One nice thing about digital cameras is that you can see immediately exactly how hideous and unphotogenic you are. That's my first reaction, upon coming back from Jonny's wedding, which admittedly was not about me. So, let me start over. It was a beautiful wedding. He is very happy. His wife is very lovely. There. It's true. I'm just grouchy because a) I look motherfuckin' hideous and b) I had a fight with the Keelhauler (via phone) before the wedding, so during the toasts, when Jonny was saying how beautiful his bride is, and how he will never win the lottery because he's used up every shred of luck he'll ever have, I was thinking, "No one will ever say that about me, even if I live to be three hundred years old." I am adoration-proof. And the more I dwell on it, the more I am horrified by myself, and hoping to Jebus that I don't grow up old and embittered and smoke cigarettes and complain about men and collect tiny dogs and buy pillows bearing statements about how a woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle until nobody likes me except a group of friends exactly like me, and we all get together and go see Celine Dion in Las Vegas and thrill ourselves by flirting with the 22-year-old craps dealer, or whatever. ("He was HOT, Charlene! I saw him lookin' at you!" "Oh, not me... I think he had eyes for Darlene...")

I'll relate the dinner experience later, the one that caused me to abruptly leave my assigned seat at Table 6 and seek refuge at the head table. Right now, I am too horrified at my own hideousness and must go immediately to sleep.

P.S. I am listening to the White Stripes new song, "Blue Orchid," which I dig for its Hendrixy riff and overall Mountain/Guess Who retro bad-assness, plus Jack White is motherfuckin' white hot. For some reason, I am also thinking of a shred of conversation I overheard on the patio near the pool this afternoon, before the wedding. Four guys were sitting at a table, drinking mixed drinks out of plastic cups. One guy was saying, "I don't care. When I'm on stage..." and then he'd get interrupted. He said probably five times, "When I'm on stage?" only to be interrupted. He persisted, however, and finally got out the idea that when he's on stage, "with 400 people looking at me? Fuck you! I don't care what you say. Fuck you, listen to what I have to say!" I have no idea what he was talking about, but while he was saying it, I was staring at him with awe, as he deserved. Imagine it: four HUNDRED people have listened to what he has to say. At one time. (Note: that equals eight hundred eyes.)

Star of the day. . .Aimee Mann