In Rolls or Ragtop, That’s Amore

A royal wedding was held on June 19. Prince Edward was married to Sophie Rhys-Jones, who rode to the chapel in a Rolls-Royce that was adorned with white ribbons. With 20,000 well-wishers waiting outside, the ceremony was viewed by 550 invited guests, among them the Queen of England (in ostrich feathers) and the Sultan of Brunei, with his wives.

A week later to the day, a day in Las Vegas when the temperature hit 113 degrees, Gail Martin got married. She rode to the chapel in a red convertible (without ribbons) and took her vows in a beige suit (without feathers). No one was waiting outside, and virtually no one was watching inside.

Her odd--some would say poor--choice of a husband did his best to make the day feel bright and gay. He drove into Vegas to the sound of Dean Martin’s bouncy “Ain’t That a Kick in the Head?” coming from the convertible’s speakers, turning up the volume as he and his wife-to-be slipped up the Strip.

At a couple of the hotels along the way, Gail Martin had once sung on stage herself. Old favorites such as the Sands and the Dunes were long gone, replaced by resorts with faux European architecture and mock Manhattan landmarks. The whole skyline had turned into a pop-up art book. How? Well, we haven’t the Vegas idea.

After their royal wedding, the new Earl and Countess of Wessex retreated into Windsor Castle for a lavish reception.

A week later, Gail Martin and her new husband stepped into a casino and played a slot machine.

First, though, a young woman at the chapel handed over a certificate of marriage and asked Gail, “So was your father really Dean Martin?”

“He certainly was,” she replied.

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There was a major magazine layout a week or two ago about Hollywood’s newlyweds. For no discernible reason--unless Y2K is generally feared to be the end of the world--over the last few months there seemed to be a big boom in matrimony. Figures of all ages, from Courteney Cox to Barbra Streisand to Tony Curtis, were tying knots.

Those of us who have remained bachelors our entire lives understand only secondhand the true nature of wedlock. We have friends with multiple marriages and we lose friends because one divorces the other. Or we see couples celebrating 25th anniversaries, 50th, shoot, even 75th, and can only marvel at the ability to achieve durability.

What was it the poet Percy Bysshe Shelley wrote? “A system could not well have been devised more studiously hostile to human happiness than marriage”?

Pretty pessimistic.

Worse yet the words of the poet Muhammad Ali, who warned between bouts: “Everybody says they’ll marry till death. I’ve lied a couple of times myself.”

Who knows what makes some marriages work and other marriages play? The answer is in no book. A bride and groom can simply roll the dice, whether in a casino or not. There are couples who begin by consulting Dr. Spock and end by consulting Dr. Kevorkian. Some eat and sleep together every day of their lives. Others stay married at a safe distance.

What we know about marriage is nothing. We observe brides in white lace and bridesmaids in weird dresses they wouldn’t otherwise be caught dead in, and our hearts go pitter-pat over the beauty and tribal ritual of romance. Then the bride goes off on a honeymoon to watch her husband take off his smelly socks and throw them on the floor.

Some couples seem made for each other. But it takes two to tangle.

“It just proves,” the great wit Oscar Levant once said, after the divorce of Joe DiMaggio and Marilyn Monroe, “that no man can be a success in two national pastimes.”

And yet customers keep coming back for more. Many of the chapels in Las Vegas were booked solid last weekend, and the line at the license bureau spilled practically out the door. The only longer line in town was for a $9.95 all-you-can-eat buffet.

It is a good sign. Perhaps people are going to continue to marry, at least until something better comes along. Everybody loves somebody sometime.

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After his second wedding, Dean Martin spent the day with his bride, Jeanne, and his best man, Jerry Lewis, at the races in Del Mar. A few nights later, Martin and Lewis were laughing it up in Las Vegas, on stage at the Flamingo.

Some partnerships do break up. Some don’t.

It is taken on faith that Gail Martin last weekend made a marriage that will last the remainder of her life, when, for reasons only she can explain, she took as her lawfully wedded husband a talent-free and tone-deaf newspaper columnist from the Los Angeles Times.

He is a fellow who may be asked in years to come, “So are you really Dean Martin’s son-in-law?”

And, although his wife’s father has passed away, “I certainly am,” he will be happy to say.

Mike Downey’s column appears Sundays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Write to him at Times Mirror Square, Los Angeles CA 90053. E-mail: mike .downey@latimes.com