Rhye

We'll take the biggest Americanos we can get - Kahuna. Mine is creamy & sugary sweet. I'm wearing knit shorts & a tank, a big blue bruise on the back of my calf where something keeps breaking, imploding, tight. We head to Seattle for a show that I know will be rad - merely because his taste in music is superb. He plays a little diddy & I'm all like, who is this sensual woman? It's not. A woman. I have a hard time picturing who this nugget is going to be. He calls me out on "nugget," suggests that I reserve it for children and people who make mistakes or to whom I've been mistaken about. So, he concludes, "nugget" in my head is synonymous for mistakes. We laugh. The best nugget I have ever seen was a chunky mexican 6 year old with a foam sword whacking the shit out of her friend in a public market = definition of a nugget.
Anyways, we get to Seattle a few hours early and fart around in Ballard. Check out at Value Village where the clerk's nametag says, "Michael the Asian cashier." We laugh. I ask him if he was issued the tag. Check out antique stores with asshole prices & stop into a brewery for warm nuts and a couple IPA's. I get a really weird email detailing the sex life of a coworker & the demise of his relationship; we discuss how I should respond. We drink more IPA before the show starts, meet up with his "Show Wife," who is a beautiful blonde & her friend with the eyelash extensions. We wear sandals, which was a bad choice, because the music is sensual and everyone has an arm around a drunk girlfriend. Our toes are sticky. The singer, he's a young white thin male & he has a voice made to have sex to. The instrumentals are slamming, loving life, I realize I'm at the most epic date night date event of all time so I tell myself that I am in love with me, and appreciate that there might be a lot of sex about to happen for everyone else. We conclude that live is by far a better representation of the essence of this person. He slows a 4 minute song into a 10 minute song just so we can all appreciate the slightest more. The show ends, it feels worth every effort. We walk to a dive to eat baked mac'n'cheese & then to this swanky late night bar for cocktails of tequila & grapefruit juice. We ask the bartender to come out with us, mostly because we need her to keep talking the Rob Kardashian lookalike friend of ours into appreciating the show, New Girl, and because we had a mutual youth-obsession with Brandon Boyd. Rob Kardashian is all like, "He's 6'2, that's a good height," and I call him & the internet a liar because surely when I saw him in Canada he was a midge.
We head to Rob's aparment, a top floor attic in Cap Hill, that is sweltering & there's no tp. We eat swedish fish & Elysian beer & listen to music & talk about Bukowski & Robbins & Miller. He calls us his literary friends, and I feel for the first time, that I have used my Bachelor's in a way that makes me feel fuzzy. We try to decide if we're going to crash & catch the metal show, Sword, the next night or head home. I encourage to be taken home. Remember my whole love for the plush bed? I debated. This is the man who's voice sounds like sex - a band called, Rhye:


(his vids are pretty sad, the concept of this being the grass is always greener)