So I went to my friend Genevieve’s wedding yesterday. This is her second marriage; her first wedding was a traditional affair at the Four Seasons – white dress, bouquet, reception, all that stuff. This one took place in a sweaty tent in the middle of nowhere.

Our posse set out for Crawford yesterday around 1:30. This is not a scenic drive. To get to Crawford, one passes through a succession of small Texas shitholes. You know, places where the most popular lawn decoration is a rusty old truck up on blocks. Then you get to Crawford which is itself a small Texas shithole. When it comes to vacation spots, Dubya doesn’t quite have the old man’s flair.

So Crawford is this one traffic light town, and it’s there at the main intersection where the pro-Dubya forces were concentrated. Maybe two dozen people in all, not counting the group with the “FORGET THE EUPHRATES – PROTECT THE RIO GRANDE!” signs. They were on a whole other kick. By this time I’m getting an unnverving, end-of-Easy-Rider sort of vibe.

About a block over was the Crawford Peace House parking area. We had to catch a shuttle from there to Camp Casey II, site of the wedding. This turned out to be very far away. We crammed into a van with a variety of activists, from old timey 60s relics to young firebrands. It’s safe to say I was outside my comfort zone. First we drove past Camp Cheney, the central gathering point for the Bushies. I guess they must have all been at church or something, because there were maybe eight people there. Then we passed Camp Casey I, which was fairly bustling, with more pro-Bush folks across the street engaging in an animated exchange of ideas with the peaceniks. Then more driving. Finally we arrive at Camp Casey II. Basically, you’ve got a big white tent, a bunch of smaller tents, a makeshift memorial with little crosses and flowers, a few booths and the ever-important porta-potties.

We arrive just in time for the wedding. There were probably three or four hundred people total at the camp – I would guess half of them were there for the wedding. Now I had some qualms about this whole thing, whether it would come off as exploitative or a cheesy stunt or a just plain not-so-good idea. But I think they pulled it off. The ceremony was sincere but not preachy (well, you know, aside from the preacher), Cindy Sheehan was there in the front row to give her blessing, and there was no tear gas or rubber bullets or anything, which was nice. Of course, the tent was stifling and airless and flies were circling, but hey, it’s Texas.

Al Sharpton had been there earlier in the day, but there turned out to be no truth to the rumors that he might perform the ceremony. Afterwards we talked to a woman who said Charlie Sheen was expected to show up later. I deduced that she probably meant Martin Sheen, but didn’t bother to correct her. After the wedding, a protest singer took the stage and performed a series of terrible anti-war parodies of the likes of “Send in the Clowns.” It was time to leave. While waiting for the shuttle, a car pulled up and a man with a perfect helmet of silvery hair stepped out and made his way into the tent. It was, of course, Martin Sheen.