The Infinite Variety of Mental Vacations

There's a lot of things that you will do just for yucks: going on a date, apply for a job, check out a band. Sometimes you decide that someone else should do something just for yucks. And you do it together and learn a bit in the process, much to your annoyance.We went to see "Múm":http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/M%C3%BAm just for yucks.I was thoroughly wound like a rubber band by the time we claimed our seats at the bar. BF lapsed into a traffic-induced coma while behind the wheel, which had me braced for impact the twenty or so blocks we traveled along South Street. I also had to remind myself that I was, in essence, a supportive type of girlfriend and had to also focus on keeping my trap shut.And wouldn't you believe it: the hazy so-and-so scored a parking spot right in front of the TLA. (That's right: The TLA. Not the "Fillmore at the TLA." Nyerf.) It finally felt safe to daydream of hefty pints and rare steaks, but I had to remind myself that I was, in essence, a supportive type of girlfriend and had to also focus on keeping my trap shut as there were about three blocks' worth of indecision before reaching The Dark Horse Pub.Smithwick's. New York Strip. Ruby port and a plate full of chocolate and crème anglaise. And I was stationary. Aah.There was just a twinge of drama when we returned to the TLA: meters ran until 10PM, for 2-hour stints, and it was only 7:40PM.And then I uttered those fateful words: "There's no re-entry here. I think, once we go in, we can't just run out and come back."Well, BF decided to brave the PPA - which has never ended well - and we headed inside. We got banded and started to head to the bar when..."Oh, crapbag."He had left his ATM card in the machine, four blocks or so away.Even Múm with a Morphine chaser wouldn't help this evening.Even with his card safely devoured by the machine - so fear of fraud here -, even with him granted re-entry, even with two pints of Lager. The music would have to work overtime.Well, it was nice.A kinder note: do check out "Tom Brosseau":http://www.tombrosseau.com/ when you have a convenient moment. You'll say, "Oh, he sounds like..." and then you'll say, "Oh, these lyrics and rhymes aren't doing too much for me..." and then you'll say, "Well, that was actually quite lovely," and then you'll say, "Oh, he'll be a wonder when the songwriting gets a little better. Just a little. Oh, yes, this could be amazing." And then you can say that you knew back when.This may come as a surprise to no one, but...Iceland has gone mainstream. The clicks, buzzes, and soprano notes are starting to sound, well, ordinary. I'm sure there's a dating service now.Which isn't to say that Múm wasn't delightful, and pixie-like, and fun. I'm most grateful, if not outright pleased, that at no point did they take themselves or the clicks, buzz, and whirrs too seriously. And points for having a viola on-stage.But that trademarked Icelandic transcendence? Well, no, not really. I mean, yes, Sigur Rós had a massive videoscreen, and a string ensemble - rather than one extremely talented string player - and, OK, geez, they had Radio City Music Hall. I'll give you that. But listening to Sigur Rós, Múm, and Björk was like...they're not from here. They don't think like us.I guess that if you're exposed to it long enough, you'll see fairies in your cheesesteaks.So perhaps the "Oh, well, that's nice" of it all has quite a bit to do with me and not quite so much about Múm's outing. But I didn't want it to seem so familiar...If you do crave that sense of whimsy and nostalgia, however, don't forget to bring a kazoo.I personally prefer revisiting Finally We Are No One.Oh, and BF refilled the meter after he tried to chase down his ATM card, so PPA left us alone after all.