Love Boat: An SPF 100-Soaked Dispatch From America's Nether Region

Upon hearing news that Brother Andrew was to wed the lovely Sommer on a boat in Tampa (in July no less), I promptly moved Multiplicity to the top of my Netflix queue in hopes of researching and, ultimately, genetically engineering a clone that might attend the ceremony in my stead. However, a complete lack of scientific acumen and an $11 budget meant that, two weeks later, all I had to show for my efforts was a sore wrist and a foil-lined shoebox full of my DNA rotating slowly in the microwave.

That is not to say that I wasn't looking forward to seeing my little brother tie the knot with his better half; on the contrary, I was merely hoping that such a blessed event would in no way be tarnished by my abhorrence of all things Sunshine State.

And as I have no doubt imparted to you, Dear Reader, countless times in countless watering holes across this fine country, I speak from experience. In only four short [long] months of living in Miami, I came to know the region's noble peoples, its diverse wildlife, and of course its world-renowned culture. And, often in South Beach, all three.

Admittedly, in the summer the weather can get borderline uncomfortable.

So it was with some trepidation (and plenty of climate-specific clothing options) that I made my way across lo these many miles to Tampa International Airport last weekend. To the eternal credit of both my brother and my parents, the accommodations were not only tolerable, they were beyond reproach. The Fair Briana and I were afforded all the creature comforts associated with a typical beach vacation, in stark contrast to the creature comforts just outside most Florida hotel room windows.

Admittedly, said vacation bliss was largely due to the fact that I could catch up with the fam all whilst celebrating the burgeoning love of the happy couple. The ceremony and reception were held aboard some sort of party barge, and both were romantic and divine, and that was not only due to my proclivity for dinghy jokes. Maritime matrimony is truly the way to go, especially when there's an open bar and air conditioning and wonderful kinfolk, many of whom were positively delightful (and understanding of my refusal to dance in public... tall men shouldn't dance, ever, write that down).

Raise your hand if you know why Florida sucks.

So congratulations, kids... I love you both. But irrational hatred is much more fun to write about than love, so:

Ten Observations From The Weekend:

1. For all the shit I lay upon thee, Sunshine State, at least you aren't goddammed Texas. Whenever somebody utters the phrase "It could be worse..." they are inevitably referring to something terrifying that happened to them in Texas. My stopover en route to the wedding was in Dallas, and when I stepped out of the plane I was 85% sure that the grounds crew had screwed up and just angled the jetway back into the port-side engine's intake. Gale force winds with a payload of airborne magma greeted the passengers until we collapsed inside the concourse in search of a balm to sooth our newly-acquired 1st-degree burns. With three hours to kill, I passed some time asking a friendly local waitress about the creative ways she's thought of killing herself every time she wakes up and remembers she works at an airport in Dallas. If some guy had crept up behind me at the bar and shot me in the head, I am confident that I would have rented a car and driven across the nearest border before allowing myself to die.

2. Dear Austin, Texas: Sorry about all that. You get a pass. And of course whenever one Ms. Frazier sets foot in the state... but I think that goes without saying.

3. From Dallas to Tampa I thought I had miracled an empty seat next to me despite the plane being "super full" when I had asked for an exit row seat at the desk. Shortly before take-off, I saw a rather vivacious older woman coming down the aisle dressed in her most comfortable travel outfit, and who was to spend the entire 2-hour flight cleaning and otherwise-pampering her nails.

4. Mama Bear and I spent the first evening sipping adult beverages outside the Fox, which was all class, evidenced by their waitresses wearing tuxedo jackets and absolutely no pants. This made my getting rejected from entering the club for dress-code reasons harder to take ("Only collared shirts, and no sneakers allowed, sir." "I see. What about pants?"). As we imbibed and watched the local patrons coming and going, we soon realized that the dress-code was not exactly intended to attract only the most refined clientele.

5. Papa Bear and The Suze must have lost a bet with God, because they drove to Tampa. I've driven on Florida roads, and please believe that doing so puts both your life and those lives of millions of local insects at risk.

6. In what is widely regarded as my least well-thought-out idea (2nd place: buying all my jeans online), I decided a while back to dedicate myself to American Airlines in an attempt to some day actually use frequent flier mileage. I even have a credit card that earns miles with every purchase, but I must be doing something wrong because at the time of this writing I have enough saved up for a free flight provided it both takes off from and lands at the same gate. But I am dedicated, even though flying American means not walking past the age of 40 as my knee cartilage is systematically raped by whoever sits in front of me. Every flight is a battle of wills as some [without fail, huge] person gently reclines into my splintering shins and I unwillingly teabag the SkyMall. Over the course of the trip, I will attempt to bruise the kidneys of the affronting party through a series of subtle adjustments into/around his/her gastrointestinal tract, though this tends to provoke a series of retaliatory bounces that only fans the flame of my wrath (in the form of quiet whimpering). There are of course some techniques I've developed over the years in an attempt to save what's left of my patellas, though most of them would require expensive surgery or a wacky incident involving a cursed voodoo artifact that leaves me trapped inside the body of a much smaller person.

7. Congratulations, you are the only person who actually read this far.

8. An Open Letter to the Guy One Row Up and Across the Aisle From Me on the Flight From Tampa to Dallas: No fucking way are you reading that Hustler on this airplane. And oh look; it's still in the plastic, so, I guess that means that you're the guy buying porn in the airport. Please, do explain the thought process to me. Go ahead and click the COMMENT button down there and fill me in. Perhaps something unforeseen happened to you in the cab on the way over here and you thought, "Shoot... I can't believe I left all my porn at home, right when I need it the most." In a way I'm envious, I suppose; such complete disregard for how those around you (including the elderly woman sitting right fucking next to you, quivering) must be liberating. But what concerns me most is that, if you are batshit insane enough to read that Hustler on the plane, you might be batshit insane enough to "use" that Hustler on the plane.

9. Yet one has to admit: Hustler is a great name for a porn mag.

10. The second time around at the Dallas Airport was better (i.e. shorter) but I did witness a couple walking to their flight that warranted a double take. The guy, a younger Asian gentleman, was wearing the traditional garb one associates with the Far East. But his girlfriend, bedecked in traditional American garb save for a rice hat that I assume was the Family Size model, was just some white girl. Now, perhaps I'm jumping to conclusions, but I'm guessing she doesn't opt for that hat when she's going out for A&W cheeseburgers with her friends between sexting sessions. If I'm the dude in that situation, I have to believe I'm a little offended that she's using me as an excuse to don a bamboo flying saucer on her head. Of course, if the Fair Briana came home tonight and announced that she discovered Native American ancestry in her family tree, I'd probably use it.

BONUS. The last leg of my journey was spent sitting next to a very nice ex-Halliburton executive who actually had the guts to order a white russian on a plane and used the phrase "sphincter-clencher" twice.