This is a placeholder for the post I plan to write about the events surrounding Charlie's show last night.
It was the best evening I have had in a long time.
But for now, I need to read for my term paper. Check back here in the next day or two. Until then, enjoy the pictures.
The café where Charlie chose to play had great ambiance but a terrible location. It squatted in a nondescript strip mall between a furniture store and a tanning parlor. The inside was filled with dark wood furniture and pink armchairs with a few tables scattered about. A shelf on the far wall was stacked high with antiques. A magazine rack containing WWII-era National Geographics leaned against the side wall.
I invited Jennifer to the show. We joined two of her friends for dinner beforehand. Because we were in the neighborhood and had a little time to spare after eating, I made a quick stop at the sporting goods store to buy some new lifting gloves. We arrived at the coffeehouse just as Charlie began his second song.
The audience was slightly less top-heavy with old high school acquaintances than the previous two shows Charlie played. Jennifer, Joe, a girl named Andrea who Michael brought, and some sorority girls who floated around made the group a little more diverse. I was pleased that Jennifer even knew a handful of people from her biology classes.
Charlie played a good mix of staples and new songs, originals and covers. It was a good show. Jennifer and I sat at a table near the back of the audience. I told her some stories about Charlie's old Jeep named Gunther and the guitar cabal I orbited in high school. At one point a euchre game broke out in front of us. Jennifer joined while I watched. I have learned how to play at least three times, but for some reason I have not retained the knowledge between games.
The manager, a nice Armenian fellow, urged Charlie to continue playing despite reaching the end of his time. He belted out a few more songs, and by the time the second card game finished, Charlie was strumming his last few chords. Those of us who remained hung out and chatted while Charlie packed up and ate a quick sandwich. While everyone talked, I was flipping through an old Scientific American from 1983. I came across an ad for a Model 4, a classic early personal computer. I asked the manager if I could take the ad with me. He carefully took the magazine and inspected both sides of the page. Satisfied, he went behind the counter and retrieved a curved wallpaper knife and a lined cutting board. With a surgeon's care, he sliced along the binding and handed me the ad.
The group migrated to the Hookah Bar after the show. Jennifer, sadly, could not join us because she had a paper to write. I had a phenomenally good second dinner of lamb flank and rice while the rest of the group shared the hookahs. Because I am 21, I can write about the unique drink I ordered with my dinner: and orange juice. Good stuff.
The third and final stop that evening was Michael and Stuart's apartment. Charlie's guitar rotated among those of us who could play. Much undifferentiated hilarity occurred, and Stu played with fire. I went home around 4, which sounds late but is really only two hours past when I have normally been going to bed.
The next day I awoke to my cell phone ringing. It was Charlie inviting me to join the rest of the previous night's group for breakfast. Pancakes and eggs... every morning should have such good food. After eating, the four of us who go to Purdue gave Charlie and Patrick— another former classmate who came up with Charlie to see the show— a tour of the campus. We walked under the clocktower; through both malls; around the union; down into the buried undergraduate library (for some odd reason); and finally up to the circular conference room at the top of Beering (it was unlocked, to our amazement). We enjoyed the view for a while then returned to the cars and said goodbye to Charlie until the next show.
