My wife Lori and I have three wedding anniversaries ... the divorce rate among our four biological parents is staggering (there are at least a dozen marriages between them), so we never figured the institution would be of any use to us, regardless of how seriously we took our relationship. After a brief failed breakup I packed up my records and t-shirts and moved across country from Chicago to Seattle, joining Lori in this magical passive-aggressive fairyland to officially start our lives together as committed life partners. That was May 2002, seven years after our first date, and since we knew that in the eyes of God we were already husband and wife, the legal step seemed unnecessary.

Several months later, pragmatism struck us -- some pricey prescriptions forced us to consider how much easier life would be if Lori's health plan covered me, so the decision was made to marry. After all, if gay couples can get those sweet benefits, why the hell shouldn't we? I don't believe that our relationship is any of The Man's business, but we're already part of the problem just by paying our taxes every year, so we might as well sign a binding contract to prove our love and file jointly.

It was all made legal four years ago today, January 23, 2004, at the courthouse downtown with a justice of the peace, a painless operation that we followed up with a nice steak dinner on the waterfront. Later that night the Dirtbombs played the Crocodile, so Endless Jim became the first in our family of friends to learn of our deed. For everyone else we kept it cool, instead letting my mother plan an elaborate outdoor "wedding" six months later in Swartz Creek, Michigan to serve as the public spectacle our assorted relatives would insist upon, and that's anniversary number three, June 26th, 2004.

Lori and I haven't made much fuss over these anniversaries ... in fact, for the first couple years we kept forgetting them, only realizing days later that one special date or another had passed (both dates are etched into the inside of our wedding bands, but who ever checks those things?). This year we might have forgotten again, if it wasn't for The End Times getting a gig on a date that sounded somehow familiar ... so we actually celebrated this round, spending last weekend relaxing in Portland (the city of lovers) where we had steak for every meal and alternated between extreme exercise and utter sloth. We considered checking out Blue Oyster Cult at the Emerald Queen Casino this Saturday ("Don't Fear The Reaper" is "our" song), but again, The End Times got offered a house party show in Ellensburg, so those plans were scuttled ... it's surely for the best, if BOC hadn't lived up to our expectations (a likely conclusion) it might have made for a very expensive disappointment.

Anyhow, I love Lori Tschirhart. I don't care if the government knows it or not.