Gaudy Patter

Jin Hee smiled a greeting, and we turned our attention to the tiny person in her arms. Six weeks old, squirmy and contented just to kick at the air and make eye contact with everyone and everything.

If I'm lucky enough to know Timara when she's of drinking age, I'll relate a few anecdotes about some of the wedding guests -- including myself -- that might cause her to see adults in a new light. After she gets over her initial denial, of course.

This was a great room in which to marry; a venerable, funky old synagogue built in 1849 that had evolved into an art center on the Lower East Side. It was a Pantone riot, the effect largely achieved with imaginative lighting in fuchsia, gold and blue, among other shades. I liked that a bit of plaster had fallen away to reveal the lathing beneath in one of the ceiling vaults.

Some friends have gotten married, most haven't. As a result, weddings are still a rare occurrence for me -- unlike some folks I know who've had to choose one wedding over another on the same sunny Saturday. You'd better have a good excuse in reserve, because "I already agreed to go to Sandy and Jim's" is not an acceptable RSVP.

And this was the first wedding I attended with Liz. I've usually gone solo. It's good to watch two people you care about commit to each other in a room full of friends and family. It's better when you can hold someone's hand throughout.

It's impossible to see these people and not be mindful that I've known them for longer than half my life. And that they've known me.

Some arranged arrivals and departures around the babysitter's schedule, others were still pregnant or very recently so. For at least two people I knew, this wedding was their first time "out" since the baby. I could never have predicted who or what any of these people would have grown up into. Some I know better than others, but it strikes me that they're all extremely decent people.

And the ones who aren't are people with whom I'm no longer in touch, and that might be adulthood's greatest perk.

Michael DJ'd after the ceremony, freshing the wax with vinyl properly sorted in an anodized crate. It was sublime to dance with friends, many of us well lubricated by the expert mixologists brought in from Milk & Honey. Still, I was sweating my ass off inside my suit, feeling closer to 36 than 18. I used to dance every weekend! Now, going out is meeting friends for dinner, and if I haven't taken myself to the gym sufficiently, I'll refuse the creme brulee and feel virtuous.

Eighteen years ago, we washed our bacon cheeseburgers down with milkshakes and enjoyed a nice cigarette afterwards.

We spent the following afternoon walking around Chinatown with Michael and Judy, eventually settling in at a subterranean Vietnamese place where Elena joined us for dinner. Another Obie was a few tables away. Afterwards, drinks in the Village in a back booth with a good sized group.

I'm always wistful when I leave New York. The city aside, some of the best people I'll ever know live there, and I don't see them nearly enough. During the blank times between, we're growing up separately; leaving one job for a better one, marrying and divorcing, birthing children. I must go to New York more frequently.

Letting too much time pass between visits can be jarring. These are old friends, but they're also a clock and mirror that should be consulted regularly.

P.S. Michael -- thanks again for the LP!