One of my favorite local bands was playing at Sound of Music Studios tonight, so my bright idea was to walk two blocks to the Belvidere for a glass of wine, then walk two more blocks to hear Marionette play and, at the end of the evening, I'd only be four blocks from home. Brilliant.
As I was walking to the Belvidere (quickly, I might add, because it's freaking cold out there), a guy was riding a bike toward me. When he spotted me, he began to sing in a perfect falsetto, "Hey there, lonely girl...lonely girl." I didn't think I looked particularly lonely, but that didn't stop me from laughing out loud, at which point he told me to have a good Saturday night.
Sipping wine at the bar, a Glaswegian who now lives in Houston sat down next to me. The accent was immediately recognizable because I have a good friend who lives in Glasgow. He was hysterical doing an American accent (it's embarrassing to hear; our vowels are so flat, our intonation so nasal) and admitting to the hubris and drinking prowess of the Scottish male. He was young, attractive and in great shape, that is to say, not at all my type, but a charming conversationalist and I have no doubt that his accent gets thicker as the evening gets later.
Marionette's performance was part of their CD release party and they put on an excellent show as usual, with an enthusiastic crowd who gradually became overheated once the front doors were closed. Everyone just kept removing layers and hydrating more frequently. It is Saturday night, after all, so there was a whole lot of hydrating going on anyway.
And when the show was over and I was walking those four blocks home, I couldn't stop staring at the waxing crescent moon in the sky. It reminded me of a favorite poem about how something as seemingly random as a sliver of a moon has the power to remind a person of distant people and places. Not to sound moony or anything like that, but it's true.