Amazing, but Yes, I am still Alive

So, OK, it's been far too long since I last wrote. That is true. I had an excuse, I suppose, or a series of excuses: I had a bunch of weddings to shoot, city work got extremely (oi) busy, and my own personal wedding planning, happening and aftermath bore down on me like a juiced Giants outfielder (yes, Barry, I'm talking about YOU).

But this is, well, lame. Mostly I think I just had a long bit of malaise. I don't know if the life of a professional writer is again in my future. Actually, dear reader(s), you'll have to suffer though a bit of unedited type, as the my writing engine has become a touch rusty, and some of my phraseology might be a bit weird, stilted or just plain hard to follow.

I've come off my honeymoon. Donna and I spent 10 days in Aruba and Puerto Rico. It was a sublime experience, filled with joy, sex, warm nights and a hell of a lot of rum. I have the deepest tan I can remember since high school (I appear off-white now), and I have several megabytes of photographs of water so blue they look doctored.

But, in the ying and yang of life, there where some issues as well. As perhaps due to my outlook on life, journalistic training, or simply because drama and pain are more easier to write about, this section will be a bit longer. But, again, misquoting Dostoevsky, "all happy moments resemble each other, unhappy moments are there own pain."

Anyhow, the honeymoon started at 4 a.m. on August 7. My mind was restless, and I was unable to sleep. The wedding celebration, less than 36 hours prior, still rang through my mind. I was overwhelmed, tired, maybe a bit drunk (though it's funny how little you can drink at your own wedding). And then I shot awake: our plane leaves today, the Super Shuttle will be arriving at our Burbank abode in an hour! Shit!

Donna and I were well aware that the honeymoon started on Aug. 7, but for some reason both of us thought that it Aug. 7 was a Wednesday. No. Tuesday. Despite the rude awaking, Donna proved herself in rare form and the both of us got packed and ready (including a mad dash to deposit our gift checks) in a bit under an hour. Nice.

We had a connecting flight through Miami, and only 50 minutes to make the transfer... This would have been fine, as we arrived in South Florida right on time, only to sit in on the tarmac for 40 minutes. We jumped off the plane, pleaded with the American Airlines ticket agent to call our connecting flight (they promised they would, but said it would not likely do much good) and proceeded to run.

Now, perhaps many of you know how big the Miami airport is. Perhaps some do not. But rest assured, that fucker is HUGE. Our flight arrived in the B Terminal, our connecting flight was in the D Terminal... more than a mile apart. Donna, who was still recovering from bronchitis, wheezed her way through the gates.

"Go on without me," she said, coughing.

"No one gets left behind! No one!" I shouted, giggling.

We made it with plenty of time to spare, as it turns out... The flight to Aruba sat on the tarmac at its gate for another 20 minutes. Oi. Seems the good people at American could have let us know that, seeing as it was their damn fault we came in 40 minutes late. It seems that airline travel gets more and more difficult as the years progress. Maybe I'm getting crankier.

Anyhow, we got to Aruba in fine shape. Well, I did, anyhow. Poor Donna pretty much coughed her way through the first few days: we spent more on medicine and doctor bills than drinks that first few days. Still, since the whole plan was to drink, sit on the beach and lie in bed, things hardly seemed marred.

And that way they remained. The light, weather and people of that ridiculously small island keep one smiling, that's for sure. Aruba has a few casinos in town, and Donna and I walked away with more than $300 one night and $150 on another trip. Turns out this windfall was fortunate, as on Sunday I lost my wedding band while snorkeling. Fuck.

Seawater tends to make fingers shrink. Oops. My ring slipped right off as I jumped into the sea, dropping down probably 15 feet to the ocean floor. Though the crew on board helped, the ring had been lost.

About this time, I came down with a cold, presumably from the dying strains of Donna's bronchitis. This cold would remain with me for the remainder of the honeymoon, and it would be returned to Donna, who, at this moment, rests uncomfortably in bed.

Still, the cold did not mar things too much. I have no idea what Puerto Rico smells like, nor much of what the food I ate tasted like. But the food felt good, and the drinks still made me loopy. How much more, I suppose, could one want?

My broken hand is still in a brace, I'm out of Vicodin and I'm at yet another professional crossroad. I'm not in the best mood, I'll admit, and bitching about the bad luck on my honeymoon seems to help. How did I break my hand, you ask? I punched a wall in frustration a week before my wedding. This did not exactly endear me to Donna, and was quite embarrassing for me, especially in front of so many relatives that I had never seen before... But then again, I may never see many of them again.

Anyhow, this posting is getting too long, so I'm going to sign off now. Write back.

Love,
Dan