisa and I walked down Davie Street, in what Lisa called "a rushing stream of people," some jerks started screaming "what the fuck is that?" when a transgendered woman walked past them. We were so livid. I could only give the woman an uncomfortable look as we met eyes. She just continued walking, ignoring the insults.

Yes, I understand that identifying the "other" builds group solidarity. Yes, I know your view of gender is binary, and anyone transgressing that binary is an affront to your ideological standpoint. Yes, I realize that your idea of masculinity is strictly defined. You're still assholes.

Huh. Nice way to end a blog entry on attending someone's wedding. Oh well. Congratulations, Tala and Mathieu. I had a wonderful time.