While standing in the long line to have my bag searched, I found myself next to an enormous man (tall and broad) and his enormous beard (long and broad) and his enormous wife (just broad). He was clearly motorcyclist material, with his bandana and his sunglasses and his leather vest. He was wearing several patches that read “81% Supporter.” I asked him what he supported 81% of and what was wrong with the other 19%. “Hell’s Angel,” he said, not in an unfriendly way but not in a friendly way either. More like the way a lion looks at a little zebra when he can’t decide if he’s hungry or not. “Oh,” I said. “Yeah,” his wife said helpfully. “It’s an alphabetical thing.”

Architecture in Helsinki was peppy and weird and I loved them. They had, like, nine members. And I hear tell they’re from Australia which is, of course, great.

Sufjan Stevens (he of the guy-who’s-going-to-make-50-albums-one-about-each-of-the-50-states-but-has-only-made-two-so-far fame) played a set of weep-worthy sweetness. There was a trumpet. And a trombone. And a melodica. And young ladies who played them and sang a cracked, rough, fantastically-innocent-Americana backup. And a giant inflated Uncle Sam doll. They played a sad-ballad version of the Star Spangled Banner. Beforehand, he handed out small cloth American flags for the audience to wave. Mr. Anthony Hecht ducked into a nearby porta-john after the set and saw someone had stuck a flag in the urinal so you couldn’t help peeing on it. He forgot to take a picture. We’re all feeling a little, uh… forgetful. Did I mention there’s a beautiful rainstorm in the distance?

”There are a lot of beautiful young stomachs here,” one young-looking guy said to another. “Yes,” the other, who looked even younger, replied. “I feel like Humbert Humbert.”

Uh-oh. Thunder. Oh shit. Rain.