I was looking forward to seeing the Waco Brothers play Martyrs. I recently worked on a show based on Jon Langford's work, so it was an exciting prospect. I told all my friends. My mental note to attend might as well have been in all caps, italics, and circled. This afternoon, I spent forever in the bathroom, putting on my makeup and practically singing Anita's part from the Tonight quintet in West Side Story (Yes, I am a nerd, but that is Sondheim and Bernstein.). I rushed through errands and dinner, afraid of being late for the show. Well, I was. Twenty-four hours late. Fuck. What a stupid mistake. I'd hoped to listen to great music and perhaps swap bodily fluids with a charming man and instead found a totally dead bar. At least I looked fabulous in my disappointment. What was I doing last night, when I should have been at Martyrs? Watching Project Runway and knitting a fucking mitten, unwittingly suffering the lingering effects of mercury retrograde. Friends that I inadvertently blew off, I apologize. I lift a glass of Courvoisier and wish that you were here, and that I had been there.