Sunday evening is a dreadful time of the week. Playtime is over and here comes another week of hell on earth with your job, school, kids, significant other, etc. The only remedy for the onslaught of anxiety experienced on the "day of rest" is certainly cool Bossa Nova at a French cafe and lots of caffeine. Hooray for Elisabeth Blin! I headed down to Le Cafe de Paris dreaming of absinthe, hookers, fattening things and maybe an accordion. Plenty of parking downtown on a Sunday night right in front of the cafe, especially since the Weekly got the listing wrong and the show was last night.
How could this happen? In the old days, it was easy to blame mistakes like this on the typesetters. That bunch of ink sniffing ne'er-do-wells whose jobs were to provide typos and misprints while shooting rubber bands at each other. Nowadays, the culprit could be technology. Communication is now so effortless that simple facts are easily overlooked in the rush to hit send. Editorial control is no match for the satisfaction of finishing in record time. The Luddite in me refuses to believe the Weekly staff had difficulty understanding the charming accents of the Cafe staff, but when all else fails--blame Amy Atkins.
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