Enya Must Die

I started this blog, because I realized that while everyday life is rich source of humor, planning a wedding puts you in touch with absolute fucking freaks, and their entire universe of wedding-related freakdom. For a girl who once swore she would never get married (ever! ever!), this is a whole new untapped source of comedy.

Yes, I am a bride-to-be. If all goes well, I shall float down the aisle in my beautifully-cut white pantsuit (I'm kidding, baby. I know Bea Arthur doesn't turn you on), say my vows, and turn to kiss my new husband, lips slightly parted, eyes misty with joy....

...and the videographer had BETTER not cue that moment to Enya.

I cannot be more emphatic about this. I hate Enya. Can't stand her. As in - break out in hives and wince like I just heard fingernails down a chalkboard - hate. The only time that I even barely tolerate Enya, is when I'm at at the Standard, and Valentina the facialist is tirelessly declogging my pores. Or when I'm shopping at Publix, and "Sail Away" comes on.

It's not difficult to figure out where this rabid Enya-aversion comes from. I used to work for a luxury yacht broker, and one of the VPs was a raging psychopath. Every time she had one of her episodes, she'd slam her office door shut, blast "Na Laetha Geal," and water her plants obsessively. Her office was lined with pictures of chubby cherubs, frolicking with an anemic-looking Jesus in heaven. On her desk were three candles, labeled Peace, Wisdom, and Balance. Then, she'd storm out and declare that things were "going! to! change! in! this! office!" while throwing malevolent death glares at the assistants.

Till this day, I cannot smell cammillia votive candles without instinctively cringing.

But I digress. Have you noticed how Enya pollutes every single wedding video? And I do mean, every single one. I have news for you, brides. No matter how modern or chic your wedding is, your videographer feels a sick need to augment key moments with her suicide-inducing music. To confirm this suspicion, I put in a call to Mark the Videographer. The conversation went something like this:

"Hey Mark, you know the part when the bride tears up, or when the groom's dad turns to look fondly at his son....what kinds of songs do you usually cue this to?"

"We don't have a particular one. I like the really mellow, New Agey stuff."

"Yeah? Like what?"

"Enya, maybe. Or a great cello solo by Yo-Yo Ma."

I was so agitated that I started picking at the scab on my head (his name is Peter). There will be no Enya in our wedding video, I said. There will be no Yo-Yo Ma, either. Any cellist who won't touch Tchaikovsky is no friend of mine. We will provide you with a song list that might include guilty pleasures such as Soft Cell, Debbie Deb, or Young MCs. We might even throw in The Thong Song. But you throw Enya in, and I may or may not personally firebomb your studio.

Ok, I left out the firebombing part. But it got me thinking - why is it that we punctuate life's grand passages with such pretentious scores? Why is it that "Pomp and Circumstance" and "Canon in D" are staples at every graduation commencement and wedding ceremony? What is the true purpose of music? Two people come together to celebrate the union of their souls - is this an arcane, high-falutin' concept that only artists like Enya can appreciate? Can't the NJ blue collar rock of Billy Joel and Bon Jovi uplift and inspire as well? Or are they too common for a complex concept like...love? Maybe this is why rock-n-roll and the blues appeal to so many of us. No class, no barriers, everyone gets to jam out. Everyone gets their shot at love.

It was too much for me to take. Let the frou-frou brides in their ballgowns and their elblow-length gloves float by in a haze of Celtic wailing. Come our wedding day, I'll be rocking out with the proletariat.