That's how far I drove this weekend. My record for a weekend is 1517, when we went to Nags Head the first time.

This entry is going to be a checklist, basically. Hit the Back button now, please.

I picked up Lindsey at Liberty University on Thursday afternoon and we headed for Yorktown. We were on the go throughout our stay, with little downtime, but it was great. On Friday, we picked out new glasses for Lindsey and met with Pastor John. I also had to wait in a very pink, flowery room for about an hour. I had to do the same thing a year ago, but I guess the initial trauma never fully faded. I flipped through the same TIME magazine forty-two times.

Bud drove us to President's Park Saturday morning. It was great for a group of nerds like us (and hey, I can get culture credit for it at Pfeiffer). We were also able to visit with Marni (Lindsey's older cousin), her 9-month-old son Alex, Uncle Wally (Lindsey's grandmother's older brother) and Aunt "Chicken," and, of course, Gammy. Saturday night was spent making and decorating brownies for Stevie's birthday bash to be held the next day (which we wouldn't be able to attend). We crashed at Gammy's Saturday night after taking her back home.

I also bought some swimming trunks for our honeymoon. Forty-six days.

I'll try my best not to address this issue again, I swear.

Recently, I wrote about Kellie Pickler, American Idol, and Albemarle. I want to make a few things clear, then move on from this.

Quick run-down: I didn't do this because I like or watch American Idol. I don't hate Kellie Pickler. I'm not jealous. I'm not unpatriotic. I don't dice Beagle puppies and add the small pieces to shish kebabs.

Now, this turned into an event to discuss American Idol. Many took what I wrote and started lengthy bits about the dynamics of the show and its characters. I never meant for it to go this way, but I should have expected it. I don't care about American Idol, except for the fact (which I've repeated ad nauseam) that it's not a talent contest, which those involved claim. That's not even that big of a deal alone; but when you combine this with millions of people, dollars, and lies, it turns into manipulation. I felt this way before; you can read the things I said several years ago. I never saw it firsthand, though, until it affected Albemarle so directly. The American Idol film crew was here on Friday, which I gladly avoided by traveling to see family in Virginia for the weekend. Anyway, I simply wish for honesty and a little less of that "mob mentality," as one of the commenters put it. I hate to see people taken advantage of, especially when it's their own fault. (And yeah, it also has to do with my selective hate of popular culture and how people involve themselves with it. Some things just never die.)

I don't hate Kellie Pickler. I don't know all the facts, but what I do know leads me to skepticism. I've finally forced myself to indifference. There's nothing to do really, but write my thoughts here. This isn't worth a protest. If she goes beyond Poland, I'll make a declaration of some sort.

Lindsey and I are registered at Wal-Mart and Target. What else do you need, right? (Well, maybe Cracker Barrel gift cards.) I can view these online, and I check about once a week out of curiosity. It's exciting to see things "Fulfilled." Not because I want things, but because it shows that there actually are people out there who care about me (this is a delusion—they care about Lindsey).

My big question is, why hasn't anyone bought me that black 60GB iPod yet? Who needs forks and plates?

President Bush was in Charlotte today, promptly screwing up.

From the sound of things, Bill Nye gave a great presentation at a community college in Texas.

I'm a pretty smart guy, I'm told. Still, I have certain things I'm very bad at—things that even monkeys and four-year-olds can do. For instance, I can't order a sandwich at Subway. I don't go unless Lindsey is with me because if I tried, I would end up with a soggy bread blanket stuffed with five kinds of meat.

I also have trouble speaking when I'm excited or nervous. My mind shuffles and my mouth turns limp and lazy. Once, I was asked the question, "How do you feel about winning twenty million dollars and your own island?" Six minutes later I finally said "Good," after Lindsey broke three of my toes and pulled my nose ring out.

I also get the giggles pretty easily, probably because I frequently pretended to be a baseball bat when I was a child. I also laugh at inappropriate times. My friends dog died. I laughed. Lindsey has an infection on her butt. I laugh. I can't help it; things are funny. When I was a teenager I somehow got my butt stuck in a wall. It was funny for days.

Butt.

I love the experience of driving. I may go into other facets of this sport later, but for the moment I'm speaking very specifically of the people watching aspect. Today for example I saw a young man, probably seventeen years old and 118 pounds, wearing his "trucker hat" resting on his head, cocked as is fashionable dictates the fad. Suddenly, as if a gift from the thump of the hand of God Almighty, the hat went flying, and I laughed heartily.

A few days ago I was waiting at a light when a minivan stopped beside me. There sat a woman of around forty-five, dolled up with bright red hair to match her well-baked skin. With a cigarette flapping along, she continued her self-absorbed rendition of "God Bless the American Housewife." I don't think they were singing about you.

Lastly and certainly best, a few months ago I was driving to Virginia, which is always fun. As I was stopped at an intersection, a group of boys pulled up behind me, barely stopping in time to avoid smashing both of us. "They better turn down their rap music and adopt some sense, in addition to appropriate culture" was my basic reaction at the time. The four skinny white boys blasted ahead of me in the other lane as the light blinked to green. With premonition serving pristinely, the boys went off the road.

By the way, everyone, use your turn signals always. You're not the only ones on the road.

Here is a lesson in creative writing.
First rule: Do not use semicolons. They are transvestite hermaphrodites representing absolutely nothing. All they do is show you've been to college.

Well, son of a whore! I didn't know they were such bastards; I'll try not to use them as much, now. Oh, wait; I don't write creatively; so I; don;t need to worry about; it; Hahaha;aha;;

In four weeks I'll be a married man (that sounded terrible). This brings about all sorts of feelings, ranging from love to anger. On the love side, I have a reasonably nice girl whom I'm marrying, and who's bringing a great group of people into my life along with her. I'm also going to be out on my own, finally. As far as anger is involved, I guess the confines of tradition sort of piss me off when I think about them. I'm one for independence of thought and expression, so getting all dressed up and running through an acceptable routine is not my thing. I've coped with this by making the wedding how we want, and not worrying about how old people are going to react if something isn't the way it's "supposed to be." This is my wedding—if you don't like Judas Priest or despise tri-cornered hats, then just don't come.

Most emotions are found on the positive side of the spectrum, so everything is going to be just peachy. Both Lindsey and I admit, however, that the night of May 20, 2006, when we drive away from the church, will be one of the very best times of our lives. The stress will burst out of us, allowing us to deflate back to our plain ol' selves.

The funny thing is that I don't feel any different. I see this is a good thing, I reckon. I think it means that I've established who I am and accepted my place in life and who I want to be. Lindsey is a part of me now, and has been for a long time, so marriage is just the official human stamp. Our love was consented a long while back by a power greater than tradition, buildings, or people can match. I should write greeting cards or something.

Perhaps the strongest emotion right now is excitement. I'm ready, I'm moving forward, it's time. My life needed this change, and God knows it's time. I'm satisfied with my life. I've found a peace about things, and I'm ready to do whatever it is that I need to do with my life. In time I'll find out more specifically what that is. This marriage is one step in my life—a big step, of course—but one of many. It doesn't define me. I won't let anything define me accept myself and God. I've been blessed with a person to share everything. Some never have that, or think they do but discover otherwise. I love you, Lindsey.

On a lighter note, I need money. Send cash.

Over the past months I've hoarded enough codeine and Xanax to last a solid week, or our entire honeymoon. Thank God for friends in high places.

Sidewalks Can Make a Town a Neighborhood. I read this article in the latest Newsweek, and liked it enough to find it online and share.