Can you whistle? I can whistle only in the most general sense of the word. I can get my tune across if necessary, but I have never possessed the skills of making myself heard above a crowd at a ball game. How often I have tried to whistle like a champ by placing my thumb and forefinger to my lips. Spit and a pathetic gushing of air.
You know who can whistle like nobody's business? Andrew Bird. The man is amazing. And his concert was equally so.
We cashed in on my birthday present to Brad and spent the evening at Piatti and the Paramount. Gnocchi in a gorgonzola cream sauce and pancetta bread crumbs. Pork chop with sweet onion bread pudding. And a half-off bottle of Cabernet. Seriously one of the most satisfying and delicious meals I have had in a long time, and thoroughly enjoyed.
On to the show we waded through a sea of hipsters (who suddenly don't look so original when standing shoulder to shoulder). We listened to the hauntingly beautiful voice of Laura Marling (sweetheart of Marcus Mumford, talk about a musical couple), who performed solo as the opening act. Quite honestly I could have listened to her all night. Then for nearly two hours we basked in the musical genius of Mr. Bird.
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