The inimitable Continental, in his “Random Tie Guy” costume

Between my niece being born this month, and being a groomsman in a wedding, not to mention finishing up work on a giant video project for a college basketball team, the time to properly shop for a Halloween costume just didn’t exist. So last Wednesday I went out looking for scraps, hoping to scrounge together something. I was prepared to spend whatever it took.

The plan was so awesome on paper. Drive around listening to the World Series on XM, with periodic stops at Goodwill’s and other places where costume pieces can be obtained. When the Series game ended up in a rain delay, leaving me to listen first to Rob Freakin’ Dibble on XM Rain Delay coverage, and later the only CD in my car — the OK Go disc — that should have been a clue as to how the night was going to go.

Two days before parties, it turns out most places are picked over. Everywhere I went had nothing of substance, nothing awesome, nothing I’d pay money for. When 8:30 came and the first six stops on my Big Shopping Trip left me emptyhanded, I was resigned to go to the one place I wanted to avoid at all costs: Nobbies.

The superstore of party supplies and costumes. The home of long lines and unhappy clerks. The place to buy the mass-market costume that no less than four people at whatever party you attend will also be wearing. Yeah, I hate that place.

This story would seem absurd if it wasn’t true. I know that’s not a good way to start a story, but bear with me.

Tuesday night, we were out winding up the regular season portion of our sand volleyball league (playoffs are next week), and for the third consecutive week, it was cold as all heck. Sand volleyball in the cold is bad for many reasons, including but not limited to: the sand is cold and damp, the volleyball gets harder the colder it gets, and everyone is bundled up. And when I say “everyone”, I mean “ladies”. Except for me, because I can’t play in shoes — and sweatpants restrict my movement too much. I just can’t be effective in that crap. So I go in shorts and a t-shirt, barefoot, regardless of temperature.

Two weeks ago, it was cold, but the rain was the bigger culprit of uncomfortability. Last week was just cold. This week, it was cold AND rainy, and I made a fatal decision to go against every competitive instinct I’ve ever known and wore sweatpants AND shoes. Couldn’t jump, couldn’t run, and the rest of the team wasn’t good enough to make up for my sucking. We lost 15-6. To a team with only 4 players, two of which were drunk!

Out at the Millard Social Hall, the wedding party arrived just before 5 so we could eat before the guests arrived. It was dead quiet, so Continental filled up the noise vacuum with his special-made ringtone for the weekend, a song which had become the unofficial theme of the day: Yeah! by, who else, Usher.

I wasn’t hungry, having just eaten 90 minutes prior, but tried to choke something down so I wouldn’t look ungrateful or rude. I returned to the table and discovered, to my horror, that at the end of the table where I was sitting was boring. Two little kids, me, then the rest of the group. I looked longingly at the Usher table, which had empty chairs. Soon, I moved over there. Sitting at the head table ain’t all its cracked up to be, folks.

Continental, Dick, the other two ushers, and me. It didn’t take long before more and more people began joining us, particularly as the invited guests started arriving. Laughter is not only contagious, it attracts crowds.

Continental, Dick and myself knew with the 10 am wedding time, we would need breakfast beforehand. So in our tuxes, we went to Leo’s Diner, a fine, albeit greasy, establishment on 60th and Maple. Walking into a greasy-spoon diner in tuxedos, and not getting a second look? Priceless. As I devoured a Benson Sandwich (Bacon, Sausage, Eggs, Hashbrowns, Cheese on Bread), I tried really, really hard not to drip grease on my $138 tux. Mission Accomplished.

With breakfast consumed, we paid the $12 or whatever it was for our bill, and headed to the church. Unlike the day before, I was not underdressed — I was dressed exactly the same as everyone else. For once.

Standing in the sacristy, the groom, Cliff, was pretty nervous. He was less than an hour away from being married, after all, so that’s totally understandable. I attempted to help the situation.

“You know what you should do. When the Priest asks, ‘Do you take this woman as your lovely wife?’, you answer, ‘Huhhhhhhwhaaatt!’ Then he’ll repeat it, and you can repeat it too. ‘Huhhhhwhaaat!’ The third time, answer, ‘OK! Yeah!’ That’ll be hilarious!”

“Seriously, why is there an inflatable couch on their wedding registry?” Anytime that sentence is sent via IM in the midst of discussing an upcoming wedding, you know its going to be a good time. And anytime that wedding involves a buddy of mine, and I’m in the wedding party, you know I’m going to tell you all about it. Lets go Cobrastyle Two-Parter on this!

Friday, I picked up Continental at his house just after 3 to head over to Creighton for the Wedding Rehearsal. I was wearing a coat and tie, and Continental was unsure whether it made me look ridiculous or him look underdressed. Probably somewhere in-between, honestly. The itinerary from the couple had said, “Rehearsal Dinner — Attire: Dressy”, and we’d debated for weeks what that meant. To me, dressy means coat and tie, at a minimum. To others, it meant nice shirt and dress pants. To Dick, it meant he had to wear pants, period, and that was upsetting to him.

I’d claimed all along I was going to be ornery and wear the coat and tie, and dammit, I did. You bet.