Hello all, sorry for the prolonged absence from posting. This week has been nothing short of a maelstrom of work, domesticity, and rock starring. Mainly work though. Let's recap a few things, shall we?
So, last night, after I'd finally roped in most of my work for the week, the problems were solved, things were looking up, and I was looking forward to eating some delicious burritos, taking a delicious nap, watching some delicious oc, and then going to the delicious black cat with some delicious eckert and mottrams, to watch a really freaking dirty rock band. All of the above were executed - save one VERY important one. Imagine my distress upon waking from my nap, ready for some fun in Newport Beach, only to find - NO! YOU'VE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME! - our loathesome president, babbling away about BULLSHIT, addressing the state of the union instead of The OC. WTF!!!!!!!! Someone I so strongly dislike denying me my week's most precious hour? That is IT! I have HAD it! Screwing up our economy, environment, society, the future, and America's standing with the rest of the world, well, that's one thing. Screwing with THE OC - that is just unacceptable.
*Please note: I do care more about those other things than the OC. Tongue firmly placed in cheek. However, F that guy!
Now, on to the really freaking dirty rock band. Last night it was Louis XIV.
I wasn't quite loving their album as much as Mottram was; the REALLY dirty lyrics and sort of unpolished sound didn't catch me at first. But the more I listened, the catchier "wind me up and make me crawl to you/tie me up and make me call to you" got. Though I'm pretty sure I really did get some pretty serious hearing damage at the show, it was a lot of fun. They had haircuts that were the intersection between Rod Stewart in the 70s and Spinal Tap. They sang and spoke (sometimes) in fake British accents ~ though they're from California. They had that post punk fancy suit/dishelved hair/lots of eyeliner look down pat. They had a hottie blond headed drummer. They had a raucus lead singer, and a high-voiced backup/guitarist. The Black Cat had "Dance Fever" Chris Mottram, and a fan whose dancing was one of the funniest things any of us have ever seen. It's sure to be immitated at every party where Chris and I cross paths in the near future.
Afterwards, Liz and I passed on going to Saint Ex with the guys in favor of pizza from the amazingly delicious place next door. As we're dining and enjoying hte deliciousness of made to order jumbo slices, sans chemical flavor or doughiness (as is the general state of Adams Morgan jumbo slice), Jenna comes home WASTED from happy hour. Tapas and pommegranite margaritas brought out hilariously drunk Jenna, who was ELATED when I told her that there were some Mottrams up at Saint Ex. It didn't take much convincing before we were out the door and living the hipster life in the basement with the guys. Stella, bubble gum smokes, a lack of chairs, some scintilating conversation, and we were on our way back home at about 2am.
Surprisingly, I'm kind of alive today. Kind of.