what is, M?

Part of living in New York is going to your friends' concerts. Amazingly you have lots of friends who perform music, and they perform it near-constantly. This is Mr. Ben and me looking fierce at the Knitting Factory, enjoying two opportunities in one evening to indulge a friend's performative tendencies. When you actually miss a concert -- as I just did, recently, to my chagrin -- it's a very sad thing. You get so used to being there, you know? Of course you do.

I missed a friend's concert and book release party because I was at home, in bed, shivering. Much less fun. I blame the wedding. I had just spent a couple whirlwind days in DC learning from the florist that I'm too short to carry certain flowers. Lilacs, luckily, are okay. Incidentally, the extremely gay florist was named David; his partner is named Jonathan. No one else found this funny, because very few people appreciate subtle bible humor.

Over the weekend, we also came within striking distance of picking an invitation, if only we can agree what color celadon is, and we learned that at many rehearsal dinners, the wedding couple (gloried and sanctified be It) will show slides, listen to speeches, eat all night with the guests to a three-piece band, and have a fancy cake. What distinguishes this from the actual wedding party? I'm still trying to figure that out.

Ah well. Meanwhile at least I have the election to wholly consume me. The con, obviously, is the frikkin horrible attack ads wedged into all the available commercial space for America's Next Top Model and 30 Rock; but I'm more or less willing to put up with it for the general distraction. (My concentration pays off: I got an A+ on that test. An A+. No kidding: I am the next Carville. Who, by the way, I could probably also identify.)