It was a beautiful and unusually warm Sunday afternoon as I played the closing notes for Tristan Morris’ song dedicated to his husband Blaine, performed right after their nuptials. There wasn’t a dry eye in the room, and then Blaine bent Tristan over his arm and kissed the very life out of him as a thank you. Hooting and catcalls could be heard from the predominantly gay crowd, with a few relatives thrown in.
After husband and husband walked down the burgundy rug that passed for an aisle from the pagoda to their table of honor in the small park, I launched into my first set of the afternoon, getting into the zone.
The bar mitzvah last night had gone well, even as I tried to fend off the advances of the rabbi’s nephew who was visiting from out of town. It was a good thing I could play all
