Not Tonight, Dear.

Last year at Bruxellensis: It's late on Sunday afternoon and simply time for me to go. Or so I'm told by the Woman, and she's nearly always right about these things. So we leave. We make it about one block before I realize I left my backpack at the fest. "You go on," I say. "I'll just go grab it and meet you at home."

Well, come on. I can't just go back without having another beer or two, can I? Obviously it's my subconscious trying to tell me something.

So then it's getting into the evening hours, and I am rapidly becoming unfit for public consumption. That's when the horns start up, clear and brassy, and suddenly making their way through the crowd is a veritable gaggle of young women wielding various wind instruments. I think there are about 20 of these angels, possibly costumed. And they might be playing "Billie Jean." You know, as in, she's not my lover.

They are hilarious and make beautiful music. The group's name is Pas ce Soir, Chéri. (Great name that translates well, I think.) Anyway, this potent combination of tasty beer and intoxication and music and Belgian oddity produces for me one of those moments. You know the kind. The ones you remember vividly, cutting through what ought to be a beery haze. The kind that can come back to you unbidden months or years later as you sip something that, come to think of it, you also sipped that very day.

Anyway. I'm happy to report that Pas ce Soir, Chéri is on the schedule again this year. 6 p.m. Sunday. Think I'll try to pace myself this time.