There were ukulele players aplenty. I've never seen so many ukulele players. There were good musicians and bad musicians. There was bowling and beer. Kids danced, hipsters slouched (and there were a lot of hipsters, because this was Williamsburg, the hive of hipster-dom, the skinny-jean capital of the world). There were women on stage in tutus and leather pants and men with beards and one blonde dude wearing sunglasses playing the sitar. There were guitar cases and songbooks everywhere. It was strange to be a writer, an anything-else, in a sea of musicians. A non-musician in a musician's world. There were blow-up saxophones (somewhere out there is a video of Ben and Xander and me swaying like big band brass players to our neon pink plastic saxes). There was confetti, flash photography. A good voice carried all the way across the room. Families in bowling shoes forgot their purpose, spilled onto the dance floor, swayed their hips. There's that Lewis Carroll quote? "We're all mad here." We were all mad, there.