The action began this weekend with our first ever trip to the precincts of Meow Mix, therein to witness the performative apotheosis of New York’s finest techno-chill-soul-world-art-funk ensemble, the unstoppable Den of Size (we take the unstoppability on faith, as no one has yet actually tried to stop ‘em. But they’d fail – oh how they’d fail!) The DoS jammed the joint with well-wishers and volunteer supporters, two of whom drove up from states it would not be incorrect to call “Southern,” with gorilla suits – actual, functioning, classic gorilla suits! Despite moderately swelterish conditions Laura “’Scuse Me While I Adjust my Headdress” Boutwell cast a spell over the sexed-up crowd, which gave it up for the sly beat-slinging and the climactic, totally dance-inducing groove about a flounder; indeed, we ourselves were personally asked by a stylish just-in-from-the-West-Coast gal if the dynamic LB was on the market, and we heard later that similar queries came from numerous quarters. Sorry, ladies, but we hear she’s taken!

Speaking of commitment...with synapses firing on extra-alert after the intellectual-creative goose provided by the Friday night show, I was ready for anything on Saturday. To my delight, "anything" came in the form of a delerious display of wedding-themed conspicuous consumption, on view at the church one block away from us. As the ceremony was drawing to a close, the plangent honking of backed-up traffic on Sixth Avenue drew me to the window, like the sleepy guy in his cap at Christmas, to seewhat was the matter. On the street below me, this fairy-tale vision of a chariot (here snapped around the corner, apparently post-duties), complete with liveried outriders who seemed to have stepped from a made-for-cable adaptation of Cinderella (there was a certain synthetic sheen to the otherwise high-quality garments,and there is no making a Brooklyn moustache into a Renaissance moustache, no matter how sweetly you ask "Will milady step in?") appeared to my unseasonably-wondering-eyes.

As I watched, the great beasts drew up to the church, and the happy couple emerged in splendor of tulle. White doves, released as the bride and groom made their appearance, completed the image, in much the same way that one of Thomas Kinkade's "master highlighters" brings your very own Kinkade print to perfection. But what really took this bridal fantasia up to an extra Spinal-Tap-worthy setting of eleven were the limos which flanked the noble carriage. You want class? You want to keep up with the Joneses? You want two damn white stretch Hummers, is what you want.

The weekend finished up at a Brooklyn Cyclones game, in the beautiful new stadium with a tremendous view of a scary-looking Coney Island ride we pray no one ever forces us to go on if they ever re-open it. The damn thing is positively sublime. We noted immediately how the moderately hapless Cyclones (who faced off Saturday against the equally uncertain Auburn Doubledays) are helped out in the crowd-entertainment field by numerous assistants, not least of whom is the redoubtable Party Marty -- a genial version of a thuggish Brooklyn whiteboy who wanders around, whipping up excitement and/or dread. He carries some sort of disturbing rag-doll monkey as well. When he arrived at our right-field section of the stands, the children in attendance (who were numberless as the grains of sand on the beach in the distance) began screaming in hysterical, desperate joy, as if confronted with life’s sole last opportunity to give voice. "PARTY MARTY!!!!" they demanded. "PARTY MARTY!!! It’s MY BIRTHDAY!!!!!!! HEY PAAAAAAAAAAARTY MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARTY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

It was a good weekend.