and it is urgent, and it is ardent-hearted. Do not take photos of your friends on the dance floor at weddings, especially weddings gracious enough to host an open bar. This world needs gyraters and air-guitar-soloists. Electric Sliders and Funky Chickeners. Imagine the wedding stripped of the conga line: no groomsman clutching his Long Island iced tea, his loosened necktie slapping his chest in glad tidings! Carry on, my wayward son. But as for you—you holding up your tiny god with its flashing eye—you jeopardize such brave foolishness, you miserly specter of Monday morning, you forerunner of the hangover! Put your camera away, comrade! Stop seining evidence for your cursed Book of Faces. Don't be one of those who hears a most excellent song, I mean a truly irresistible song, and rises at long last, but only to get a close-up of the centerpiece rose clamped between the drunk aunt's teeth.

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