Glad I wore my sneaks.

There's an odd phenomenon that occurs in summertime Buffalo.

Each Saturday, the lawns of Hoyt Lake are dotted with afternoon brides and their entourages. They descend from every church within a twenty mile radius, choke the streets with their SUV limos, and stand in lines to get the perfect shot on the museum steps. It's all very pretty and very glam as the bridesmaids press together and the photographers buzz and the groomsmen puff out their chests.

But if you look closely enough you can see the cracks, and this is why I like to watch. Because really, those bridesmaids are all eyeing each other up. And those in Vera Wang smile and strut, and the losers bow their heads and mutter hatefully against their own bride-queen. And the groomsmen are sweating and painfully aware of the smell of stale vodka seeping through their tuxes. And the photographer is fending off the mothers while trying to keep that loose cocker spaniel from getting into the shot. And as the day gets hotter, the sewage running from Forest Lawn starts to warm and stink.

And it all becomes something of a comic performance, set before a stern panel of old men and speedwalkers. And everyone is applauded or assailed before being sent off to his respective reception.