Coo Coo Ca Choo

You just never know how things are going to blow up on you.

One minute I'm walking into 2113 (where they've just added a sinuous partition to separate the dining area from the bar) and the next someone is asking me if I'm with the Ad Club.

As it turned out, I think my friend and I were the only two non-advertising people in the bar for the next hour and a half.

But that was okay because advertising types are a fascinating group to watch network (so much intensity! so much self-awareness!), especially with alcohol.

As non-networking types, my friend and I discussed important topics of our own like how music must never be far away no matter where in your home you are.

She mentioned how tired she is of hearing '90s music everywhere (despite the fact that it's the decade of her youth) now that it's become the new oldies.

It made her feel my pain, that of the multiple decades of old music I've had to endure for years.

As her mother put it, "I never need to hear The Doors again."

Amen, Mom.

When we parted ways, the adsters were in full swing talking to each other while looking around to see who else they needed to connect with.

Walking toward the Poe Museum, a guy said hello and, "I like those shoes."

Diversity Thrift, three bucks, I said, clearly impressing him with what look like espadrille wedges from the '70s.

Since when do men notice shoes?

Tonight was the Poe Museum's monthly Unhappy Hour, an evening of music, drama and film with liberal doses of corny humor, male humor and band humor.

It was a gorgeous night to be in a brick-walled garden inhaling soft, warm air with a nearly full moon above.

Walking into the Poe garden, I saw that Goldrush (all clad in black Kronos Quartet-style) had already begun playing so I found a spot against a curved tree trunk.

When they finished their song, Treesa spotted me and Prabir said hello via the microphone.

"This one's for you, Karen," he said. "This isn't about you, Karen but I wrote it right around that time we discussed this situation and you agreed and I agreed, so here we go."

Let's just say the lyrics had something to do with, "Thank you, thank you, but I am a mess, so thank you."

Ah, yes, that messy period.

"This one's called 'Tyrannasaurus Rex. Ma'am, this is dedicated to you," he said pointing at a woman in the third row. "Nothing personal."

During the song, the Man About Town showed up and when I went to hug him, he lifted me clean off the ground with his bear-like embrace.

An inquiry into his state of being resulted in, "Better now."

With the fountain burbling behind the trio of Goldrush, they played "Eleanor Rigby" before excusing themselves.

"We're going to take a break but stick around and be unhappy," Prabir exhorted.

Why come to Unhappy Hour if not to be maudlin?

Next up was Ryan Lee unburdening his soul with Poe's short story, "The Black Cat," done partly as a dramatization and partly as a reading.

While it was easy to get lost in Poe's language ("Evil thoughts became my soul intimates"), modern reminders abounded.

Motorcycles roared down Main Street. A helicopter whirred overhead. The museum's a/c unit cranked on and off.

Lee's performance ended with him portraying the guilt-ridden murderer of the story, on his knees in the grass and sobbing.

"I hope you're all thoroughly miserable now," the museum's director said afterwards.

I passed the subsequent break discussing with my seatmate hanging heavy winter coats with metaphors about the tensile strength of the Brooklyn Bridge.

Granted, it was more hysterical than unhappy.

Goldrush returned to do "our most macabre song about why you should love people."

I'm not sure how macabre a song called "Kiss and Make Up" can be considered but the crowd went along with it.

"This one's for Karen, so she can have more bass," Prabir said a second time, surprising no one more than me.

A tease of a few notes had my seatmate humming the melody of "Mrs. Robinson" before they launched into a Goldrush standard, "Roll One."

Mid-song, Prabir says, "Here's what you came for," and gestured to Matt who did a very fine upright bass solo.

The song "Don't Worry" had M.A.T. cracking, "That's the Romney/Ryan theme song."

There was a song dedicated to the Indians in the audience ("I guess it's a self-dedication," Prabir cracked only to have a guy yell afterwards, "I'm Hindu!") and a song for Christians.

You know, the classic, "Jesus Christ Loves His Beans and Rice."

It was getting harder and harder to stay in unhappy mode.

Their closer was a rousing and rocking cover of "I am the Walrus" and looking around, I was reminded that after almost 50 years, everyone likes the Beatles.

When they finished, some guys took their place in the center of the garden with what looked like a big, black parachute.

Nope, it was way better - an inflatable movie screen.

That's right, something that inflated in seconds and rather resembled a moon bounce grew right before our very eyes until it was touching tree branches.

"Now it's a party!" Man About Town joked.

Screening was "The Persistence of Poe," a film by Christine Stoddard about the Poe/Richmond connection.

Full of fabulous old black and white photographs of the city in the 19th century, the documentary was still in the "rough cut" stage but I found it full of fun facts about Poe's life.

When the film mentioned Poe's first love, the older Elmira, my companion leaned in and murmured, "Mrs. Robinson."

Clearly we had a motif going.

When the film ended, it wasn't like the house lights were going to come up so everyone sat there momentarily.

I mentioned that I thought we should hang around and watch the screen deflate.

"I don't want to talk about deflation," M.A.T. quipped.

Not at middle age anyway, I responded.

"Touche!" he roared, throwing back his head and laughing his distinctive laugh.

The museum's director instructed us all to come back in October for the next unhappy hour.

"Next month's theme is 'The Mask of the Red Death,' so everyone will be dropping like flies," he deadpanned.

I can hardly wait for the misery of it all.