I am awake due to the pure irritation that only 17 mosquito bites can inflict. There's even one on my back. Lord knows how that got there. Ha ha, don't even say it. It's not funny. It was funny when it was one, two, maybe three bites. Around twelve, it ceased to be amusing.
Well, for me.
Trouper that I am, we (B, Joel, Sarah, and my 17 new friends) went to see Liz Phair acoustic tonight at the Birchmere in VA. As much as I already dug her, I now dig her a good deal more. She rocked out, wardrobe malfunction and all. Opened with Polyester Bride (Joel so called it) which I snuck like so much contraband into Lysa's unsuspecting voicemail. The Birchmere was a great find; it's like a club turned bowling alley turned comedy club turned bowling alley turned bar-and-stage. A great wrap up of the concert season, Mr. Alvarez. Please do take a bow.
We also saw Wedding Crashers, which I was reluctant to see but gave in and went due to the high grades it received from trusted movie-going friends. Maybe if I could have stopped staring at Owen Wilson's nose, it would have been funny. Maybe. But his nose just makes me sad. I kind of just zone out on it and start thinking about starving children in Africa and starving good-looking actors in Hollywood. Oh, and Vince Vaughn is gay. That's right, you heard it here first. My gaydar was going crazier than when Scott and Jason visited for the week.
So, in review, crash the Phair, skip the wedding.