The Six-String: A Two-Date Montage – KITTY

Last week I went to see a hip show thrown by a local band with BFF and a few others. I’d been looking so forward to the show all week, and needed a reprise from life, if only for one night. These shows are the best because everyone gets sweaty and dancy and the crowd is always really fun and rowdy.

Read: I was in store for a guaranteed good time. I just knew it.

One of my hobbies is photography. I was shooting some photos from the 2^nd level balcony, when a handsome (Bearded! Bonus round!) gent with sparkly eyes, tattoos and great hair standing next to me asked if I was shooting for profession or for hobby. I explained that it was mostly a tinkering hobby – nothing that I’m great at, but something I really enjoy. As it turns out he covers local shows for a big music blog here in Seattle.

He’s cute. He’s wearing a blue plaid Wrangler shirt with pearl buttons. Dark Levis. Vans. He’s about 6’3 and has long-ish hair and looks like he knows his way around a six-string. I find out later that my suspicions are correct. I also find out later that his voice sounds like a harder but sweeter early Cash. I can't complain.

I’m wearing all black, as usual. Black top, black bandage skirt and my favourite shoes of all time: Black vintage Wrangler cowboy boots.

I poke fun at him for drinking PBR, suggesting that he’s only trying to maintain his Capitol Hill street cred. He tells me he only drinks it when he shoots whiskey. My kinda guy. I respond by telling him that he and I have a date with the bar in 15 minutes. And so begun a bit of a crazy evening.

I won’t spend too much time here because the rest of the night involved dancing and singing and sneaking around backstage causing trouble like teenagers. I emailed him the following morning, and he suggested that we meet up.

So last night, we did just that.

The sartorial breakdown: I wore a red and black plaid overshirt, unbuttoned with a heather grey deep-V underneath. Dark skinny denim, flats and a leather jacket. Not the best first (second?) date outfit, but fitting for The Sloop which smells like puke that was rubbed into an old carpet and rinsed with beer. He wore: A hip black wool jacket, another Wrangler plaid shirt with pearl buttons, dark denim and Campers.

Prior to our date was some big talk about arcade games. So we met at The Sloop at 8PM, because they have Big Buck Hunter Safari on big screen. I got there about 15 min. late (oops) - he was totally cool about it. We had beers (Stella for me, Mac & Jack for him) and great conversation at a little table until about 10:45, at which point we put a $20 in the machine and I proceeded to get my ass handed to me.

He's really good. He kept giving me little tips (Really stuff that gun into your shoulder; shoot the bottom ones first, and work your way up; You're ADD - focus on one target). He would say "nice kill, Tex!" every time I had a good shot. I was giggly and felt ridiculous at how high my heart jumped when I was on the receiving end of one of his nudges.

The jukebox kept playing really bad songs from the late 90s. At his suggestion, we slowdanced to Aerosmith in front of the Big Buck Hunter machine.

We connected on a lot of things: Politics; music; ideology; film; humor. We had great conversation, which was no surprise to me. We closed the bar down, and were the last to leave just after 1AM. I told him I'd give him a ride home (he lives under a mile from the bar and had walked), so I drove and pulled over and parked and we talked for a little while longer.

I went in for a goodnight hug, and got a big kiss instead. Fantastic. It wasn't our first kiss, that happened at Neumos sometime after midnight the week prior. We have great chemistry. He stealthily reached over took off my seatbelt and cut my engine, insisting that I come in for a nightcap and to listen to some music. I resisted but then decided there was no harm in that. We were listening to music and hanging out and he was singing to me (I DIE) and playing his guitar (DEAD).

The rest of the very late night is a bit of a blur save a few lasting memories including exchanged whispers of the chorus of With Arms Outstretched, his hands in my hair and his nose in my neck, discussion of who Leonard Cohen really wrote Chelsea Hotel about (Janis Joplin) and who the 4^th- and ever elusive 5^th - Beatles really were.

I had kind of lost it. All of it. And I couldn't help but think that at the same time I was losing it he was writing little lyrics in his head.

Stay tuned…