A sullen, overcast sky greets me this morning from the West. I'm actually relieved by this as I've come down with a hellish Cold, and am planning on spending the entire day right here in the big, comfy chair, with a speckled gotard curled up between my feet. It's a good day to cuddle up and write. To be introspective while feeling all poopy.

I started feeling kind of yucky Friday night, but we had big plans for Saturday and there was no way I could bail just for having some snot running freely.

The Estes Park Scottish/Irish Highlands Fest is this weekend and me, the Girl and the Girl's brother, Shithead never miss it. It's fantastic, we get to cruise around in our kilts, quaffing mass amounts of Guinness and Caffrey's, mingling with other kilt-clad drunkards, and paying obscene prices for simple items like socks and pins. It's a bit spendy to get in too, but the events make your time well worth it.

The Gargantuans that are running around in kilts and black, hooded sweatshirts, with their names on the back, are there for the Athletics. They'll be on ESPN2 in a month or so, in the Caber-Toss or the Hammer Throw. The best part of the Athletics is that the person that finishes second in all of the throwing events is almost always this Norse-Goddess-looking blonde chick that's bigger than Arnold and quite pretty.

I could spend all day watching the Pipe and Drum Bands wend their way around the fairgrounds and up the fields. The stoic pride and majesty, that these musicians carry themselves with, is truly something to behold.

Clan Row is great because it's filled with the booths of almost every major clan you can think of, and has whiskey tastings going on at either end. The tartan (color pattern of the kilt) of each clan is proudly displayed above each clan's booth. I actually made my kilt on my sewing machine out of the only wool that Denver Fabric had on sale (Wallace tartan, not my actual clan). This is why I always try to avoid walking to near the Wallace booth, as they all start shouting at me to come over when they see me, and I'm sure they'd all take turns head-butting me to the ground if they found out I'm not really a Wallace.

We wander around watching the Highland dancers doing their thing and, though it may be a little too much like "RiverDance," they are a blast to watch in their traditional dress and music. Plus the chicks have great legs and frequently kick them way up high, giving one a nice peek (HEY, I get enough females peeking up MY kilt on any given night, it's only fair).

Then, we wander drunkenly over to the Jousting. Oh man, is this shit something cool. It's set up just like an authentic competition from the Middle Ages, and those crazy fuckers actually barrel down that line and bash the shit out of each other. The combat is great too, when they fight with swords and maces and axes and shit. I can't even imagine running around wearing 75-100 lbs of armor much less swinging an actual 25 lb sword at some dude trying to hit me at the same time. It's awesome.

I'll stop sounding like a frickin' commercial from the Estes Park Chamber of Commerce now, and tell you that we ended up not going.

---

A very good friend, former co-worker and former roommate of the Girl's was getting married yesterday, and we were figuring that we would try and work both Highland Fest and the wedding in on the same day.

We found out that the wedding was literally down the road from HF. Yay.

Then, we found out that the ceremony was at 2 and you had to take a shuttle up to the chapel starting at 12:30. Boo.

Then, we figured that the reception is at 5 and we wouldn't necessarily have to go to the ceremony and could spend most of the day at HF. Yay.

Then, I got sick and the Girl told me that she wouldn't want her friend skipping our ceremony for some silly annual event. Boo.

It worked out rather well though, as I got a chance at some decent rest and we didn't have to drop $15 a piece for a measly 2 hours each at HF.

The wedding was amazing.

I realize I'm a romantic and I like all that kind of shit (well, the CAKE anyway. And the free beer.), but this one was just about friggin' perfect.

For starter's, it's in this picturesque valley, overlooking the Continental Divide.

That's pretty much the view from the huge picture windows of the chapel (below) where the ceremony was held.

This is the view of the chapel from the reception hall.

The chapel is frickin' tiny and, when me and the Girl there, we filled the last two seats up in the 6 x 10 ft loft. Coincidentally enough, we were the last two people to depart from the shuttles too. We'll be late to our own wedding probably.

