Date Night 2000™

With the majority of the missus' free time swallowed up by work, sleep and enduring my worldbuilding rants, we've precious little time to engage in traditional "couple-esque" activities. In this spirit did we institute Date Night 2000™, a monthly initiative to start leaving the apartment, eating non-rice-associated foods and look at things besides our computer screens.

The traditional Date Night ritual includes rolling a d10 and multiplying the result by 5 to determine the budget.

In October, we attended a staged reading of War of the Worlds. In November, we attended a roller derby bout. In December, we splurged on an afternoon of expensive zoo food.

In January, the missus outdid herself with her measely $25 budget, saved a small fortune in secret and took me out to the most magical of evenings.

We started off at Le Petit Chateau, a tiny French restaurant on Lankershim. In a charmingly European fashion, we were thrilled to learn there was no goddamn place to park. Once we got inside, however, the missus set the budget for meals absurdly high, allowing us to indulge in appetizers (escargot), main courses (frog legs and coquilles st. jacques, whatever the fuck that means) and even desert (profiteroles). The restaurant's interior was at once very French and very grandmotherly, the perfect nexus for the missus but, for myself, I couldn't help shaking the notion that the last time someone this Scandinavian was in a place that French, a lotta people got hanged.

Overstaying our welcome at the Chateau somewhat necessitated our scrambling halfway across town, via cars and subways and missed connections, to reach the second half of Date Night 2000™ – a concert here, featuring this guy and, most importantly, headlining this other guy. The previous year, he'd been fortunate enough catch a performance of Anaïs Mitchell, my second favorite musician, at McCabe's Guitar Shop in Santa Monica. Colin Meloy, however, lead singer of The Decemberists, is decidedly my favorite musician and particularly the most talented lyricist known to mankind.

The concert, despite a few weird song choices, was one of those experiences I had to keep reminding myself was actually happening. Decemberist music coats so much of my day-to-day life, his voice so perfectly matched the recordings in my head, it was nearly a disconnect, to realize the person who wrote those songs and who sings those songs was actually standing there, a few hundred feet away.

The "Hank, Eat Your Oatmeal" moment was a particular highlight. The moment a much more recognizable song began – Calamity Song, in this case – I practically had a heart palpitation.

All of this, thanks to the missus and her sneaky ways.

Next month, for posterity, I rolled a budget of $5. Not quite sure how to top this.