The Weather Underground, Parte the Seconde
The night is exceedingly above seasonal norms in DC. It is in the mid sixties and breezy. This is the kind of night that in college I thought was full of potential, passion, ambition and hope. In the years since, I have come to look upon these nights as bitter reminders that life is indeed passing by me. This is a night like an inbox full of old, read and reread emails.
I got home from work, decompressed and took a shower. I dressed and hopped the bus headed into downtown Silver Spring, such as it is, and then schlepped over to Los Arrieros. I had seen a flyer on Sunday for a group called Chopteeth. They seemed interesting so I told myself I would go. So I did.
Chopteeth sounds a lot like Buena Vista Social Club with a bit more jazz. My ears are largely untrained and are seriously poor judges of character when it comes to defining a sound, but regardless of this fact, I enjoyed them quite a bit. I enjoyed them so much, I almost asked a girl to dance. Instead, I got some information on the band and went home. I am in a mood only suitable for friends and enemies anyway. I was poor company.
The walk home was pleasant, in a soul draining sort of way. I was numbed by the aggressively laconic atmosphere which had the effect of a stiff Arctic wind. It absorbed everything I could hurl into the night and then consumed me. I am not even writing this.
UPDATE: Music Good, Food Bad! So, so, bad.