The Groom showed some surprise at seeing us saying that we didn't need to be there and that we could've just come to the reception. The Girl figured that maybe we got our invitations screwed up and weren't supposed to actually BE at the wedding since the chapel was so crowded, but I found out that the Groom knew that we wanted to go to Highlands Fest and felt kind of touched that we would miss it just for his nuptials.

The ceremony was beautiful, and not just because the Bride is a total hottie-boom-bottie, but because the two of them really are in love and, for only the second time in about 7 weddings, I was firmly in support of the couple's decision. Plus, they had a kilt-clad Highlander, perched up on the rocky hillside above the chapel, playing the bagpipes before, during and after the ceremony. It was pretty cool just seeing another dude in a skirt, other than myself, let alone one playing the 'pipes.

The Groom has always been an honorable Patriot his whole life and decided not long after the events of 3 years ago to enlist and serve his country. I suppose few other things could explain why he chose to have his wedding on that particular date, but it was tastefully done and I was extremely touched at his dedication.

The Bride and Groom had just come down from their extended picture session at the chapel, riding in a Budweiser-style carriage, to greet those of us that were eagerly waiting dinner and drinking the free beer that was more than plentiful.

I helped Highlander boy with his guitar and bagpipes and he played soft guitar and sang in the background while the Bride and Groom made a few toasts, thanked some folks, and told us when and where we were to be fed. Then the Groom solemnly asked us to bow our heads for a moment of silence in memory of those of our countrymen that had given the ultimate sacrifice so that we may live the way we do.

I spent a considerable amount of my formative years purposely NOT taking part in any pre-meal prayers, purposely NOT bowing my head in memory of some dude's birthday that means we ALL exchange presents and sing carols, and purposely thought of something else during any of the "moments of silence" that I was asked to give. I was a bit rebellious and somewhat of an asshole about the whole religion thing.

I've grown up a bit since then, and now I muster every amount of respect and reverence I can when someone asks me to show my respect for something that they hold worthy. Especially if it's something that I've learned to hold worthy, as those things have been few and far between in my life.

When I thought about the lives that have been given and the times that those I love have gone through, whether it be war or terror, I heard the Highlander start to blow softly on his bagpipes as "Amazing Grace" started to fill the air around us.

It flowed around us on the winds that rustled the Aspens, whose leaves are just starting to turn. It came from the smoke from the giant campfire, wafting slowly through the crowd, stinging several eyes. It came through all of our hearts, so subtly that we may not have noticed that we were all feeling the same thing, every one of us.

Until a gentle thump, thump, thump started.

The Highlander was beating out the time of the music, but not in the toe-tapping-keeping-time way.

He was marching in place.

He was a formation of one, but no band in the world could have looked more gallant or earnest than he, as he united the crowd with each "thump" of his feet, representing the beating of our collective heart.

Our sadness, our somber thoughts and feelings, faded with him and his music, as his solo procession marched off the meager stage, through the silent crowd, up the rocky path, and out of sight.

"Amazing Grace" didn't end, it just faded away.

It was time to celebrate.

---

Of course, the copious amounts of Guinness, the whiskey, the Carrot Wedding Cake (moan-out-loud good), and the staying up late did nothing but make my cold worse and worse.

I sat growing more and more miserable while the snot ran down my face, the Girl kept leaking out of her eyes every time she saw the Father of the Bride after she witnessed the Father and Daughter dance (during which the terrible leaking started) and our good friend, TallKid, drank with me and bemoaned his single status.

Despite the Girl's melancholy, romantic or nostalgic tears (we had all 3, I can assure you), despite the TallKid's misfortune in love and despite the fact that I felt like someone had smacked the back of my head with a frozen baseball bat before spraying Tobasco up my nose, we had a wonderful time.

The Groom must've mistaken my cold-induced, pre-sneeze, tearing-up-of-the-eyes as a sign of emotion, because he and the Bride got a bit weepy as we were leaving. It really meant a lot to them that we were there.

He was wrong though, I don't cry at weddings.

I'm a big, tough, kilt-wearing, Guinness-swilling, hockey-playing motherfucker.

I love weddings.

Especially the cake.

And the beer.

And the cake (did I mention it was Carrot Cake?).

Okay, I cried a little bit. But I'm still tough and all that.