My book lies on the bed, vanquished. It was finished only with the literary assistance of two very large, purring cats who could find nowhere else in the house to sleep but next to me. (A house full of cat-friendly napping places, and Tenzing couldn't find anywhere to sleep except draped over my right arm.)

I am now on the wrong side of one-thirty in the morning, waiting for a cup of rosehip tea to finish steeping, and pondering yet again the question that's been foremost in my mind: stay, or go?

We twisted our way through downtown, into the appropriate parking lot, and signed in. Brian was in the green room, and after a few minutes of discussion, we headed for the studio. For some reason, I expected quiet, but then I remembered that this was a live show, and that my expectation was - insane.

On the other side of the door, I found myself facing an older gentleman with a wide smile and a strong Caribbean accent. "Dey's no accidents in TV. You's here, you have to contribute. You gonna help on camera?"

"So few people come here and really make themselves at home. You went out there and slept like a baby."

I'll say.

Don't hate me because I'm here. I've been here for most of the afternoon. Most of it asleep.

Already?

Website as excavation project: 2000, 2001. Skip ahead a bit, and here we are again, well past the no-longer-newlywed stage and into the haze of The Early Years. Five years, come and gone, and right now, we are gone, holed up and quiet, in a bed not our own in a weekend that wholly is.

When I was in Arkansas this past weekend, my grandmother was surprised when I told her that it was our anniversary this week. "Five years already?"

"In the grand scheme of things, it's not many."

I make no secret that domesticat.net isn't an open book, despite the regularity and honesty of my words here. Certain subjects are off-limits by choice; my friends may learn many things about me by what I publish here, but the overwhelming majority of my relationship with my spouse remains a subject not for public consumption.

Perhaps, as said to Colter, I did get up on the bitchy side of the bed this morning. Blame it a misbehaving Gallery install - no. I'm not playing that game. I blame the inane conversation provided to me by the person who can't even find the time for a two-second check of the profile of the person he's pestering.

The lead singer, Cara, likes to photograph her audience. I've learned to avoid the feedback loop by picking a nice side spot at the bar. Here, I'm just another shadowy face, a friend who hangs out with Colter between sets once a year, contributing surprisingly good gig photos for the band's website.