In an otherwise incoherent drunken e-mail rant to a friend, I wrote something about "seasonal bands" -- there's a couple albums out there that I ignore most of the year but then pick up when December hits. DC's Embrace is one, and has been since I was a teenager -- something about the overwrought self-examination goes hand-in-hand with the reluctant reflection on the past year. The Strokes are also on the list, for whatever reason. Partly, maybe, because I first heard them in DC (again) at a sort of uncertain time in my life, partly because the overriding feeling in most of their songs seems to be wistful disappointment. The Velvet Underground are also there, though they get a decent amount of play the other 11 months of the year.
It's been gray and depressing here for the last week or so, something I initially embraced (the sun gets boring, and Atlanta needs rain) but has now, I think, started really wearing on me. I'm on the second day of my weekend now and have accomplished virtually nothing. Not that I intended to learn a language or anything, but aside from a little socializing and watching a DVD of "The Wire" (and having the plumber out not once but twice, but that's not something I really wanted to do), I've just ... existed. I went out to a solo lunch yesterday, taking along my notepad and a book -- but I ended up not writing, not reading. Just sitting there. (Well, and eating.) This has been going on much of this month. I'm turning into a hermit, and not doing much other than working (a lot). Haven't been watching hockey (which led a semi-incoherent commenter on Jes's site to suggest, I think, that I'm the reason America doesn't deserve hockey), haven't been taking pictures, haven't been hiking.
Head to Colorado this coming Friday. Hopefully a trip back to the promised land (and a week off) will serve as a jolt.