Thile 2.0
Or: "Pickles, kick it with a tasty groove!"

The Punch Brothers concert last night was relocated indoors, due to the ongoing threat of rain here in old New York. It only served to improve the intimacy and the vibe of the show, however, and I've never seen Chris Thile sound better.

For one thing — and forgive me because I will always HEART Nickel Creek (may they rest) — he's clearly with better-caliber musicians. Noam Pikelny and Gabe Witcher freaking rule the world on the banjo and fiddle, respectively. I feel like Chris's auntie saying this or something, but he's really matured and learned how to let a group compliment his musical stylings without having to be the hotshot (or being able to be, since the others are so good). It's a nice and needed transition for him.

They played all but the second movement of "The Blind Leaving the Blind" from their first and only album Punch, Brothers, Punch, and a few songs I hadn't heard Chris do before ... INCLUDING (get ready) ... "Poor Places." I knew Chris loved Wilco, but I'd nevvvver thought he'd cover them. He didn't sex it up bluegrass-style or anything (see: "Wayside (Back in Time)"), but it worked.

And on my walk home, a giant storm was brewing ...

LOL. Where ru? Im 1 blk frm ur bldg. Ru @ teh bar?

I have been informed by my father that I have gone Textistential. Actually, he didn't say that — this is my word for it. I made it up because I'm a writer, and we're expected to do clever shit like that.

So anyway, where was I? Right — textistential. This is my word for my habit of having, like, entire conversations about self-indulgent, faux-weighty subjects via text message.

I think I do this because it's so damn fun to typereallyfastontheiphonekeyboard, but the point is, next time I'm just gonna call you — especially if you're Jeff, who always breaks down about eight messages in, and I pick up the phone to something like this:

"Dude, what's the matter with you? I can't handle the endless texting. Does Daddy pay your cell phone bill or something?"

And I'm all, "HEY! Just because you're gorgeous, play multiple stringed instruments and sing beautiful songs doesn't mean you're better than me, jerk store."

WTF 2.0

So, last night I'm supposed to meet this guy at 8:15. After a while of pacing, checking my phone, and watching a parade of cute sundresses, the mercury in my Pissed-ometer is rising.

The man was TWENTY* minutes late.

It was mortifying, because I had begun to be heckled, as if I were picketing the place or something. A group of five Sopranos-looking men at an outside table start peppering me with, "Who are you waiting for? Hope it's not for a guy! You've been standing here an awful long time, girly!"

I'm two minutes away from walking off when he finally shows up — and doesn't even say "hi" or shake my hand! First words are, "I'm a jerk for being so late," and then starts to walk in the restaurant. You have GOT to be kidding me! Right? I mean, he's joking, right? Tell me he's joking.

So, we sit down, and what's the first thing he does? Whips out his Crackberry and starts replying to a work e-mail. My mouth is literally agape, and I'm surprised I didn't make a disgusted sound out loud — it is simply unbelievable. Aside from that, he's almost unbearably nervous, scarcely able to even look at me.

We become more talkative with wine, natch, but I do most of the talking while he picks up his Blackberry every six minutes. Also? He's a low talker. In a noisy restaurant, that means I did a lot of nodding. He does manage to say several inane things, though, about being a New York native and how he feels a bit superior to everyone else. I am not even kidding. Wish I were.

It's the strangest thing but, things got better as the night went on and I found him kind of charming — though he was only cute when he was relaxed enough to actually smile. We stood in the street and he said, "Well, I would like to see you again. I'm sorry I get so nervous on first dates, and I'm sorry about the Blackberry. That was rude." Better late than never, but I didn't know what to say, so I just said, "OK, well, let's be in touch," shook his hand and walked uptown.

The way-too-nice part of me wants to give him a second chance, but he's 31 and is completely out of place in his own skin, and I don't babysit for free. Poor guy.

Sometimes I wish I could glimpse the future and see what a sixth date with someone will be like — it would make it easier to endure the first meeting! That said, if the first is better than the sixth, losing what you had is harder to take than sitting across from a guy with no social graces as he fondles his PDA in the candlelight.


* Normally I would not spell out 20 — it just looks more dramatic that way.