Fuck. The bands have already finished playing. My plus one and I can tell because of the postperformance devastation: Furniture has been upturned, beer bottles litter the floor, and the faint, sweet smell of sweaty bodies lingers in the air. Disappointed but undeterred, we make our way through the house to the backyard, where everyone is smoking and deconstructing the bands' performances. The crowd seems sedate but good-humored. A dreadlocked, leather-clad behemoth shuffles around looking for a light, and a slurring guy named Kyle introduces himself as the guitarist of one of the bands that just played. How'd the show go, Kyle? "Lots of sixteenth notes."
A little later we meet the host, Lindsay. She is wasted and completely charming. Lindsay seems like she could be a student—she has that earnest, interested air about her, you know?—so I ask her if she goes to UW. Her face sours, and she responds, "Absolutely not." My question was gauche; this is an antiestablishment household. Lindsay goes on to explain that her home is officially known as the Green Stripe Haus, so called because of the green stripe around the perimeter of the downstairs bar. (The German spelling of "house" is, I gather, affected.)
As we leave, somebody cooking noodles in the kitchen offers me some ramen for the road. I gratefully decline, but I'm left thinking: Are these the nicest drunk folks in Seattle? They very well may be.
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