[...momentarily harboring the delusion that posting before midnight is like posting yesterday...]

Wednesday: I darted off after work to an organizational meeting for the Museum of Comic and Cartoon Art's MoCCA Art Festival, for which I'll once again be coordinating volunteers, and for which I've got two pressing appointments: on Saturday I'll be flyering and talking up the festival in front of one of the shops participating in Free Comic Book Day (where are you getting yours?), and our volunteer recruitment meeting will be next Wednesday.

There were two neat concerts I was considering for after the meeting, but the sold-out Langhorne Slim show at the Mercury Lounge seemed to actually be sold out (though I was told I'd have a good shot at it if I stopped back just before eleven); so I tried the Emilyn Brodsky show at Lit Lounge and found it strangely…non-existent—by which I mean that Emilyn was there, but she wasn't playing a show yet, and I'm not really one to stand around in an empty bar until an event coalesces around me.

So I trudged home, worked for awhile, made a last-minute decision at 10:50 that I'm happier at rock shows than not, and headed out again. The Langhorne show was great, but deeply weird: the second or third time I saw him, he wound up having the last set of a long, late show, so it was probably after 1:00 by the time he started, and there were maybe twenty people left; but by the end of it, he and the band and every damn person in the room were dancing, and it stands as one of my favorite concert memories ever. And now he's gone the way of so many of my favorite antifolkers, and is getting Famous, and is selling out shows to rooms full of screaming girls; and I really don't think that that process ever stops being strange.