Two weekends ago I attended the Decibel Festival in Seattle. I had a great time even when the music was iffy, but there’s one story I wanted to write down in addition to the straighter review I contributed to. On Friday night, upstairs at Sole Repair, some friends and I were talking and looking over the balcony to survey the crowd; as Eric noted on Line Out, a couple cops came in, lightly mocked the dancing going on, and went on their way. But an entrance right before the police officers’ also caught our eye: a fellow with a Bluetooth in his ear and various pieces in mismatching patterns on his body. Soon the earpiece was gone, but to us the fellow’s name was Bluetooth. Our little knot began joking about precisely what he might have for sale on this fine evening full of chemical indulgers.

Cut to later. It’s near the end of headliner Jeff Samuel’s set, and I’m feeling great, standing in the same spot upstairs, dancing a little, talking with another friend to my left. “This is terrific,” I say loudly at one point. To my right, as it turns out, is Bluetooth. “Yeah?” he says, a bit maniacally. “Well, I wish a whole bunch of cocaine would just fall down from the ceiling on everybody!” Because I was feeling good and take things literally, I said something along the lines of, “But everyone’s sweating. It would stick to everyone. That would be gross.” He paid me little mind, logically enough, and headed downstairs again.