Last night, Carrie and I went to Station 4 in lovely St. Paul to see Albert Hammond Jr. Wow. What a great show. It's up there with The Roots and BRMC as the best shows I've seen this year or in recent memory, really. Save for one thing, of course. A douchebag in a pink polo shirt who tried to start moshing.
The last time I was at a show where people were moshing was Queens of the Stone Age probably four years ago. That's a bit more understandable because, well, they're Queens of the Stone Age. The kid (dubbed Carmine Gotti by a girl we were hanging out with and now that I see the picture, she was spot on) had been chatting up Carrie earlier. He was telling her about the ghost of Homer Simpson haunting the shack where he worked doing security or something. Her response? "Are you high?" He insisted he was not. Riiiiiiiiiiight.
It would seem though, that nothing could dampen my mood yesterday. Not the mosh dork. Not getting up at 5:30 a.m. to go hang out with my nephew (after all, I wasn't at work). Not my mom calling minutes after I fell asleep for my much-needed nap. Not even the bus fiasco that had me taking more than an hour and a half to get to St. Paul.
My good mood was not to be fucked with. Awesome!
Update: After 33 years of being me, I should really have learned by now not to tempt fate, lest I jinx something. Because of course I would post about how my good mood can't be fucked with and mere hours later I would find out something shitty happened to someone I love. Guess you showed me, fate.