Happy 0th Anniversary to Jessimas!

I realized yesterday evening that my friend Thomas's recent wedding has been nigh unmentioned on my blog. I don't fool myself into thinking that Thomas actually reads this blog, but on the odd chance that one of his clandestine operatives lurks intermittently and reads my posts, notices I've completely ignored Thomas's wedding, and reports back to Thomas himself, who then orders an airstrike on me while I roll down the boulevard in my new lowrider, I'd better give Thomas a shout out.

So, congrats on the wedding. I'd have been there if I could, honest. Some might call me cheap because I didn't fork over $1500 to fly from Amman to Portland for the ceremony. But I'd respond to those people by pulling their hair and biting them. It's how I express myself.

Some might call me disloyal because I was the only roommate not to arrive tuxedo'ed and pose for nostalgic photos where people say: "Oh, look at the boys. Remember when they were thinner, funnier, and said 'dude' a lot?" Well, to them I say "Dude, would a disloyal friend devote an entire blog post to his best friend's wedding?" I think that right there proves my loyalty.

I heard good things about the wedding from my mom, who attends social functions in the Portland area on my behalf. She said the bride was gorgeous, Thomas was ZZ Top's proverbial sharp dressed man, and the food was delectable. I feel like I was there. Congratulations to Thomas and Jessica (or, to use the Hollywood-esque name we've adopted to refer to the new happy couple, "Jessimas") and here's hoping for an eternity of bliss for them.

And now, some reminiscing on the good old days, as long as I'm on the subject of Thomas.

Thomas wrestled in high school. He was in a bad mood from November until March and tried to eat my backpack because he was so hungry from trying to "cut weight". I'm sure it taught him important life skills. Like how to drop 5 pounds in a single afternoon by jogging 8 miles dressed in three sweatsuits with a garbage bag draped over the top. Dang! Why didn't I wrestle?

Thomas drove a 1970 Honda Mini. Well, when it ran he drove it. Although it's cliche, the muffler was held up with a wire clothes hanger. The car battery was awful. At night, we could choose to either run the headlights or the radio. There wasn't enough juice to run both. We usually chose the radio. Unsurprisingly, neither the Mini nor my VW Bus won us many chicks. One afternoon, I persuaded some particularly burly football players to hoist Thomas's car into the hallway while everyone was in class. It was a joyful spectacle when classes let out and the student body discovered a Honda in the hallway. That's pretty much still the pinnacle of my life.

Thomas never made out with a girl in a car at Squaw Peak. Honest. Incidentally, one of my favorite things about receiving my higher education at BYU was how the noun "Squaw Peak" was turned into a verb, as in: "Oh my goodness! You Squaw Peak'ed her? But she's dating Brian!"

Once, Thomas and Mark let me tag along on a camping trip up near Sundance. I use the term "tag along" because I was married and had a child at the time, and everyone knows that when a married guy hangs out with single guys, it's only because the single guys had pity on the married guy.

As Thomas and Mark gathered their gear at their apartment before we left, Mark asked Thomas: "Thomas, got the matches?" "Nope," Thomas answered.

As we pulled into the Food4Less parking lot to pick up our hot dogs and Duraflame logs for dinner, Mark again asked Thomas: "Hey Thomas, did you bring the matches?" "Nope," Thomas answered.

We were shouldering our backpacks up the scenic mountain trails winding toward the majestic peaks when Mark repeated his query: "So, Thomas. Got the matches?" "Nope," Thomas answered.

After we'd pitched our tent on a slab of rock with an incredible panoramic view of the valley below and prepared our campfire, Mark asked in the rapidly failing daylight: "Thomas, how about getting out those matches?" "Don't got 'em," Thomas stated. "What?!!" Mark demanded, incredulous. "I told you four times. I don't got 'em." So we ate Poptarts for both dinner and breakfast, and went to bed at 6:30 because we couldn't see anymore.

Whenever Thomas and Mark get together, even to this day, there's usually an argument about whose fault it actually was that we froze on the side of a mountain with no campfire. I tend to just keep quiet during said arguments, as I don't want to draw attention to the fact that I heard and processed each of Mark's queries and Thomas's negative replies, but never said anything.

I could write a book on Tommy, Joey, and Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch stories, but no one would publish it and even if they did no one would buy it. I'd be like Karl Marx: have no money, head lice, a dirty t-shirt, a starving family that hated me, and a bookful of crappy ideas. So I'll just stop here.