Oof. I want to want to write a good blog post. Something's wrong, though, and large amounts of coffee are strangely unable to fix it. Is this seasonal affective disorder? Belated single sad-sack-ism? Or just the mind-numbing awfulness of my current work situation? Right now I'm leaning toward option C — it's relatively easy to take steps to remedy that problem, at least (and I am — take that, career!). Well, snappy prose be damned. Last night's show at Iota was good enough to be written about, even lifelessly.

Despite Charles loaning me the car, I was late to meet Julie and Brian for dinner in Clarendon. What can I say — I was still in the throes of what I took for inspiration on last night's Metro ride home, furiously scribbling a backstory to contribute to the Penny Arcade wiki I mentioned last night. Afraid of losing momentum, I hastily wrote it up before leaving the house — the page is here, but in my hurry I didn't really make it very funny. But folks have already begun contributing to it, and I feel it's a solid shell on which the community can build the legend of an insane children's cartoon auteur. The novelty of the medium's thrilling, even if the content isn't.

Anyway, dinner was good, and we headed to Galaxy Hut for a beer afterward. Larry's changed some things. It's a lot more silvery inside than I remember. I miss the little blacklit planets in the window. And though the smirking, cartoony art is nice, it's going to get tiresome if Larry follows through on his promise not to rotate it. Still, the Hut is the Hut, and I love it. Also, the new bartendress has the same birthday as me, which surely must mean something (although apparently not that I ought to be given free beer).

Julie and Brian opted not to go to the show. I got there a couple of songs into Charles Bissell's set. The club was packed. Iota is a great place to see an okay show, but a lousy place to see a great show: there are just too many bodies. And they really, really ought to knock down that island wall of brick — I could only see half the stage for most of the show. Things thinned out a little as the evening progressed, but Sommer was stuck outside until Okkervil's set due to the room reaching capacity.

Anyway, the music: god damn but I love the Wrens. Bissell did a good job of the now-classic looping layering thing, putting that just-perfect level of distortion of his to good use. But the live Wrens get by on sloppy rock energy more than anything else, and as a lone performer, Charles didn't wow the crowd. I still enjoyed his set, though.

Man Man came on next. At first I was enthusiastic. "If I ever get hired to score a punk-rock remake of The Nightmare Before Christmas, I am totally calling these guys," I thought. But their later songs devolved, or maybe I just got tired, until it seemed like they weren't doing anything but making a huge racket — and doing so for their benefit more than the audience's. Also, nonsense lyrics do not endear me to bands. Screaming "mustache! mustache!" probably seems hilarious in rehearsal, but if you guys can't be bothered to give a shit, why should I?

Ah well. What do I know? The G is ready to join their travelling circus, apparently, and she's got much better taste in these sorts of things than I do. Probably an extra cup of coffee or pint of beer would have radically altered my opinion of Man Man.

Speaking of the Pygmalii, I only really spotted the Nabob. He was on his way back from the bathroom, and I waved, and he peered out from around the corner and gave a guarded wave back, perhaps nervous (appropriately) about internet-related acquaintances. I decided to wait until the wind had shifted in my favor to approach, the same way you would try not to spook a rhino when sneaking up on it on the African plain. But the crowd was too dense, and I lost track of him and the rest of the PIIAB crew (despite their flowing Victorian garb). This was probably for the best, as my weekday-evening conversational skills are usually limited to "argh my knee hurts" and "where do I get more beer".

I did run into Kyle, though, through some small miracle of convergent drink-finding paths. I stupidly forgot to bring my camera, but he looked like he was doing a pretty good job of flaunting the club's ridiculous no-photo rule. Head to his site and you'll probably find some pictures by and by. I also ran into Drew earlier in the evening, although sadly for the internet he wasn't taking any pictures.

Alright, finally: Okkervil River took the stage. I'll keep it short. These guys are rock stars and they should be playing the 9:30, right now. Despite some excellent singles, Black Sheep Boy spends a little too much time down-tempo for it to become my new religion. But their live show is fantastic. Now they just have to wait for the audience's size to catch up with their talent. It won't be long. Keep an eye on the Black Cat — I suspect their next trip through town will be the last show you can go to without having heard somebody's little sister tell you how cute Will Sheff is.

Oh, and PS: they covered the Wrens' "Ex-Girl Collection" straight into "For Real". Ten dollar shows don't get a lot better than this one was. I was lame, though, and split before the encore.