I’m walking down the street, grabbing at my crotch, high-fiving little children, and humming “Emily Kane” by Art Brut. To my left, posted up on a stair railing, is a beautiful girl. I try humming a little louder, hoping she would catch the tune. Right at the part when Eddie Argos hammers out the name Emily Kane, the girl fills in for me: "Emily Kane! Emily Kane!"
This is it, I think to myself. I have found the perfect girl. She has a beautiful ocean of long, crimson hair. Her figure looks to be good for a go. And to top it off, she knows Art Brut. I stop immediately, obviously, and try to stammer up a reply. Before I get anything out, however, she bites with, “That Eddie Argos can die of gonorrhea and rot in hell!”
What? No, I don’t think so. But her beauty keeps me from retorting. I simply ask, “What do you mean?” To which she rambles on about how she is the real Emily Kane, and Argos left her for some chick he met at a strip club while trading chicken fingers. I guess she phoned him for a month, but he refused to pick up the phone. Yadda yadda yadda. Boo-hoo. And this goes on for about five minutes, and all the while I’m thinking she really isn’t that pretty anymore. But I’m also thinking that maybe she would want to make Argos jealous, so I could invite her to catch Art Brut on their latest tour and we would make out passionately in the front row. I mean, yeah, I’d get to make out with her, and yeah I’d be at an Art Brut show (which would totally rule), but it’s mostly me wanting to help her. Right?
I tell her my plan of making Argos jealous next time he rolls into town, and then she starts talking about their latest album that just dropped and how every other song is about her, and I’m thinking, damn, is it really worth it? But somehow her mind gets sidetracked and she asks when their next show is. To which I reply:
Emily gets mad because we are in Indiana, but I keep her calm by telling her the internet is all abuzz with news that there will be an extended tour coming this fall. Maybe.