I sit home alone tonight. The hubby is off doing his film reporting duty at the annual orgy of pop culture geekdom, Comic-Con. Ever since Mr. Seibold became a full-fledged film critic a few years ago, we’ve slowly sacrificed more of our Paul-and-Linda level of desired togetherness to the altar of cinema. If he’s not attending a critics’ screening, he’s likely watching DVD screeners, or writing or podcasting about the movies he’s watched, or working his second job…at a movie theater. Some women are football widows or video game widows. I’m a movie widow. But hey, he’s doing what really constitutes his dream job. It’d be like if I woke up one morning and had somehow inherited Cameron Crowe powers.
What does this have to do with my usual ravings about music? Possibly not much, until you realize my husband could just as easily claim to be a live music widow, were he free on more evenings. For instance, I saw the same band in concert three days in a row last week – hooray for Minibar gigs. At practically every show I attend, I explain away Witney’s absence and insist that my wedding band isn’t a decoy meant to drive away creepy drunk guys. Continue reading