Darling Doodads:

Shit man. This was another big fat weekend, that's for sure. Steve Coulter, magic drummer for Tsar, got married to Heather, and Jeff Solomon, the bassist, did the ceremony.

I wish I could tell you about the wedding, but the problem is that I was walking all over Occidental College trying to find it. Oops. That sucked. I heard it was lovely and Solomon knocked it out of the park. He certainly looked like the guy you want marrying you: In a white tux with black shirt and white tie, dark sunglasses, he was God and Satan at once, with a lot of rock sprinkled on top. So now he's transcended his former superheroism: Not only can he lay tile floors, conceive babies. sing falsetto harmonies and bake cornbread, he can also marry people by the power vested in him and the Great State of California.

Heather looked like Lady Guinevere. Like a princess.

So I found the wedding as the couple were making their exit from the ceremony. I felt like a cross between an asshole and an idiot. But also I felt that Providence had worked against me in particular: I was fingered that day as the person who would get horribly lost trying to find the wedding.

I did however get there just in time for a desperately needed drink, and to scope out the many fantastic outfits the girls (and some of the guys) had come up with. Everyone looked really hot and healthy and American. Our friends are a really good-looking bunch.

I was proud of my brother, who really busted some ass on the dancefloor, and of Matt, who tried to put the moves on most of his male friends during George Michael's "Freedom."

Some of our friends are happily married, some are recently broken up, some are longtime bachelors; some are newly in love, some are newly confused, some are hanging out somewhere along the misery continuum; some have been in love with the same person for years, some are ambiguous and mysterious. It's great.

Today I rescued a stray kitten who wanted to give and receive love and sleep in the palm of my hand. She was black and I named her Spooky. I took her to the Eagle Rock emergency vet and they did a bunch of tests because she was very sick. I liked her a lot and I wanted her to be my new special creature at my cottage. My cottage kind of needs a cat, eventually. A cottage without a cat is like a song without a bridge.

It turned out Spooky was sick with leukemia and aids. I had to sign a form for her to be killed. Poor baby stray kitty cat, never hurt anyone, just wanted to sleep and nurse and cuddle and purr like crazy crazy. That cat was a pure conduit of the affection and sweetness of the Creation. Baby Spooky died today.

It happens every day, right? Nothing new.

Well fuck that. It shouldn't be normal.

Anyway, I have to run now because I still have work-writing to do tonight. Eeeeeeeek.




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