Maybe I won't die alone (but if I do, it might be because of Judgy McMeanspirited rants like this)

Well then; would you look at that. Another day of NaBlo; another post going in just under the wire. And on a week night no less. I really ought to try sleeping a proper and sufficient number of hours one of these nights just to see if it's at all possible for me to wake up at 6:30 feeling anything close to well rested. One of these nights. Not tonight, clearly.

Tonight my favorite coworker and I went downtown to see Ingrid Michaelson at the Pantages. I believe it was my coworker's second trip to Minneapolis in eight years, but she was happy to visit the big shiny city with me anyway. I sort of wish that for just a minute or two, I could see myself the way my coworker sees me. For some reason, she genuinely thinks I am an extremely hip, stylish, modern girl about town, and it amuses me no end. I have no idea where she got this impression, although I suppose that in our office full of middle-aged suburban white men, it's safe to say I probably am among the five hippest people in the group. That's sort of like noticing that I'm one of the five skinniest people at Old Country Buffet, though. It's really not a representative sample.

Anyway, we had a lovely time at the show. There were two opening acts, both of whom I would highly recommend checking out should you happen to notice they're coming to your town. We missed all but the last two songs of David Ford's set because we were too busy chatting and finishing our dinner and our martinis down the block, but what I heard was quite lovely and I'm sure he was a crowd pleaser. Next up was Newton Faulkner, who was nearly part musician, part standup comic. I do wonder if his is a show you can see more than once or if he gives crowds the same seemingly spontaneous amusing banter every time, but as this was the first time I've seen him, I should just appreciate his delightfully charming set and not think about that.

When Ingrid came on, I actually worried for a bit that the headliner would be my least favorite part of the show. Her entire band looked liked they'd just stepped out of the JC Penney commercial that made her first radio hit famous last year--all trendy boots with skinny jeans, whimsical scarves draped casually around their shoulders. Her drummer was wearing a v-neck sweater over a button-up oxford. A V-NECK SWEATER, people. On a drummer. He looked so clean-cut it was almost unsettling.

I realize it is unfair to be annoyed by someone simply because she can pull off a jaunty tweed hat without looking ridiculous, but it doesn't matter, as I got over it fairly quickly. It turns out Ingrid Michaelson is actually more than a bit of a nut. She's not just a pretty girl with a pretty voice; she's also warped and hilarious and I recommend you see her live the next chance you get, too.

This story is not in keeping with my NaBlo theme, of course, as it doesn't involve a date (unless you consider my coworker my date for this evening, which I don't). I do feel like I was on the date with the couple directly in front of me, however, since their heads were fused together like the conjoined twins I saw in Philadelphia's Mutter Museum last year for nearly the duration of the show (separated only when they instead decided to make out 12 inches away from me or simply stare longingly into each other's eyes). Ahem. Dear hoodie guy and hoodie girl directly in front of me in the balcony: I'm happy you've found love with a similarly homeless-looking person. Really I am. But if you could keep your hands and faces out of each other's greasy hair for the duration of the show, I'd sleep a little easier tonight. It's not just me; I think there's a health code violation to consider here. Thank you.

All right then. I have about 30 seconds to hit "Publish Post" on this before I inadvertently disqualify myself from this post-every-day nonsense, and since it's 30 seconds to midnight, that means it's entirely past my bedtime as well. Tomorrow, more tales from my own sad dating past and not the gleeful dating present of that frumpy and disheveled couple at Pantages. Yippee.