It was Robert Belknap who pointed out to me that balance and order in a work of art -- the marriage at the end of a comedy, neatly rhymed iambic pentameter, harmony -- have a cosmological upshot: they tell us that the world is well-made. Discord and dissonance make the opposite point, hence the favor they find in the hands of youth and critics.

What the fuck, then, are we to make of a cappella singing? I was at an alumni event over the weekend which included an all-female (two named Natalie) singing group from ye olde alma mater. I was pre-cringing, but I decided I'd go anyway and see if there was anyone worth talking to there, anybody looking to hand me money or something. When the group came on, I had grabbed my coat and formulated an exit strategy, and not for naught. They led off, these 12 attractive young women in black evening wear in the afternoon, with a rousing rendition of "The Boogie-Woogie Bugle Boy of Company B." I'm sorry. It's 2007. It was wierd. They were swaying to the music, bugging their eyes out for emphasis, smiling from ear to ear like little Miss Americas (when not on coke). Back to the theme of order, it all hung together perfectly, smarmily, and yet it evoked a "methinks thou dost protest too much" from the kid. It reminded me that though a performance may try to tell you that all is well, it ain't necessarily the case.