The price of private dancing

This weekend M. and I were in Provincetown for our friends' -- aka the Tallest and Most Outdoors-iest Gay Men We Know -- wedding.

I could describe the knot that caught in my throat when the officiant pronounced them legally wed in the state of Massachusetts and my subsequent discussion with M. regarding the actual-versus-perceived concrete and emotional benefits of that little thing they call a Marriage Certificate. I could.

Instead, I will simply declare how Grand it is to attend someone else's big gay wedding and revel in one's ability to sit back and seagull their raw bar, and see how they navigate the vows and the place cards and the first dance, and watch them sweat the small stuff...and then, at the end of the night, slice one's thumb wide open grinding up and down on their center tent pole. D'oh.

The good news is that we will be on a plane headed for Italy in just a little over 48 hours, where I can soak my thumb (and brain) in red wine and cannoli filling.