The benefit of its limited release, however, was that we got to hang out in Baltimore, which, despite the local population's misunderstanding of the use of garbage bins, is really growing on me. And as an added bonus, we got to experience Club Charles, probably the most poorly-classified bars I have ever been to. The link I found for it from the Baltimore City Paper calls it a "dance club", even though the decent jukebox failed to bring out any heel-kickers with its range of danceable tunes from Earth Angel to the Strokes. The framed Stuff Magazine article behind the bar touted it as one of America's Top 20 Dive Bars--apparently the qualifications for such an award must have been Cleanliness, Deco-Inspired Murals, and Best Furniture Condition. To it's credit, it isn't a dance club, and even though it's really not a dive, I adored it anyway. And so did the 12-year-old girl sitting at the bar with the "I'll Sleep When I'm Dead" t-shirt on. We'll have to go back.
All great nights have to have a low point, though, and ours luckily happened 2 miles from home. Heading up onto the ramp to 395 South from So. Capitol Street (near Nation(s) to those of you in the know), some moron apparently had difficulty choosing between North and South, and stopped in the middle of the road. rock_god stopped in time to avoid smashing into the confused driver, but the Chevy Van behind us did not have the same reflexes. All of us, most thankfully the Godling, emerged unharmed. Keith's Toyota Matrix shook it off pretty well too: the sound of the accident was like something out of the movies, but you'd never know to look at it. Don't knock the 'Yota, folks.