In Seattle in the morning, we dawdle and Ethan, our host from the Math and Physics Club (a band that plays beautiful pop), reads to us from a book on film by a guy named Vern. We listen to records and then go eat a the volunteer park café. Normally, I would bitch about manicured, rich sanctimommies ad nauseum, but something weird has happened and I think I might want to have one of those little monsters one day, so my hypocrisy meter is telling me to shut the fuck up.
In Anacortes I make us go to a thrift store. It is shitty, full of half used nail polish and exhausted Christmas decorations but I find a vintage slip, one of the many things I collect. Then we go to a bar. I get an oyster shooter and chicken wings on the argument that it’s not white flour.
We are playing the Department of Safety, an all ages venue that feels like an arty compound—really cool. The show is freezing cold and fun. Nevada’s keyboard keeps cutting out because the amp is broken. I really love Fishboy. And Tullycraft are terrific—we could learn a thing or two from them about audience participation. Nick says he thinks we’re talking too much during our shows, that it’s turning into VH1 Storytellers. There is fresh baked banana bread from the DOS kitchen and I totally hog it.