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You know how there are times when you want just one properly-shot photo for your own little memory archive? I couldn't get one of those here.

It took more than a week for the family to rally after Uncle Phil died. Aunt Sue, who only my sister had ever met prior to today, needed time to arrange things. There was no end of life plan in place, no funeral home selected, no burial plot chosen.

Uncle Phil is dead. The death was sudden, as death is, but his death was unexpected. I got a call on the Fourth of July from my father. Uncle Phil had cancer, he said. On the fifth I got another call. Uncle Phil had died, my father said.

I scaled a ladder to the roof of my apartment to see the show.

In my mind, overturning DOMA is to the LGTBQ community what winning a Superbowl is to Steelers fans. Pittsburgh has a lot of Steelers fans. NYC has a lot of LGBTQ people.

I took the wedding committee, Lucy, the planner, Ben, the officiant, and George, the other guy, to Storm King Art Center on the way back from the wedding in Albany. As I had a car filled with ID-carrying art industry employees, our visit was free.

Under the trademark blue, earnest awning, an IHOP offered its tempatations next door to our hotel.

This is the weather I think we would have preferred for the wedding.